"Echoes from the Thundermug": Married Life and Mining Camps, Part One

Jackson Doctors Medicine, Says He'll Run

The only thing I liked about 1985 was the way it left. No lingering at the door, no tearful goodbyes, no waving at the corner. We woke up one morning and it was gone, just like a relative who had borrowed a hundred smackers and the guest towels, leaving only foreign smells and dirty sheets.

I feel 110 percent better than I felt a short year ago and I owe it all to what the medics call witchcraft. Snicker if you will, but no one lives longer than a witch. Not only do I feel better but my father-in-law walks as erect as the top portion of his cane due to my ministrations. He was getting so slow the only way we could tell he wasn't rooted was to put a mark on the floor by his slipper and come back in an hour.

While preparing a neck poultice of turpentine and other secret ingredients, I noticed his hemorrhoid salve uncapped on the bathroom cabinet. The most important thing in witchcraft is an understanding of blood and its function. Let it rest for too long in the veins and it gets stale and stagnant like swamp water. Blood has to be kept moving.

With that in mind, I mixed a little of the potion in his salve. Mother Mary saw only a blur in his first stride but even she applauded as he made two laps around the block without stopping for oxygen.

And little Lucy loves me again! Some years back I made a pet entrance from scraps of lumber and carpet. It took some prodding and pushing but once acquainted with the swinging door they loved it, going and coming as they wished. The old, black tomcat poured himself through it like thick molasses, then stepped aside to avoid being sacked by Lucy as she slammed through at full steam. We always knew when Lucy returned from the hunt by a loud, double "kerwhop" as the carpet flipped up and back.

I was cleaning up the back porch one day when Tom slid through the hole like a tired snake. Thinking no more about it, I stacked a couple of storage boxes by the door as I swept a corner. About this time Little Lucy revved up to full throttle from a position by the west fence and zeroed in on the black patch. I heard the thud and saw dust rise from the carpet as 18 inches of cat compressed to three inches or less.

By the time I could move the boxes and open the door, she had recovered enough to untangle her rear legs from her front, but she has never again used the pet door without first testing it with one paw.

In spite of published reports to the contrary we WILL make a run for the Oval Office in 1988 and Mr. Leonard will, again, serve as our campaign chairman. Over the past year Heinie has amassed a considerable war chest for this effort, if he hasn't squandered it in other pursuits to the south.

We ask each and every one of you preparing a tax return to designate one dollar for the presidential campaign and please specify that your dollar is to go into the coffers of Thundermug Jackson. We will go the errant senator one better and consider two, not one but two, female running mates, both old flames of mine and fully qualified to handle the office of vice president.

We shall be mapping strategy soon with Roberta "Bertie" Bruns and Barbara "Babs" McClure. Use your phones, dear friends, and help spread the word: "Thundermug will bring relief to every household in America. Vote for the Thundermug ticket in 1988."

Jackson Survives California Trip

Friends, Enemies Write John — The Readers' Right

To the Editor:

John, I hope that your trip to California went OK and I expect by now you have forgotten about the California traffic and are back pretty much to normal. I am sure if the No. 1 driver of the Jackson clan could not keep up with traffic, Inez would have no trouble.

I was real sorry to know, after reading the letter you wrote to our buddy Heinie, about the neck. It seems to me that growing a few years older is the cause of some of our problems, but I would a hell of a lot rather have the problems and grow old than have the alternative. So many of our buddies lately have taken the alternative, it seems to me.

Like I say, maybe a little time and patience and some medication can help take care of the spurs, if they — and I do mean if — they were not taken care of by the brunette nurse in the hospital.

About the picture you talk of in Heinie's letter of the men with the bad necks. (Just thought you ought to be glad your neck problem is like it is instead of the way their neck problem was.) The first time I saw the picture, it was in the possession of an old Creede old-timer by the name of L.S. Officer. I believe the last one I saw was in the Del Norte museum. I am like you, and I sure could be wrong as my memory is bad. OK, I know you have never held up any stage coaches.

One other thing of note in Mr. H's letter that you will learn pretty soon is that after 70 you do damn little pillaging and no raping. Hope you are both OK.

Shorty Wheeler
South Fork

Trials in Smog City

To the Editor:

We have just returned from an emergency run to the central Los Angeles area, and we have three words of advice for our sistren and brethren: "Count your blessings."

Inez was so scared she didn't eat for two days and lost six pounds. I didn't sleep for two nights while doing guard duty over our belongings, after which she propped my eyelids open with toothpicks so we could escape.

Windows were covered with steel grates, doors had at least three locks plus bars, and no one strays at night except the dream peddlers, ambulances and police cars. The cops make a run at ten-minute intervals with sirens screaming, but so far as I know, never get their heads above the dashboard, stop or exit. They are refueled by low flying helicopters and are plucked from the cars only on retirement, which may come from either longevity or a molotov cocktail.

Our room had the bare necessities. The lamps and everything removable had been stolen. The venetian blinds still had the blood stains from the last occupant, who had passed by the window when it still had glass in it. A sheet, stolen from another motel, covered part of the mattress, the part where the largest holes were, and two foam blocks served as pillows. We didn't dare lay down anyway.

After that, what can Wheeler and Leonard do to frighten us? So, Ginny Thompson, we appreciated your letter and the invitation to your home. We will try to take you up on it and we want to assure you that our absence is not due to fear of the Lariat refugees, Heinie and Shorty.

I remember a night when Mr. Wheeler spilled his drink on a rough pine bar. Peg picked splinters from his tongue for a week. And, if you will remember last year on Daylight Saving Eve, Vivi Leonard set the clocks ahead an hour while Heinie was indisposed. He recovered enough to see the time, thought he had missed happy hour and spent the rest of the night in intensive care in convulsions. All I have to do when I'm around that pair of deuces is pour a little sour mash in a dog dish, then go back in a couple of hours and separate their false teeth.

Until you see our bright eyes and bushy tails, cheers and best wishes.

Inie and John Jackson
Montrose

'Urpsus Horribilious' Faces Liquor Cost Hike

I just received a midwinter compilation of trials and tribulations of "Urpsus horribilious," a species related to but not necessarily a link with man. Urpsus horribilious is better known around Monte Vista as Heinie "Lonesome Joe" Leonard.

Two things old Heinie is not able to cope with and both occurred in midwinter: the end of football season and a $2-per-liter rise in cost of his favorite beverage. He had a carpenter friend build a stand with holes the size of 90-proof necks so he can place them upside down to recover each precious drop and he has cut Vivi's beauty salon allowance in half which fairly well balances his system of accounting. However, he has no control over the football leagues.

We are pleased to see the column of Ernie Wilkinson of Monte Vista in SLV Midweek and note, via the picture, he still combs his hair with his hat. There are few men in the "Mountain Man" category with the credentials of Ernie, he has certainly earned every tribute passed his way.

Some 30 years ago, Inez and I were picking up archery supplies in the Wilkinson shop as Tawny, a lion cub, vaulted around the building. After several minutes of inaction, Inez spotted the cub on the stairs and walked over to scratch her head. Ernie had several new bows near the stairs and Tawny had taken a liking to either the wax or shellac on the recurve tips. She had fairly well gnawed one tip off and was starting on another.

We attended every possible tournament staged by Ernie in those years and enjoyed them to the fullest. There was keen competition between several in Alamosa and Piedra Bowhunters' best. Dr. Wallace I. Leary was always in one of the top positions in his class of bare bow competitors.

It was a real surprise at one of the most prestigious tournaments to see Doc's name far down the list. I was eating lunch with him and asked the source of his problems.

He asked in return, "Did you see what Ernie did to me?"

I shook my head.

"The sonofagun teamed me with that cute little blonde in the white shorts. She had a 50-cent piece in one of the little flap pockets in the rear, and every time she leaned over to retrieve her arrows I could read the date and the city where the coin was minted."

Brush With Trooper Recalls Law's Rare Visits to Creede

Lord Almighty, what a week. I scored more firsts last week than little Ellen Freiberg at the 1939 end-of-school-year picnic, and without mustard on my hot dog or ice in my lemonade.

First time ever to sit in the passenger's side of a patrol car. First time ever to scatter chrome strips and safety glass down pavement. First time ever to receive a moving violation citation. All this after a visit from Brother Joel of Fort Collins, who dwells under a dark cloud and doesn't like my cooking.

Well, hell Steve, I needed to unwind and it seemed like a pretty fair place to do it, though sheet metal, bumpers and steel frames don't unwind as easy as loose ends on wool sweaters. The insurance companies don't like it, either, nor broken fence owners, nor patrolmen, nor other drivers. The tourists and cattle liked it a lot. Smoke, dust, smells of oil, gasoline, hot paint and soiled underwear. Sirens, flashing lights, yelling, cursing, EMTs and one gray-haired old fellow trying to hide in the end of a culvert. They pulled me out gently.

Last fine I paid was for Billy Patterson of Monte Vista around 1939 when we tried to run over Courtesy Patrolman Ellis Nash, who was making a rare visit to Creede. We were in Sid Klecker's 1930 Model A and it was all Sid's fault. He failed to teach the car to stop at stop signs or say "Sir" to patrolmen. I had just received $10 for a week's labor for the City of Creede. The city paid us in dog tags and receipts; we collected from the owners. I was the only one in the gang with cash and by some strange coincidence the fine and court costs came to exactly $10, a fast and effective transfer of my wages.

In the last incident, as in the first, there were no injuries, the patrolmen were kind, efficient and obliging. I was thankful old Les Turnipseed wasn't with me. His soiled underwear would have run even the cattle to different pasture and Les couldn't have passed up such a gathering without throwing a few punches. Neither of us can fight now but at least the EMTs would have had an opportunity to show their skills.

I was also thankful Unbearable Jones aka Heinie Leonard and Shorthorn Wheeler weren't along. We got through the formalities fine without breathalyzer tests, tourists being hustled to buy survivor's T shirts and flasks being passed to the patrolmen. That pair can always be counted on to lend respectability to any social event by their absence.

To make it a family affair, the production was staged near the driveway of Sister Pauline's (Bubbles) home west of Gunnison. It had been several months since Lucky Bates stopped a moving van at the same spot with the rear end of his Dodge sedan and four vertebrae in his neck. I thought it a handy place, since the law officers and tow trucks know the location. Bubbles and Lucky were properly sympathetic, smelled my breath and offered bathing facilities and a change of clothes.

Bubbles briefed me on legal matters and coached me for the confrontation with my old sparring partner, who was sure to spill some blood after seeing what was left of the front end of her car. Inez was wonderful, waiting with a tear in her eye on the front lawn, a stove poker and ball bat in reserve and a paid-up insurance policy in the hands of her attorney, sipping coffee in the background. My loving sister had told me my natural instincts for survival would handle the situation. She didn't mention Inez's unnatural instincts.

And Dick Wilson, whose face has taken over a good portion of the crown of his head, had spread the news over the Powderhorn Valley, his version anyway. He had both ends of his tongue working overtime to some Kansas visitors when I dropped in, but managed to run down long enough to ask for the gory details of the mishap. I couldn't disappoint him. I told him I had been carousing with two old gals in Gunnison over the weekend, was on my way home when I reached for an aspirin bottle with one hand and scratched my Herpes infection with the other. One hand or the other rammed the gearshift lever in reverse. When fully stopped, the speedometer needle was stuck in shards of glass reading 105 MPH, my Herpes had gone into remission and three hay meadows were fully fertilized, both north and south of the highway.

Regarding 'Thundermug'

Dear Editor:

Weather here is good, but awful cold! How cold is it? We have pregnant ladies here into their eleventh month because they won't go out to the doctor.

I always go to the editorials and good stuff when I get my Miner and on that page I found, by accident, a story about me. Now I have to clarify and correct some things.

1. I left Creede voluntarily, I was not banished from there, so I am not exiled. I consider myself to be one of the very few persons honored by God to have been shoved out into the world in the city limits of Creede, Colorado, a very small town! How small was it? There wasn't enough people to do all the official jobs so every one had two jobs. The Marshal had to be the city street maintenance man, the Sheriff had to be the Texaco man. The mayor had to be fire chief, the preacher's wife had to be the town prostitute. We didn't have enough to have a town drunk so we all took turns.

2. I really appreciated Johnny's kind words about my Dad. Bo Robert's Dad was born March 5, 1882 and in 1982 I was preparing a birthday celebration on the 100th anniversary of his birth. I was at the liquor store ordering up some goods when the owner asked if my Dad was here now. I told him no. He died in 1952. Well he looked amazed, and said, "I never heard of having a party for a dead man before." I told him lots of people celebrate the birthdays of dead men like Columbus, Washington and Lincoln, and they didn't even know them.

3. I don't think there is anything wrong with the smell of bull manure. I raise beef cattle here now and I always go get some fresh on my shoes whenever I go to the bank.

4. In December 1948 the Berlin air lift was going on and the draft started up again. J.C. Ott and I were serving our country over in Silverton working on the tram at the Pride of the West mine. We quit and joined the army. Well they asked what kind of work I did in the mine? I drilled rock, shot dynamite, and shoveled rock and I expected to be assigned to the engineers or bomb disposal. They said you will make a good cook. Well I figured they must know more than me, so if I had to be a cook I would be the best damn cook in the Army! Now, John has a good recipe for S.O.S., but AWOL soldiers all over the world would leave the "tent ladies" and jump over the fence back into camp just to eat my S.O.S.

5. I drive a 1959 Ford truck, 25 years old. It has been coast to coast, border to border, from the Golden Gate to the top of Pikes Peak, two hundred thirty odd thousand miles. Now if I can ever get it either paid for or broke in I'm going to retire it, but anything with character like that and made it into where Jackson lives, is not a hulk.

6. I think the only reason the animals over there are so spooky they see so little of anything civilized. If my Spanish still works I'm sure "Cebolla" means "Sasquatch" or Bigfoot. That would be the perfect place for a "Sasquatch reserve." Nobody will ever get in there to bother them. John said Jack and Janice Nelson dropped in on them. No one can just drop in on the Jacksons. You have to outfit for a major safari to get in there.

I don't care if John likes me or not. I'm going to come over next summer and see them. All the best to all.

Mountain Filasifer
Rockies & Ozarks
Noel Loyd Roberts

P.S. How very appropriate after reading John's fiction I looked at the front page and there was a very good likeness of John in front of Bob Wardell.

Housecleaning Is a Breeze When Done Jackson's Way

With waterworks drained, perishables packed and food scraps distributed to Sport, the retarded Australian Shepherd; Bandit, the malamute; and JoJo, the schizophrenic goat, I made a half-hearted attempt to clean house before pointing the loaded truck toward the Montrose lowlands.

Housekeeping isn't one of my favorite chores, but it isn't the sweatshop our wifemates would have us believe. By turning the sheets over a couple of times, flipping bottom sheet to top, top to bottom and again a turnover, it is possible to go six weeks without laundering anything but the pillowcase. I managed kitchen chores with one saucepan, one skillet, one plate and one spatula. Swizzle sticks were throwaways. Walk the same path in the house each day and a 20 minute stint with the vacuum cleaner monthly will restore the carpet.

What a homecoming; it reminded me of the Jewish lad whose mother sent him out for a dozen eggs. On the way to the market he passed a sign saying, "THE ARMY NEEDS YOU," with Uncle Sam's index finger pointing directly at him. Saul thereupon joined the Army, went overseas, got wounded in battle, won a citation for bravery and, after three years, was again on the street where Uncle Sam had beckoned. He ran up the stairs to the apartment and there was his old, gray-haired mother slowly rocking in a chair by the hearth. He dropped to his knees, tears running down his cheeks and cried, "I'm home, Mama. Mama, it's your little boy Saul, I'm home."

"For God's sake Saul," she replied, "I see you, I hear you, now where's the eggs?"

Inez helped me unpack as little Lucy smelled all the tires that Sport and Bandit had washed so faithfully through the summer. Then we settled down to a cup of coffee. Paul ignored me; Mary waved me from a clear view of the television. Her favorite soapy was on.

On top of the mail rested a letter from Medicare which Inez indicated I should read first. In essence, Medicare denied responsibility for medical bills incurred by Paul M. Schriver since May as its records showed Mr. Schriver expired in mid-May 1985. Never have so many thoughts and visions passed by the rear of my eyeballs as chased each other during the time it took me to read that paragraph. I spilled my coffee, forgot everything of substance and shook like I had delirium tremens as I tried to concentrate on the dire financial consequences of the message Inez was now mouthing in my direction.

It was like Christmas and resurrection day rolled into one. My eyes rolled, I slavered and shivered, finally gave up trying to conceal my emotions and headed for the garden area to spade up deep-rooted weeds to calm down. The shovel had barely bit the ground when I felt a tugging on my shirt sleeve. It was Inez.

"Please, please don't," she said.

I couldn't fathom what the devil she was talking about.

"We can't bury him here. Besides, he still thinks he's alive."

I squeezed her hand. "I was only digging up weeds, Sweetie," I said. "We're going to give him a proper burial. I thought we would have Preacher Hackworth from Elko, maybe even Shorty and Heinie for the services."

Preacher Hackworth isn't an ordained minister but he likes to preach hellfire and brimstone when he's three sheets in the wind at the Tuscarora Tavern.

"And we'll sew him in the old tarp we use to cover the wood, then slide him from a board into the Anaconda Shaft South of Powderhorn just like a burial at sea."

"But he was in the cavalry, not the navy," she corrected me.

"So? We'll slip a pair of cowboy boots on him before we stitch up the tarp."

Jackson Finds His Plugs Fouled While in for Tune-up

Like a car that has turned too many sharp corners with a lack of grease in the couplings, some of my parts are wearing out. I have been a stickler for keeping everything well oiled, but a dent here and a fracture there have combined to redirect the fluids, so I took my aching chassis to the medics for repairs or trade.

First thing I found out is that when one specialist gets a live one with a head full of psychoses and scared to death of doctors, he shares his prize with every specialist in the clinic. I was shunted around like an offspring of a Himalayan Yeti. Even the secretaries giggled when I walked in.

After three visits of being poked, prodded, blooded and X-rayed, one specialist sat me down and as he worked his fingers to where they met behind my windpipe, he advised, "Well, John, we have three problems here. We feel that if we can eliminate the most aggravating one, the other two may resolve themselves without surgery or at least take care of most of the pain."

Lord almighty, I wanted to take that fellow to my breast and tell him he was the answer to my prayers. For four years, I have tried to flush that old buzzard down the drain, my biggest pain in the neck, and here Dr. Lokey has offered to do it and let my insurance pay for it. I marveled at his keen perception. So what if they have to rummage around in the interior of my neck and put a couple of grease fittings in the joints. As long as they give old Paul a one-way ticket to the outback or stretch him out for show and tell, I can stand anything they want to dish up. Who knows, if I can serve up some freak of nature like Heinie "Adorable Jones" Leonard to them, after Paul maybe they'll refund part of the money.

The orthopedic surgeon got first crack and suggested a round of physical therapy to begin AT ONCE. Here I balked. I pictured 210 pounds of a former lady stevedore slapping my ears against my shoulders and spinning my head like the dial on a telephone. It had taken me three months to learn to bend and swivel my neck at my waist and I didn't at all feel like being stretched and crackled to tone someone else's muscles. Brawn won over brains again, and I was curtained into a small cubicle with a cot, chair and lie detector. After ten minutes of listening to slapping of flab, groans, coughing and screams from the other cubicles, I had my shirt back on and was scribbling a note on the pillow case when a cute, petite brunette slipped through the curtain and asked me where I hurt. I sat down. She asked me again.

I took off my shirt. "Mr. Jackson, tell me, how is your neck?"

"Fine," I answered. I couldn't believe my good fortune.

"Okay, if your neck is so fine why aren't you moving it or turning your head?"

"Because it makes me wet my pants and then the big boys make fun of me."

She giggled nervously and brought up a clipboard holding a page of skeletal sketches and a list of questions. She placed it on the cot and hopped up beside it.

"I need to know all about your problem," she said, "where you hurt and what seems to cause the most severe pain."

She had placed me so that I was looking square into her wide open, trusting, blue eyes and I couldn't remember a pain to save me. A warning buzzer sounded somewhere in my gray matter and again I pictured Big Bertha rumbling in after this question-answer session, so I asked her, "Who is going to do the PT on me?"

"I am your physical therapist. Why, don't you think I'm capable?"

"Yes, yes I do, I just expected someone with biceps above the eyes."

Again the nervous giggle and we went down a list of questions after which she brought in old Benjamin, a string of bones with red nerve tentacles flopping from the small openings in the vertebrae. It was apparent he had suffered long, as an eyebolt protruded from the spot where the coccyx should be. We had five minutes of fun with old Benjamin's cervical vertebrae before she stuffed him under the cot. Then, looking directly at me, she asked what seemed to give me the most relief from pain.

I hesitated not at all. "Two gin and tonics and..."

"And what?" she asked.

As Big Bertha slapped my ears against my shoulders, I yelled, "But you said we had to be truthful with each other."

You Get Caught Doing Darndest Stuff

Before I went bonkers, I tried to keep everything in an orderly procession: thoughts, household chores, work habits and writing. This has caused a whole hellava lot of problems in my life and I'm sorry I didn't flip tens of years ago.

I believe in law, but I don't believe in order. We should do nothing offensive to society as a whole but I believe a little offensiveness to society as a part is both healthy and warranted at times. How many times, when some blowhard was letting his mouth overload his rectum, have you wanted to say "baloney" or "bullcrap"?

As another political season gets underway, don't hide behind a mask of respect when one of our candidates for higher office promises pie in the sky. If you think its bullcrap, tell him so. Just be sure it isn't Thundermug John, 'cause he'll punch your lights out.

We finally railroaded old Paul to a nursing center. He caught me tying a knot in his oxygen lifeline and threw such a tantrum that Inez had to rush him to the hospital in Montrose. All I was doing was taking up a little slack in the 60 feet of hose he had strung out and tangled in the plants, through the cat's chair and over my work boots. He had barely started turning blue and could still holler. He probably could have gone another ten minutes without CPR.

So now he rests comfortably in the San Juan Nursing Center, enjoying Country and Western cassettes and yelling at his roommate, who is quite deaf. Peace reigns supreme at 1109 Ridge but I miss the old bugger. We were just starting to get acquainted and had our mutual galling digs down to a fine art when we were parted.

Tuesday was Inez's day off. With a sitter for Mary, we fired up the pickup and drove to the Cebolla retreat to get the Thomas organ, a top-heavy brute fashioned to be moved through double doors solely. Tuesday also was the day the minister from the Baptist Church chose to drop by, visit with us and comfort Mary.

Ministers should never get within a block of us when we are struggling with furniture, but there is a certain attraction to family squabbles for preachers of all faiths. Bob Farrell got more than he bargained for at the Jackson house. Twice he told us he would leave for a few minutes and return with a dolly. Twice I told him he could take Inez and where to put his dolly.

Bob likes us and sees me as a challenge, which pleases me no end, but by the time the organ was in place, pieces of wallboard and keys swept up, blood wiped off the rhythm section and my nose, the Reverend Mr. Farrell looked like an old Army buddy of mine coming off AWOL. The First Sergeant equipped him with a teaspoon to dig out a large walnut stump over a period of six weeks.

Early-Morning Call Jogs Memory of Days in Local Choir

We are early risers. When someone calls before 8 a.m., he or she invariably asks, "Did I get you out of bed?" We like to get an early start for the slugfests of the day.

I'm at my best, mentally and physically, at 5 a.m. Inez requires 8 ounces of bouillon and 3 milligrams of tar before her tongue becomes fully mobile, double the dosage before her brain starts to catch up with her tongue. That usually gives me the edge in the first two rounds, but after that I depend on footwork.

Bertie Jane Hosselkus surprised us with an early morning call. Her first words were, "Did I get you up?" Hellamighty, Bertie, that was midday in Montrose, where lawns are green, five hours since the neighbor's dog quit barking and three hours since Farmer Orme started disking the south forty.

The first thought that entered my mind when Inez said "Bertie Jane" was that Commissioner Hosselkus had driven over the hill for choir practice and had been detained by weather conditions or participation in community service projects. Gordon was a charter member of the Snowshoe Mountain Glee and Choir group organized around 1973. I can't remember whether they cut any LP records but they set several records, a few still standing.

It was a business call, but it brought back many memories of Creede days. Gordon Hosselkus owes a lot to me. If not for me, he would never have seen Camp LeJeune, N.C.; Oahu; the Yangtze River; or Nanking, mind-broadening experiences that developed his artistic side and led to formation of the Snowshoe Mountain Glee and Choir Club with tenor Robert "Bob" Kendall and baritone Seth E. "Tank" Tankersley.

"Sing The Whiffenpoofs Assembled." For three years they never missed a practice, "With their glasses raised on high." Lower Creede town might still be enjoying their lusty voices had Bertie Jane not learned it was more glee than choir and shortened Gordon's vocal chords. "And the magic of their singing cast its spell." He was never able to span the high notes after that, but such dedication should not go unnoticed or unrewarded.

Honorable mention is due the old hardrock miner, Jack Nelson, who directed the group to depths never before reached by untutored voices, and prepared the evening arrangements.

Several of us, including Slim Anderson, Chuck Lehman and Dave Deci, tried out for the club but while we had the capacity, the timbre and timing were lacking. During a rousing rendition of "Dangerous Dan McGrew" to the accompaniment of soft humming, a young fellow provided sound effects with a high-powered rifle when the word reached "and shots rang out." He wasn't accepted for future practice due to incarceration in the Del Norte jail and lack of blank cartridges.

In an earlier day, Herbert "Pee Wee" Hutchinson entertained us with solo efforts. During one performance at Les Turnipseed's cabin, he belted out a solo so low he could recover neither his feet nor his voice. Les has always been a stickler for "the show must go on." It was his cabin, his guests and he wanted none of us to be disappointed.

While the rest of us, Gavin, Woody, Ernie and Gene, were enjoying intermission refreshments, Les lit the well-oiled end of a polishing rag with a kitchen match and threw it toward the face down, prostrate form of Mr. Hutchinson. We were barely through our second toast to the volunteer fire department when Pee Wee hit his first high note, followed by another and yet another even higher that the first two. After the flames were extinguished by squatting in a snow bank, he returned to center-stage and was thereafter billed as the "Pink-Cheeked Troubadour of Creede, Colorado."

Gas Was Easy to Borrow

Old friend and confidant Gordon Pfeiffer Duncan recently sent me a picture of Mildred Hosselkus Hoffman and Esther Hosselkus Hinshaw taken at a recent gathering at which Millie told of a long ago late-night excursion where my heroics saved the lot of us from a long walk home.

I remember little of the trip or its purpose, but I do remember the automobile was a 1931 Chevrolet driven by Fred Baker and we were full of spirits and the gas tank was empty, as empty as our purses and pockets, but resourceful people at that time carried a little 3-foot hose and a can. The combination was called an Oklahoma credit card.

I'm sure I didn't volunteer to operate the hose, but I ended up on the suction end of it and drew enough bronze gas into my stomach and the can to enable us to complete our journey. I vomited for an hour, then belched gasoline fumes for a solid week. No one smoked around me and I avoided open flames or sparks of any nature until water would once again stay in my gullet over ten seconds.

Gasoline siphoning was a way of life in the '30s and '40s when one couldn't make the payment on a car and buy fuel at the same time. The affluent recorded six miles or less to a gallon of gas while the rest of us sometimes got as much as 80 miles to a gallon.

Les Turnipseed and Jimmy Comstock drove to Idaho with five gallons of used oil, a siphon hose and less cash than it takes to buy a six-pack of beer in this era. The only problem they encountered was in Green River, Utah, where the town marshal objected to them running the hose in his tank.

The statute of limitations allows revealing an incident in Creede when four lads needed a little gas to take a camping trip in a Model A Ford. They chose the truck used to haul bentonite from the clay mine to the railhead that was housed in a large garage in the north end of town behind Benny Birdsey's house. All went well until one of the boys lit a match to give light to mop up the operation. It was one hell of a fire and four boys had nightmares of Buena Vista Correctional Center (reformatory at that time) for months after the last hot ash was doused. Confession is good for the soul, you old firebugs.

Thurston Bittick, now of Sunnyside, Utah, but formerly of Creede, was an expert gasoline siphoner. He has an acute sense of timing as well as extraordinary hearing that let him draw his mouth away with the fuel less than an inch from the end of the hose. Thurston's expertise brought us back from many low-budget trips around the Valley. Farms and ranches with dogs were avoided after a few close calls and we learned that a straightforward approach along a well lighted street was less dangerous than a dark back alley. You could lay odds in the '30s that if you smelled gasoline in a café or bar, one of the patrons had just stuffed his credit card under the front seat of his car.

Garry Marshall operated a Shell station in the lower end of town and an old fellow called Wick pumped gasoline for Claude Larson on Main Street. They donated several tanks of fuel to the lower income group due to the open bowl, hand pump rigs. The guilty parties would roll up with engines a quart low on oil. As Wick checked under the hood and went for a quart of bulk oil that had to be pumped into a container, one of the team could pump gas like hell while the other fed it into the tank.

Bulk oil was 15 cents a quart and gasoline was around 20 cents a gallon, so it was sometimes possible to get a full tank for less than a dollar with a pair of good crooks.

Life was much less complicated in those days when a little derring-do and simple contraptions kept the cost of living down.

It's Back to His Cooking for a Time

Day five and it's getting easier all the time. I kept a time diary yesterday and housekeeping duties, including cooking, took less than two hours.

All it takes is a little organization and concentration with the television off and reading material stacked in a closet.

The old girl is getting smarter or else she's listening to other abused wives. She hid all the hard liquor behind the vacuum sweeper in a hall closet. I likely would never have found the cache if I hadn't spilled a pan of ashes and had to clean the mess up before the cats used it.

Granted, you may find a cobweb here and there, a few crumbs along the kitchen floor and the glasses aren't just crystal clear, but it is better than a bachelor's cabin.

Old bachelors always had doors on the west and east ends of their cabins. When a storm was brewing, they would sweep the trash into a pile in the middle of the floor and open both doors. Wind did the rest.

I once roused a close relative, bachelor, from his digs to join us in Thanksgiving dinner. The doors in his house weren't situated right so there was only a pathway between rooms. The sink counter top cradled 17 beer cans, three soup and stew cans and assorted wrappers from rolls and bread. Man cannot live on bread alone.

The bed looked like there was someone in it.

I said, "She can come too."

He looked at me and asked, "Who?"

"Well, whoever is still under the covers."

"AIN'T nobody in that damn bed," he replied testily.

I guess that was correct. Rigor mortis had set in and was just starting to swell.

I like the story our friend and neighbor, Rob Wolkoski, tells of a wintertime trip with a D-7 bulldozer to rescue a couple of horses for an old rancher. Ben had killed an elk, left it and his horses at the ranch to drive to town for other necessities when a sudden storm boiled over the San Juans and dropped 30 inches of new snow.

He enlisted Rob, along with a cousin, to open the road so he could bring his horses out. They arrived at the cabin near nightfall, found wind had blown the door open and snow had drifted in clear to the bed.

As Rob and Joel cleaned the snow out and got a fire started, Ben took feed to the horses and put them in an outer stall. When he returned to the cabin, he dropped a hind of elk from wire hangers, worked off a couple of thick steaks from the frozen end and brought them to the stove.

He tripped on a hump of ice and dropped one steak on the floor, retrieved it, brushed it off with a grimy hand and plopped it in a skillet well coated with rancid bacon grease.

I screwed up my face at the thought of all that was seasoning the steak. Rob said, "Aw, hell, when you're as hungry as we were that night, you don't worry about a few mouse turds or horse manure, but I sort of kept my eye on which steak he dropped and made sure I got part of the other one."

A neighbor has been trying to call since Inez left. I met her on the road to the mailbox where she asked, "Don't you ever pick up your phone when it rings?"

I told her that every time I pick it up, a voice asks, "Is Inez there?" Since the calls are always for Inez, I figure it is her phone and I will let it ring until the bells fall off.

The only thing worse than to be dead and forgotten is to be alive and forgotten. Lonesome Joe, where are you?

'Act Your Age' Takes Fun Out of Seniors' Lifestyle

There are plans afoot to place several of us less-than-agile seniors in strollers equipped with seat belts and rubber bumpers. A young fool can fall on his rear, get up and dust himself off with no fanfare, but let an old fool collide with the turf and he is immediately consigned to a play pen with padded bars.

There are few thrills left for us and, in our declining years, we should be allowed our falls even if we bloody our noses and break a bone or two.

Couple of months ago, I made a beautiful landing after bouncing off a few hard obstacles. Before I could assess the damage, parts of the scaffolding I had just been on rapped me on head and neck, producing more cuts and bruises than I had been able to show off for a score of years. Shortly after my act, Ed Wintz of Creede tried a soft shoe routine and fell in front of a horse that applauded the show so enthusiastically one hoof connected with his face.

We have both received a continuous chorus of "Act your Age," "accept your frailties and limitations of advancing age."

Baloney! Thirty or more years ago I saw Ed Wintz fall four times between his car and kitchen of his home and Bea Jean voiced no concern over his debilitating condition nor did she try to help him to his feet. When I was a youngster in my 20s, I fell more times on one Saturday night that I've ever fallen in my senior years and nobody offered me crutches or a cane.

Falls can be beautiful. I saw Ed McCargish start a spectacular backward fall at the Phoenix mine above Creede just as we arrived for work. He recovered with flailing arms that reversed his angle so much, he started falling forward. He over-recovered and fell, full length, backward. He swallowed his chew with the first slide and retrieved it with the final thud.

Babe Fulton showed Scooter and me how to turn a simple forward fall into an eyebrow lowering, skin rending, complex rooter. Babe was returning home from a bout with ale and barley corn as Scooter and I were doing chores. We could see he was having considerable difficulty staying upright, so we stopped to watch him run the obstacle course between John Slater's house and his cabin.

He was within a hundred yards of home plate when he tripped. From a sluggish start, he revved to breakneck speed, his body at a 40-degree angle before the force of gravity took over. Frozen ground stripped skin from his face like a cheese grater and shredded his trousers before he lost momentum.

We were replacing the shingles on the roof of the house in Creede where Nell Wyley now lives when Dad Bill inched down from the last row to pick up another load of shingles from a stack on the catwalk along the eaves on the south side. From my perch, I could see he was barely on the edge of the plank, but I had no time to warn him.

For a second or two, I thought he would be the first man to achieve flight without mechanical means as his flailing arms gathered speed. He lost power and final toehold at the same time and dropped ten feet to a solid five-point landing. I laughed when he recovered his bearings and the frame of his shattered glasses, but it was a short-lived laugh. The old bugger clambered up the ladder with fire in his eyes and murder on his mind.

Schoolwork

Before some well intentioned psychiatrist discovered that spankings might impair a child's psyche and cause him or her to become perverted or a threat to society, the old leather belt laid soundly across the buttocks or a rap to the rear of the head were part of the day's routine. For the most part, we felt deserving of such punishment and our understanding of child abuse ran more to the frequent lubrication of our digestive tracts with castor oil or a canceled fishing trip than to welts or bruises that time would heal.

I probably got more spankings for wetting down the biffy seat than for any other misdemeanor. I liked to get on my knees by one of the holes and try to hit the flies buzzing below till they gathered at the other end then quickly switch fire to the next hole and surprise them again. The change of theaters of action left dribbles on the seats that annoyed Dad Bill and Mom Jo no end. It was worth a spanking, though, to make a direct hit on a fly on the wing. I felt as proud as a World War I pilot downing a German Spad when a large blowfly crashed in my stream.

This same fly-shooting memory also appears, in slightly different words, in "Once Around the Thunder Mug," "The Bessy's Cabins Olympics." Both versions are reproduced in full, as printed.

Later, when we learned to spell, we amused ourselves by writing our names in the snow while urinating. This may sound easy for a name like Jim Jones but etching a long name with all i's dotted and all t's crossed was akin to winning an Olympic event to us veterans of the sport.

Upon moving from the mesa to a larger house in down town Creede we acquired a porch roof sloping to the south from our upstairs bedroom where we could crawl out a window and stand on the edge to practice our art on the snow several feet below. On a still morning armed with a full reservoir we could sometimes etch a cartoon character as well as sign the work. We would then put on our clothes and scamper down to stomp evidence into oblivion before the old child abusers saw it. A neighbor, unfortunately for us, witnessed our daily workouts and told Mom Jo who became an early riser long enough to catch us in the act and wallop hell out of us.

School spankings were somewhat harder on us, psychologically, being spread eagled in front of all our little classmates while "Oscar," the paddle with the holes in it, performed its miracle and sent us back to our seats with a smart throbbing that lasted for minutes. This, also, was considered part of the routine of learning and generated a wholesome respect for our teachers.

I once fashioned a horrible looking spider from thin copper magneto wire. I rubbed chalk over the back and sprinkled the chalk dust with ink to make a fierce looking insect. I hung this masterpiece on thread from my ruler and dropped it directly in front of Edna Ruth Van Akin's face as she was studying in the next seat forward. It had more than the desired effect when she spied it. Rising a full three feet from her seat she released a blood curdling scream that brought the instant attention of Mr. Beauchamp, our seventh and eighth grades teacher, before I could retrieve my prize for further use. To make matters worse, the wires that formed the spider's legs had caught in her hair and she was slapping and pulling at the now crushed ball of wire as Mr. Beauchamp covered the distance between us.

I have never been as completely subdued as when Mr. Beauchamp finally discarded my remains after testing every fiber and bone in my body with backhands, forehands and an extended bout with old "Oscar" that brought smoke and fire from both paddle and trousers.

College Recruits

While the skirmish with a favorite policeman of ours in Crowley, Texas may have caused heart palpitations for Glen and Beth Hinshaw, the news of same relieved our minds in the knowledge that Robert A. Blackburn has returned to duty after a heart attack in December.

Our memories of Bob Blackburn date back to the early '30s when Colorado Fuel and Iron Corporation was readying the fluorspar mine at Wagon Wheel Gap for production after a lapse of several years. Arthur Blackburn, Bob's father, was assigned to this renovation. A good friend of our Father's, it followed that we would team up with Bob and David to become a quartet in chasing the lions and tigers from Goose Creek drainage as well as discover all the places where Ute Indians had camped, hunted and chipped out arrow heads and flint tools. Carolyn was a beautiful young lady removed by age from our escapades and Alicyn hadn't arrived as yet to complete the Blackburn family.

We shared beds and food as we shot away four hundred pounds of jig bedding, small iron cubes that just fit in the leather pouch of a sling shot, their primary use being in bedding jig tables that separated fluorspar from other minerals and waste rock. No doubt the loss was evident when the mill was placed in operation but there was no possible way four small boys could cart off hundred pound kegs of this material so we weren't suspected of the thievery.

If trouble was within fifty miles it always looked up Bob Blackburn. Much to the chagrin of his parents and teachers, Bob greeted trouble like an old friend. We owe a lot to Bob in the way of excitement, laughs and unscheduled holidays. I remember one Blackburn holiday very well when Bob placed a handful of .45-caliber cartridges in the old wood-coal stove of our high school. The fire was nearly dormant until superintendent Charles Mashburn added a few lumps of coal and shook the ashes down. We were barely settled for algebra class when the first cartridge exploded, blowing the vents open as subsequent explosions parted the stove pipe. Smoke coupled with soot drifted around a room in utter and total chaos as girls screamed and ran for the door to Miss Krausnick's room and the rest of us scrambled for cover. We were exceedingly proud of Bob as we closed our books for the day and turned the whole shebang over to the janitor.

John also told this prank in verse, in a typed poem signed "j jackson 1991" and found among his papers: "I'm Called 'Mister' Mashburn." The details differ, and both versions are kept as John wrote them; the poem's page lists the differences.

There was a peculiar compound resting in the chemistry class equipment that had to be stored in oil. On contact with water this compound produces a whale of an explosion. Bob always had a coffee can filled with water beneath the windows on the west side of the high school for those infrequent times when superintendent Mashburn was absent and Miss Krausnick was in charge. Bob would wait for the most opportune moment to drop a slice of his waxy substance in the water. Miss Krausnick endured more in her two years here than many front line soldiers and retained her composure remarkably well when the explosions rattled the windows, however her skin developed a ghostly pallor and there were tell tale signs of shell shock as each succeeding incident overshadowed the former.

Miss Krausnick directed the junior-senior play of 1941-42 in which our friend Gavin Skinner had a starring role. Miss Krausnick was having difficulty directing Gavin in one scene where he was to kiss Emma Mae Wilson, a task any one of us would have traded our souls to hell for. Bob, Ed Snow, Scooter and myself felt obligated to help out and rounded up a half bottle of wine to which we added vanilla and lemon extract for a powerful potion that not only enabled Gavin to kiss Emma Mae but propelled him into romancing every other female in sight as well as Miss Krausnick, who by this time was sure she had discovered another Rudolph Valentino.

A cold snowy night was the setting for Bob's farewell to Creede before moving to Pueblo where he later volunteered for Uncle Sam's navy and submarine duty in World War Two.

Bob and Ed Snow had scrounged up enough change for two quarts of Muscatel and had become gloriously plastered. Ann Mason, Bob's girlfriend, had become alarmed at his strange behavior and recruited me to restore him to a suitable condition to drive home. I walked him around for two bitterly cold hours with Anne following, begging for reassurance he was recovering while Ed floundered from snowbank to snowbank barfing red wine in competition with the yellow etchings of dog urine.

I could see it was a losing battle when Bob's legs refused to even partially support his upper torso and I could no longer hold him upright. With considerable effort Anne and I dragged his totally unconscious form behind the Civilian Conservation Corps (C.C.C.) barracks where I rested as she slapped his cheeks. Tears were streaming from the beautiful eyes of this girl who could sing like a nightingale and old Ed, who had purged his body of the poisonous liquid, could offer nothing more that groans and hiccups as we administered last rites to Robert A. Blackburn.

I don't know whether we were trying to preserve his body or actually believed it would revive him as Anne and I unbuttoned his shirt and pants and began encasing him in snow. After perhaps ten minutes of stuffing snow in both directions from his belly, Bob uttered something unintelligible. Spurred on by this vague sign of life we rammed more snow against his carcass. More utterings and more snow then the words formed with feeble clarity.

"Please don't, no more snow, please," and with more effort, "cold, cold, sooooooooo cold."

This could well have been the lowest temperature a human body has ever recovered from however, we weren't interested in records at that moment. We congratulated ourselves on rescuing Bob from the clutches of the devil as Edward belched fumes that seared paint from the side of the barracks.

So Long Chuck!

The message was relayed to us at Jerritt Canyon base camp by mobile phone from Elko, Nevada. "Charles Davlin died Thursday, April 27th, body will be cremated, services pending."

The message was brief and those passing it along to us had no way of knowing the impact it would have on us. Those few words ended a very important part of our lives and left a void once occupied by a warm, vibrant person who had been more than a friend.

Chuck Davlin had signed me up to work for Emperius Mining Company in the year 1942 when the office was temporarily located in the A.H. Major Grocery Store. In the years since that meeting we had shared many laughs, the excitement and disappointment inherent in independent metals exploration, the baring of souls and the companionship in hunting trips.

For the last ten years Chuck had gone through plain hell with never ending pain, frequent trips to hospitals, operations and therapy that sapped his body of all strength, yet he never gave up and always greeted us with that infectious smile that assured us that sun would come up tomorrow and everything would be better.

Eight years ago Chuck had applied for a permit to hunt the trophy of trophies, a Rocky Mountain Bighorn. He was an avid hunter and excellent marksman. He contacted me from his office in Denver to find out if I would be available to join him on this, his most exciting quest for big game which might very well be his last.

I was shocked at his appearance when he and wife, Toni, arrived at Cathedral Ranch, South of Powderhorn, Colorado, where Inez and I lived while mining at Bondholder. Pasty white, terribly thin, he looked like death warmed over and, I'm certain, felt even worse. The smile was there, however, and a sparkle in his eyes as he unpacked the dried foods, slid out the back packs he had rented for us along with a two-man tent designed to stand up in gale force winds. I thought the tent would stand up handily but I feared a breath of wind would topple Chuck.

We had driven as far as we could then loaded up the packs. I was trying to divert as much of the load as possible to my pack but Chuck would have none of it and insisted on sharing the burden. I will never forget the difficulty he had in keeping his feet as we started up the trail to Sheep Creek Basin to a campsite I had proposed. I doubted we would ever make it but I underestimated the determination and sheer guts of this giant of a man at five feet eight inches in height and one hundred twenty-five pounds in weight. We had barely gotten settled with dinner of beef stroganoff heating in a skillet when the rains came. The fire was quickly extinguished and Chuck pulled a Primus stove from his pack for just such emergencies.

Next came the ponchos, also provided by Chuck, as the stroganoff began to bubble.

I dished out our servings and sat back on a wet log with a soggy slice of bread in one hand and looked over at Chuck. Never had I seen such a forlorn looking individual. Water was running off his poncho into his stroganoff, his own slice of bread had parted and slopped to the ground and through the pelting rain I could see the pain pulsing through his body etched in every line of his gaunt face. I couldn't help myself. I said, "You look like the poorest excuse for a sheep hunter I have ever seen."

He turned his head towards me with rain pouring off his nose and answered, "You don't look so beautiful yourself, you bastard." I started laughing and he picked it up. For a full ten minutes we must have sounded like the looniest creatures in the forest. We ate the stroganoff and crawled into our sleeping bags certain the sun would shine tomorrow and everything would be better.

So here I sit with tears running down my cheeks and feeling sorry for myself at losing such a dear friend. A photograph of Chuck and myself, deep in a mine, looks down on me. Those were happier times, Chuck, but we will meet again.

Farewell to Jerritt Canyon

We had postponed the trip to Jerritt Canyon base camp for two days. A snowstorm from the coast of California and Oregon had blanketed us and we were wary of a stretch of road near midpoint where gusty winds often close the cuts with drifted snow to a depth of several feet.

Today patches of blue sky to the west give us hope the storm is ending so tools and supplies are loaded and we run the gantlet of railroad tracks near the compound to start the climb to Adobe Summit, fifteen hundred feet higher than the city of Elko. Several children, waiting for a school bus, are running and sliding on the glazed highway directly in our path seemingly unconcerned of our approach and force us to a crawl as one little girl sticks her tongue out to shame us for interrupting their play. I am still growling when we reach the summit but here we are rewarded with a view of surrounding mountains that makes our day. Anyone who has watched the passing of a storm from a lofty viewpoint at sunrise understands the feeling. Shafts of sunlight teamed with high winds are doing battle with rear guard clouds of the storm now turning its attention to Utah and Colorado. Craggy peaks of quartzite, thrust upward by a prehistoric wrinkling of earth's skin, glow goldenly between patches of fog with blue of sky accenting the scene. This wonderful moment obliterates the frustrations of winter troubles and makes one thankful to be so blessed.

We will pass two ranches before reaching the junction taking us to Tuscarora and Jerritt Canyon. As we approach the second ranch a sign warns us "SLOW - 35 mph Cattle Crossing." We have never seen cattle crossing in our many trips but slow down anyway not wanting another confrontation such as the one with the children near Adobe Summit. It would spoil our mood if a calf stuck its tongue out at us.

Inez has been as tense as an E string on a fiddle since the start. She dislikes icy roads even more than myself and shows her disapproval by trying to push her feet through the firewall while working a wad of gum to a worn out mass that wouldn't even stick to the bottom of a chair. She relaxes as we pass from Taylor Canyon to the wide expanse of Independence Valley where she can see our destination.

Camp is a quagmire, a mixture of soggy snow and mud requires four wheel drive to take us to the work area. Geologist Dave Potter and drill superintendent Fred Elliot badger me about being three days late as old Blue nudges me and drops the rubber disc on my right foot, the disc I have thrown thousands of times for him to fetch. Once, when his attentions were becoming annoying, I tried to thoroughly exhaust him by throwing the disc first in one direction, then the next as he returned it. Blue was foaming at the mouth and staggering drunken-like but I was first to throw in the towel. I could neither throw the disc or lift my arm for days.

The time passes too fast as this will be our last trip to Jerritt Canyon this year. Blue senses this is farewell and stays with me every minute. He shows evidence of the malady that plagued him last year but for today it will be our secret that worms have once again invaded his intestinal tract.

Drillers, equipment operators and surveyors splash in from time to time, their vehicles mud coated, muddy ice from the fender wells dragging in the ruts. This is a rough life for both men and equipment and I wonder at their endurance. It is freezing on the hill with low hanging clouds, wind and snow. Conditions that are the rule rather than the exception are skyrocketing the cost of this exploration. It takes a well heeled company with daring, determined leaders to challenge such a terrain and a special breed of men and women to advance the project from exploration to production. We feel fortunate to have been able to join this group for brief periods.

Dottie Vidano has packaged two slices of pie for our evening's dessert and as we leave we stop by their trailer to swap insults with Bob Vidano who helped me in several jobs and now is suffering from a spinal disorder aggravated by sorting hundred pound sample bags. Old Blue, who at two years of age isn't old at all but whose understanding of human emotions makes him seem old, is curled up on the couch in the driller's lounge. He refuses to look at me and I understand his feeling as we share a kinship that brings tears on parting.

We are driving into a fast moving storm on our return that has grounded five eagles on five separate power poles. This could truly be called the valley of eagles as it is not uncommon to see as many as thirty in one trip. They live in harmony here with a former enemy, man, as does a mountain lion that prowls near camp. Possibly to learn the source and reason for the rock and roll pseudo music that blares from the logging room where young geologists examine rock chips and drill core to complete a geologic picture of this gold ore deposit.

Our memories will be good of this area of Nevada and the wonderful people who have helped and accepted us so generously.

Hopeful Wife Can Be Trying

The eternal optimist, that's my gal.

I returned to the source of the smoke blurring the north hillside with my eyes frozen nearly closed, feet and hands as numb as extremities can get and there, perched by the wood heater, flicking cigarette ashes on Pee Wee, the female cat, by her side was my bride just turning page 11 of the new Burpee's seed and plant catalog. Twenty-three degrees below zero, not counting wind chill factor, only 14 feet from her tootsies, and she was thinking about her next garden.

Big boy tomatoes and burpless cucumbers were the last things on my mind as I cleared a watering hole for the Herefords who would plod down from beds in a stand of spruce trees, have their morning constitutional on the ice or in the hole I just cleared, then drink from it while it is still partially warmed and green from the entrail contents of yesterday's feeding.

It helps to remember other days, other jobs much colder than this clear morning as coyotes sing from the hill above Jim Goodjion's and vapor raised from a herd of elk watching us from a vantage point some 600 yards distant. They had been cleaning up the Herefords' leftover hay when we disturbed them and won't return until nightfall. The pause, as I chop and shovel ice, gives a jackrabbit a breather that Skeeter harasses each day. The rabbit likes a wind-free dugout afforded by McClure's pumphouse and would rather not have this daily intrusion; however, it involves only a half-mile circle and primes Skeeter's gullet for a package of Purina's Moist and Meaty and keeps old jack's senses acute for the next coyote on a hunting circuit.

A late winter hunting trip with Granddad Lane froze two fingers of my right hand and left me with frostbitten toes as well. A January job with Allen Hosselkus topped the list as far as thermometer reading went. Max Martinez had become ill at Humphrey's Lodge on Goose Creek and the road had to be cleared of snow to bring him out. The second day of this dozer job, the thermometer at the fluorspar Mine lost all hold of the mercury. The lowest reading on the scale was minus 50 degrees and Ollie Platz showed us where the mercury had slipped below that. The third day on the job was relatively mild, minus 46 degrees.

A snowslide blocked the Amethyst road in the winter of 1947-48 forcing us to hike the hill for several days. A minus 32-degree reading on one of those days coupled with a brisk wind frosted Gene Dooley's earlobes and the tip of his nose. I saw his ear lobes turning white and we tied a bandanna around his head from the pocket of Billy Taylor, who suffered frostbitten fingertips in the time it took to cover Gene's ears.

The coldest day in my memory, however, was a snowshoeing trip over the divide from the Equity Mine to a prospector's cabin on Cascade Creek. It was snowing lightly and I was pleasantly warm from the effort required to keep a steady pace. Once over the divide, in deeper snow, my weight, plus a heavy pack, continually broke the crust forcing me to doff the pack and snowshoes, crawl back up the crusted forward area, make 10 or 15 feet and do it all over. The snowstorm moved eastward, the temperatures plummeted and gusts of wind hid any evidence of the trail.

When I finally reached the cabin, I knew there was very little time to get a fire started before all feeling left my hands. There was absolutely no feeling in my feet. To top it off, the heavy snow had flattened the outer joint of pipe. We can always summon a little reserve strength when the chips are down, and, before total darkness set in, the vent was drawing smoke and sparks to drift downstream as I sat with my feet in the oven and my hands in a pan of warm snowmelt.

The lure of gold overpowers the senses of hapless prospectors.

Wife Is All Thumbs

Her memory is the only handy thing

The old gal never ceases to amaze me. She can remember exactly how many drinks I had at a party forty years ago, what I said and what I did that embarrassed her, but she can't remember to fill in the stub side of a checkbook. She can remember, word for word, a love letter I received from an old flame in 1952 but can't remember the Valentine card with the mushy note I gave her only two days after Valentine's day this year. Her periods of memory loss are directly related to my own periods of good and bad behavior.

In the early years of our marriage, we had linoleum with newspaper padding for our floors. Inez wanted a vacuum cleaner, for whatever reason I couldn't fathom. When finances permitted, she got a canister type that sounded like a real go-getter but so far as I could see didn't improve the cleaning one bit. I came home from the job not long after her purchase to find her near tears and the cleaner in the middle of the front room floor covered with swear words. "It just quit, that's all. It won't vacuum a thing," she sobbed.

I got the tools, spread paper on the kitchen floor and dismantled the machine. I found a small screw from the switch that had apparently loosened and fallen into the armature. I replaced the screw, reassembled the parts and came up short one large screw for the top housing.

I looked all over the papers, shook them, and, finding nothing, decided I had dropped it inside the housing. I disassembled everything again and still couldn't find it. I began combing the floor on my hands and knees. She asked me what I was looking for. I showed her one of the other screws and told her I was unable to find the one needed to finish the job.

She disappeared and in seconds returned with the missing screw.

"How in hell did it get in the living room?" I asked. She confessed to trying to fix the cleaner before I got home and couldn't remember where that screw fit.

After all that, it still refused to pick up trash. I disconnected the hose and took it outdoors where I dislodged one of the dog's well chewed bones. Two checkers missing from the board for weeks and enough lint to pad a love seat.

Her latest exploration with screwdrivers and pliers involved a Singer sewing machine, and I doubt the firm would hire her for even cleanup work let alone repairs. Long ago I impressed on her the importance of oiling all the moving parts. Now she oils every hole visible, even those for attachments. There is enough oil in the belly pan to fire a steam engine or run a fair sized engine. I moved the fire extinguisher to a place near the thread board.

It was coffee break. I came in from the West 40 to find smoke pouring from her nostrils, her hands bruised from pounding the sewing table to a pulpy mass and red thread wrapped around everything near the needle.

I asked her what she had used the screwdrivers on, as several were scattered around the room.

"I didn't touch a thing," she screamed. "The bobbin doesn't work right, the needle makes funny noises and the thread goes everywhere."

The full story always comes out after I have wasted an hour or two trying to figure out why a device suddenly stops working when no parts are broken or there is nothing out of adjustment.

"I did take that little plate off," she offered.

Then hesitantly, "But I put it back just the way it came off."

The instruction booklet pictures the plate and other parts. It clearly states, "When replacing plate (A) be sure finger (J) of bobbin holder is secure in notch (C) of plate." She had not remembered that step and, when properly assembled, the machine produced a perfect stitch.

The only remedy is to hide the tools and buy her a Tinker Toy set. When she figures that out without instructions, we'll advance her to the round holes and square pegs.