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

Sympathy Overflows His Heart

Pardon me while I brush the tears away and blow my nose. Sure, I know, I will be receiving scathing letters from Ginny Thompson, Shorty Wheeler, the ACLU and Daughters of the American Revolution for defaming that pillar of society, "Lonesome Joe", aka Heinie Leonard, again. They will write how I am envious of his sterling character, his benevolent nature, his ranking among his fellowman and I am guilty as charged.

I have here, edged in black, the latest missive from this poor, downtrodden soul who is slowly recovering from bruises, lacerations, fractures and miscellaneous trauma of his torso and limbs incurred as he tried to rise from the gutter to a higher level of social standing. As it happened, he had no standing at all. This could properly be entitled "Gutter Fights Back" or "Revenge of the Gutter". After 50 odd years of chucking his cookies and voiding his urine in the gutters of many cities and many states, one of them finally decided enough was enough and rose to the challenge, rose high enough in fact to smash and remove his glasses along with much skin from his forehead, nose, knees and elsewhere unmentionable.

He assures me he was stone sober. Hopefully that was a mistake in typing as he mentions he is only able to use two fingers on his left hand. I have been drunker than $700, so drunk I couldn't find my rear with both hands, but I have never, in all my social gatherings, been stone sober. I am properly sympathetic but as long as he has two fingers to measure liquid in his glass, he isn't totally disabled.

To those of you who don't know Mr. Leonard, please number yourselves among the fortunate and for those of you who do know Lonesome Joe, yes, he is still among us though at times his wife, Vivian, has to remind him. She has to remind him of many things that used to come naturally and his bout with the gutter won't help the condition in the least.

Heinie played with the Creede High School band in the early '30s when Bandmaster Thomas Drysdale led them to the district championship in Alamosa. I have never learned what instrument Heinie played, though former band members tell me he was very versatile in the music department...mainly the female inspirational's. Heinie wasn't among the honored at Alamosa, having been expelled before the contest for holding his notes and other things too long.

The tears fall easily and I am sorry for this unfortunate accident, old friend. There is reason for everything and for everything a reason. Perhaps learning of your misfortune will save our Metroz Lake partner, Shorty Wheeler, and myself a similar fate for we, also, haven't shown proper respect for the gutters of the world. I shudder to think what your condition would be if this had happened with the cobbled gutters of Germany or the crushed lava gutters of the Pacific islands.

I once had a flight of stairs consisting of eighteen steps turn against me and there is no more helpless feeling than to have inanimate objects pummel hell out of you as you struggle to right yourself. Believe me, sir, I was nearly stone sober too...if that is the correct description.

If it is any comfort to you, I have a friend (still living, I believe, or reasonably so) who bid us goodnight and stepped from a '39 Packard traveling 45 miles per hour on a gravel road. Gavin stopped much faster than the Packard and by the time we returned and found his battered hulk and possessions, he was quite stone sober. I suspect you look very much like my friend a week after his rocky roll.

To the readers: Mr. Leonard welcomes visitors at his home in Monte Vista and I'm certain he would much appreciate cards and letters. Discount coupons for Ancient Age will be graciously accepted.

Respectability Comes Late to Some of Us

We were pleasantly surprised with a telephone call from longtime Mineral County Sheriff Harry Larson. During the conversation, Harry informed me he is very near 80 years of age and he had been asked to what he attributed his longevity.

He replied to the woman, "Well, I have taken care of myself as most of us Creede youngsters were taught to do."

I nearly dropped the phone and then we both laughed heartily.

During the '30s Harry Larson had a problem called Bernie Soward and Bernie Soward had a problem called Harry Larson. Kept separated, they were within sniffing distance of "pillars of society"; together they spelled trouble of every kind and description.

Several years ago I wrote of a fracas in Bernie's cabin where his wife, the Blonde Bomber, put the pair of them on the run with a full thundermug. Harry said the only thing that saved him was that he saw her make a round-house swing with the pot just as Bernie yelled "run, for God's sake, run."

The fracas John refers to here is told in full elsewhere on this site, as "Harry, Bernie & the Blond Bomber" in "Echoes from the Thundermug," Grown Up in Creede, Part One, and again, in slightly different words, as "Bernie, Harry and the Blond Bomber" in "Once Around the Thunder Mug," Of Bagpipes, Coasting and Firemen. This retelling is John's own brief recap, not a fresh account.

Harry was making tracks when the pot sailed over his head and landed somewhere near Ivan and Doris Weaver's house. If records were kept for thundermug hurling, the Blonde Bomber would still reign as champion.

When the area between Creede's post office and the Elks building, known as the Mercantile Block, burned in the mid-'30s, Harry Larson was one of the crew that heroically saved the entire stock of liquor housed in a store.

Not a bar of soap, barber's towel or stick of furniture was saved from the remainder of the shops or theater.

The liquor was moved to Johnny Million's home in the southwest end of the town where Harry lay guard over it until his wife, Mary, took him by the nape of the neck and transferred him to household duties.

Never had Creede seen so many volunteer fire fighters or so many wives looking for errant husbands days after the last ember was doused. Our ranger, who had performed valiant service for a day and night, was crowned with a cast iron skillet when he returned home.

During our conversation, I told Harry I had heard he had nearly gone down with his ship trying to save the officers' liquor, reminiscent of his courage in the Creede fire.

He corrected me. He had been busy collecting other memorabilia in a pillow cover. When he came topside and went to the fantail, he couldn't see another soul on the listing ship but a launch was near the side and the crew told him to throw his gear over and crawl down to them. He was very willing to do so.

For some of us, respectability comes late in life or not at all. Courteous obituaries mention the deceased lived "an interesting life" or "much information is lacking". I haven't worried about it and I'm sure our old friend Harry hasn't spent any sleepless nights wondering how we will be remembered.

When we buried Bernie Soward, we adjourned to the Rainbow Bar to swap stories about the old seadog. Bernie was only 52 when he died, I believe, but his exploits were many and, to us, he seemed as old as the hills.

Melvin "Red" Johnson and I were seated next to each other.

Red, a rough, tough customer in his own right turned to me and said, "When I die, all I ask is for one of you bastards to stand at my grave and say, 'So long, Red; you were a good son-of-a-bitch.'"

I remembered and I complied. I hope someone will do the same for the rest of us black sheep.

RSVP

We have received our invitation to the second annual pig barbecue staged by the Rocky Mountain Division of Freeport Exploration Co., the firm that lets Inez and myself enjoy the finer things in life while it ponders whether I am as beneficial to its continuing success as I have indicated to my supervisors.

Last year we were unable to attend this great social event in Denver and it is probably just as well as the Jefferson County Jail was overcrowded before the pig was even carved.

Bob Hawkins, Joe Kantor and Denny Heyrman were detailed to oversee the cremation of the pig in an all-night vigil. They drank so much beer they had put out the fire by early morning. Bob and Joe were cited for indecent exposure. Denny escaped only because he had fallen in the pit, rolled over a few times and was so covered with ashes and foam the officers mistook him for the porker.

Joe Kantor started home three times with a cute little blond before the others could convince him she wasn't his wife and that she was at home (the festivities were held at his residence). Joe has problems that way in spite of his new bifocals.

Oh well, it runs in the corporate family. I fell in love with our administrative assistant, Jeanne Downing, several years ago. She acknowledges my "love letters" by keeping me supplied with Geritol, Arthritis Pain Formula "B" and ear plugs to combat Inie's snoring.

The compassionate group saved me the ears, nose and jowls of last year's pig and by the time they were delivered to me it had returned to life, or at least the bag was moving. I buried it twice far out of Gunnison but even at that it attracted a grizzly bear from Wyoming and five students from Berkeley.

They had a missing persons report out on Russ Allen after the party. I was afraid I might have buried him with the rest of the goodies as when last seen he was blowing in the pig's ear. Russ turned up in Juarez, weeks afterward, claiming amnesia which was later cured by a few penicillin shots.

With luck we will miss this year's fiasco, too, however I would like to see Manager Dave Stevens' repeat performance of "Sugar Cane Rumba" with the East Colfax belly dancer.

Bloody Palm Gulch

The winding down of a field season, geologic reconnaissance, is a depressing period I haven't been fully able to cope with. As a consequence, my field partner, Inez, has borne the brunt of my frustration. To ease her situation she brings up the lighter moments of our summer's exploits and we laugh through them again. May we share them with you?

We were occupying a cabin with cooking facilities on one project from which Inez fed the crew housed in adjoining units. Senior geologist Win Rowe has a black lab that accompanies him on nearly all field trips. Kimberlite holds a grade slightly under Win on field trips, slightly over him on duck hunting trips.

One evening, after a long and hard day of gathering samples and mapping formations Inez had prepared a special meal topped off with tapioca pudding. I was called away as she dished up the pudding and returned to find Kimberlite sitting in my place at the table, looking like she belonged right there, lapping up my tapioca pudding. She was clattering and banging the china bowl over a square yard trying to hold it with her teeth and work her tongue in and out at the same time. She looked pleadingly at her master who finally held the dish with thumb and forefinger so she could enjoy the remainder of my dessert.

Then there was the time I was teamed with our exploration manager, geologist Dave Stevens, in a sampling traverse that brought us to very precipitous ground. A steep-sided canyon with jagged outcrops and poor footing invited sampling of a formation that smelled of minerals we are interested in. I looked it over and suggested discretion is the better part of valor, in short, "Let's find a different route, Dave." Rank prevailed however, so we commenced a careful skirting of the steepest portion where one slip could have sent us tumbling to the rock strewn creek in the bottom. Once past this I became much braver and volunteered to take the next hitch that involved sliding down loose scree a hundred or so feet. The scree was deep enough to slow my descent for half the distance then barely held me as I completed the slide baring jagged volcanic outcrop. Seeing me standing at the bottom and safe, Dave stepped off looking like he was taking a kiddies run on a ski slope. Disaster struck as he reached the last of the scree. I saw him tumble end over end then bounce from bare outcrop to bare outcrop on hands and posterior, maps, rock hammer flying while the radio, attached to his belt, was flipping from his chest to each collision with rock. I was scared as hell thinking of how I would get this oversized rock breaker out if only injured or how I would tell his family if he departed us.

When the dust cleared there was old Dave looking like a horned owl that had lost an argument with a bobcat. Shreds of skin hung from his hands as blood dripped from the ends of his fingers. The only thing I could think to say was, "Is the radio okay Dave? It really got shook up as you came down."

He looked at me with all the fire he could muster and cried, "Jeezus crist! I could have been killed and all you can think about is the radio."

Dog Gets Sharp Lesson

Everybody should have a dog and it pleases us to learn that old Lonesome Joe, alias Heinie Leonard, has acquired a companion for his daily strolls in Monte Vista. I only wish his Dugan had the nose for fermented spirits gifted to our own Scrappy, a Chesapeake Retriever of 1930s vintage. It would save Heinie at least half his "fixed income".

Dad Bill bought a home in lower Creede formerly owned by a moonshiner of considerable repute. When Scrappy, a pup from the kennel of Spillmans of Alamosa, became a part of the family, he spent much of his time nosing around a cottonwood tree in the northwest corner of the yard. When he became old enough to be an earthmover, he began digging in several spots, unearthing burlap sacks. This didn't please Mom Jo very much, nor us tads, as we had to resod the holes. Then one day Scooter saw the top of a jug in one. That hole had two empty whiskey jugs, strong in smell but barely a taste in the bottom. We went from there and found jugs or bottles in each place the dog had zeroed in on. Scrappy had a real smell for spirits.

Heinie had been in a dilemma with Dugan, knowing the time had come to visit a veterinarian whose scalpel would help keep the pet population in check. I understand Dugan is an extraordinary dog, a dog you don't just leash and say, "I'm taking you to the vet to be neutered."

Mr. Leonard first got Dugan's attention with a meaty bone, sat by him and began his psychological spiel.

"Dugan, we have learned you are of royal lineage and next week I will take you to be knighted."

Dugan understands old Lonesome Joe even though some of us have problems who run in a different pack.

He went on, "You will have to keep your eyes closed. I'll lead you in and tell you when to kneel. The queen will lay a sword on you and when I lead you back out, you will be known as Sir Dugan the Fourth. Remember, you must keep your eyes closed. Never, never look up."

On the appointed day, Vivi cried as Heinie cleared the door with his protégé. Dugan thought she cried because she was so happy he would soon be one of the royal family.

Everything went like clockwork. Little Dugan was a real prince during the whole episode and didn't open his eyes until they were again on the sidewalk where Heinie rested on one knee, doffed his hat and congratulated Sir Dugan on his performance.

Sir Dugan, by this time, had spotted a nearby fireplug. He wasn't sure if those of noble status still kicked fireplugs. In fact, he had much to learn about royalty and tricky masters. He walked a little stiffly to the fireplug, started to raise his leg and the truth of his knighting descended on his head like a sledgehammer as two stitches pulled. With that he bared his fangs and tried mightily to knight Lonesome Joe Leonard.

The moral to the story is: "Never kneel to be knighted without your armor."

Sore Toe a Lesson to Prospector

I recently got in touch with an old friend, Tom Steven of the U.S. Geological Survey. Tom answered post haste with words of how relieved he was to hear from me. It had been such a long time, he thought one or the other of us had expired. Now that he knows I am alive, he will have his own pulse checked.

Tom Steven and James Ratte covered every square foot of the Creede area, and their combined talents gave us one of the finest geologic reports ever published on this part of the San Juan volcanic field. I learned a lot from Tom in the rock-breaking line.

The first thing he taught me was not to put my foot on a rock while breaking it with a hammer. He had one of the most discolored, bulbous big toes, minus the nail, I have ever seen. It looked like a lump of cow's tongue a dog had chewed on for a couple of days and couldn't swallow. There are times when you can't think of anything better to do than laugh. I laughed and Tom remembers.

Tom and I hiked into a remote area many years ago to deplete some beaver ponds of oversized brook trout. We had pledged to each other we would keep nothing under 12 inches in size as we attached flies to leaders. After an hour of catching nothing but willows behind us, we reduced the size to nothing less then ten inches, then eight inches, then anything with fins and gills. We finally returned with enough to fill a skillet.

Tom doesn't hike anymore. He wore out all the joints used in hiking and carrying heavy packs. In order to finish his mapping of calderas, he blessed himself with a beautiful bay mare, aptly named Sam, who carried him faithfully up and down canyons and mountains in mapping rock units. Now, I have learned, Sam told Tom he would either lose that 30 or so extra pounds of flab encircling his waist or she would retire. He refused; she retired.

Tom was with us one July day at Cadwell's ranch on Spring Creek, just down the canyon from the beautiful rock spires that gave this locale its name, Cathedral. We cooked out nearly every evening with all in camp invited. The cabins, at this particular time, were filled with bright-eyed, bushy-tailed youngsters thrilled with the sights and smells of a working cattle ranch plus the added bonus of getting to eat from paper plates while sitting on hard places, almost like the wranglers of old. Tom A. Steven had provided a giant watermelon for this cookout and generously carved triangle slabs for first, seconds, thirds and fourths for all the kids. The next day saw sleeping bags, sheets and blankets hanging from every available line, post or hook drying in the summer sun. Tom was summarily banished from all future Cathedral Ranch picnics.

Ancient Spirit Made Him Do It

I recently received a well-deserved word thrashing by a mother in a Midwest state for the article concerning working mothers who, I felt, would do better to keep their talents in the kitchen and playpen. I am always willing to consider the other person's view so long as it agrees with my thoughts.

I've told you and I've told you, "Don't read that trash drifting 'around the thundermug.'" There is nothing I like better than to relax at the typewriter and write smutty poetry after a couple of brandies. Sometimes I have three or four brandies and on these occasions a 5,000-year-old spirit named Remyssah II takes over my faculties.

I have no control over my thoughts or fingers as page after page zips through the carriage. I don't like being a mortal outlet for the ravings of this mummified author, but I like brandy, and Remyssah II shows me no mercy. I feel that you mothers should know where this tripe comes from and will forgive both Remyssah II and me.

The old bugger keeps telling me to tighten the screws on Inez, that women should be subservient and never question a male. I notice he is never around when she twirls her eyeballs into a full-force hurricane that scatters dogs, cats and one husband over a hundred acres or more.

Inie wanted to re-seed our spotty lawn and cover it with manure a few days ago. I have trouble getting around to any task due to mental and physical infirmities, but, with the manure, tools, seed and water at hand, I felt she should be able to scatter seed as fast as I could rake and cover it.

I was stooped over taking care of my part of the project very well as she worked her tongue into a frenzy of gibberish. The next thing I knew, my cap was curled around the clothesline pole and her right hand was still plastered against the side of my face.

"Pay attention to me," she screamed as she drew back to unleash another haymaker.

I was so absorbed in my work, I had planted her feet in manure, some of it fresh enough to attract flies.

Dear women and mothers, I realize that many of you were forced into the work force because of uncaring and slobbish fathers. Please accept my sincere apologies. I'm very sorry I offended you. The sacrifices you have made for your children should not go unrewarded and I, for one, applaud you.

Remyssah II, who would be called a male chauvinist pig today, has a tendency to lump all types together. I take it he has flitted around California where the bulk of the state's population wants everything now. The San Andreas Fault will one day drop them in the Pacific Ocean so they play games of musical beds, guess who the father is and to hell with the children.

The good Lord created his children well, anatomically, for one half to provide safety, shelter and comfort for the mothers. Any man worth his salt will keep his part of the bargain and any woman worth her salt will realize that there is no profession as rewarding as motherhood with happy, well-adjusted children and a healthy home atmosphere. It takes both mother and father to achieve this, with patience and understanding.

I admit to being a male chauvinist. During my infancy I was farmed out to a next-door mother whose breasts runneth over. As I understand, she was equipped to handle quadruplets while my own dear mother could nurse me only sporadically. It was like going from the horn of plenty to crumbs from the table, daily.

The shuttling back and forth developed a distrust that I carried through adulthood. You would do well to remember, dear women, that you owe your existence to the generosity and one rib of Adam.

How much better off we would be if Adam had defied his Lord and said, "Just use a hank of hair and a cactus spine. We're going to be needled for the rest of our lives anyway."

Curse you, Remyssah II, you've done it again.

Driver Meets Old Friend While Negotiating Tight Road

I was skirting rocks, potholes and wild fishermen on the Los Pinos Pass road heading home from a tour of Cochetopa outcrops when I met a pickup zigging and zagging likewise from the west.

Passing on this narrow road requires one vehicle to scramble to the ditch and the other to crumble the outside bank or swap chrome stripping and paint. We had negotiated the passing handily when I heard someone yelling "Johnny, Johnny," and in the rear-view mirror I could see an arm waving in the other cab. I stopped.

Six feet and several inches of cowboy slid from the pickup, followed by Kenola Wintz and a pert little Belgian exchange student, as a dog that looked like it could eat a yearling calf as an appetizer voiced the first greeting. Jerry and Kenny always raise my spirits and I never tire of Kenny's melodic laugh, so the household chores of the Cebolla homestead would have to wait as we swapped lies and caught up on family happenings.

I learned that Kenny's father had developed serious heart problems just prior to calving season, which shifted the midwife duties to Jerry. Jerry wasn't entirely ready for such heady responsibilities but he rose to the occasion, checked the temperature, pelvic opening and timed the pains of the cow that appeared closest to motherhood. He placed her in the operating room, a corral with ropes, calf puller and mud.

When Jerry returned to check his patient, a hind hoof was protruding from the birth canal, signaling a breech delivery. He dropped to his knees, raised his blinkers skyward and pleaded, "Dear Lord, not my first one, please, not my first one!" The big fellow knew what to do nevertheless. I was laughing as he continued. "It wasn't funny, by God. The first thing I had to do was catch her, so round and around the corral we went with me swinging on the end of her tail until she wore a path two feet deep in the mud. Then I got her down."

After that, the long arms that unerringly flipped basketballs through hoops, leading Creede's high school teams to league and district championships, turned the calf around in the play pen and brought it out face first for a breath of fresh air and a chance to become a prime rib roast in a couple of years.

Ken Schmittel, Kenny's father, is mending well but I have a feeling Jerry will back in the operating room next year now that he has a feel for it and so many grateful Herefords singing his praises.

From this brief meeting, I also learned that Alvie and Edith Wintz, Jerry's parents, are sporting new hip joints and testing them in fishing trips and arrowhead hunting. Alvie was one of Creede's top miners for a score of years and produced the last ore by hand steeling from a vein on the Commodore 2 level. Bless you good folks, we miss you.

The Last Auction

It was her fault. She knew better than to let me go to an auction of that size with $40 in my pocket and a checkbook for a joint account at a local bank.

It was the auction of the year for me. Pete Hess was going to sell all his equipment, tools, miscellaneous and retire. In the layout, I had spotted a pile of prime grade fir decking that would provide us a sun deck at our new home as well as walks and floor for the garage. Armed with our capital resources, I signed up at the window of Jim's Auction Service, stuck a card with my number in the top pocket of my bib overalls and joined a couple hundred other eager beavers waiting for the first warbling stutter from the auctioneer.

He would mesmerize even the faintest of heart to bid $20 for a rusty log chain that cost less new and shiny or to fondle the handle of a worn out pipe wrench like it was gold plated and should have been for the price they were coaxed into offering.

I sat back through the hour it took to dispose of a trailer load of shop tools enjoying the excitement and jokes of the auctioneers, then followed the chanter's mobile platform along the path through well spaced equipment as I waited to bid on the fir decking. We passed bulldozers and draglines that failed to draw minimum bids and came to an old Army 6x6, freshly painted, seats refurbished, and with no oil leaks around vital parts. I lost a host of years at that moment. I could see a detachment of scared kids on slatted wood seats in the rear of that 6x6 with dust billowing in, contained by the canvas tarp covering the bows, our eyes smarting from exhaust fumes as we were transported to guard duty in the rolling hills of Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri.

There was Keeler, the little bugler, who woke us and retired us sitting opposite me; Allison, the big cowboy from Wyoming, cursing Helton, the misfit from Chicago, whose rifle had knocked Allison's helmet askew when the truck bounced from a chuckhole. Lost in this memory haze I barely noticed the auctioneer's helper or heard his words as he questioned "You like this old truck, don't you?" I nodded and smiled for I was in Camp Beale now where the eternal fog and rain turned the terrain into a quagmire but here came the faithful old 6x6 churning through foot deep mud with the field kitchen, cooks and paraphernalia to put hot food in our mess kits as we played our games.

The voice interrupted me as I was dipping my mess kit in a soapy barrel, "I'll bet you rode a lot of these, didn't you?" I nodded again as Sergeant Kent and I jumped from the path of a 332nd Engineers 6x6 piloted by a drunken corporal, who ended his wild escapade with a flying leap from a pier at Mainz on the Rhine after terrorizing Biebrich. We witnessed the steaming plunge and watched the grand old workhorse settle in the ooze of the river bottom, gurgling and wheezing till only the windshield remained in view. The corporal looked like a cavorting otter as he surfaced and dove, resurfaced and dove again to retrieve a half-full bottle of cognac wedged behind the seat.

I could faintly see the auctioneer drumming on the microphone as his helper again approached me and asked if I could drive one of the old brutes. I nodded and started to tell him I could put one over Red Mountain Pass when the auctioneer bellowed "Sold to number one hundred and twenty nine." I looked around to see who would claim this prize of the lot when the helper yelled to me from the next item going up for bid. "Pay our secretary before you try to move it."

New Year's Just Not the Same When Faced Sober

Another Christmas behind us and well into the new year which, from all indications, will be only slightly worse than 1986. I used to welcome the new year with a gawdawful headache, a new set of digestive juices and the assurance that if I lived things could only get better. It helped to know that Paul Davis felt as bad or worse and that John McClure, only a block away, had been given last rites by his beloved wife.

Inez promised to kill me just 14 years ago if I ever fertilized the bed, her slippers and a portion of the rug again and thinking about it I believe it cost in the neighborhood of a dollar per square inch for the spraying without the cleanup. I miss being handsome, the best dancer, the best fighter, the best story teller and most of all being 6 foot 6 inches tall. I towered over the old gal then and she scared me not one whit. I don't miss hovering near death for 12 hours, the two days in hiding and the week of apologizing to those I offended.

Christmas brings those once a year letters from the far away and faithful. Noel L. "Bolo" Roberts rolled off three pages still trying to get back in my good graces after he and J.C. Ott introduced me to the long arm of the law when I was 6 foot 6 inches tall and the best fighter in the Elk's Hall. The lawman was better and meaner, Bolo and J.C. thought it was great sport but they had warmer quarters to go to. I could forgive Bolo if he hadn't gone on to become an Army cook. More soldiers went A.W.O.L. to get a decent meal than ever deserted to avoid battle. Bolo is having medical problems and would appreciate hearing from old friends. He writes he has a badly infected foot and metal was removed from it. I suspect it may be fragments of a mess kit that a soldier was trying to place elsewhere...along with the wriggling tripe Bolo had just slapped on his milkweed toast.

And Jeanne Downing, our former administrative assistant in the Denver office of Freeport Exploration Co., writes that she and husband, George, visited the old home town on a southern tour of the state. While there they were given royal treatment and considerable information having nothing whatsoever to do with the museum by one Seth E. Tankersley, curator. Several years ago I told Jeanne the story of how Tank's nose was re-arranged so that he could smell around corners...and before plastic surgeons, too. Also, how Tank and Charlie Kipp modified a Chevy II station wagon to give it the shortest turning radius of any car on the road. Neither Hilda nor Joanne rewarded them for their efforts. Jeanne Downing wasn't at all disappointed in the museum or curator.

Heinie "Lonesome Joe" Leonard didn't write but Vivi explained the reason in a short note on their card. It seems old Lonesome Joe was all wrapped up in a neck and neck football game on the tube. He was quarterbacking a reverse, end-around run near the goal line when he belched and seared everything but the extension cord. The backflash singed his eyebrows and hair and temporarily 90 proof blinded him. He is expected to recover fully as soon as they find his glasses, both the jigger and the 8 ounce.

Short Stuff

While in Montrose we were privileged to visit with John (Peterson) Keating and his gracious wife, who now resides there. John lived in Creede as a lad and, later, returned for many years running to visit the John Slaters, our neighbors. John is full of stories about early-day Creede, and the following is one story told in our visit.

John mentioned his school days and the time "Red" Dooley, father of Gene and Floyd, and Ambrose Dooley, uncle of the pair, committed an infraction or two of the rules of conduct of Creede's grammar school and were lined up by Miss Schroeder's desk at the front of the class for twelve licks with a heavy leather belt. Red was first for this embarrassing punishment and after several sharp reports howled to the satisfaction of the teacher. Ambrose then stooped over and grabbed his ankles to receive his licks on tight overalls. The folded belt popped loudly against the rear of Ambrose and he never changed expression. The belt resounded faster and harder. Ambrose yawned and fidgeted. After another round of sharp reports from the belt there was a pause of several seconds as Miss Schroeder rested her arm. Ambrose raised from his angled position and drawled "What's 'a matter teacher, gettin' tired?" He was retired to his seat.

* * *

As I sorted through boxes of papers hurriedly packed in our move, I found the original Certificate of Title to old "T-Bone", the Model T truck I had purchased from Dan McCaulley and formerly owned by William J. Russell, stepfather of Sam and Al Birdsey. Bill Russell was extremely cross eyed and one of Mineral County's favorite commissioners. His wife, Mandy, baked the best pies the Jackson kids ever tasted. Bill told the following story on himself during one of our visits with him.

He had been in one of the Valley towns on business and on his return to Creede in his Model A sedan picked up a hitchhiker near Wagon Wheel Gap, a young fellow who had heard about Creede and decided to brave its climate and reputation in search of work. Bill knew every chuckhole and washboard in the dirt road and veered from side to side to miss the worst of the lot, even driving down the ditch at times to avoid a particularly rutted stretch. The young hitchhiker became increasingly nervous, finally asking, "Mister, do you drive where you look?"

Bill replied, "Of course I do."

The young fellow grabbed his belongings and begged, "If you'll stop and let me out I believe I'll walk from here."

* * *

The roads at that time were always rough. I remember when Granddad Lane and I were hauling a load of firewood to Creede from the Lane ranch on Moonshine Mesa in a wagon pulled by Granddad's favorite team. He had stopped to rest the horses when Roy LaFont pulled up on a return trip to Sunnyside. As we were visiting Roy remarked, "Looks like you've got a loose rim on that rear wheel." Granddad groused, "It's a wonder they aren't all loose with the roads so damned rutted."

"Aw hell, Charlie," Roy advised, as he looked down a row of puddles, "these roads aren't so bad, they hold water better 'n any roads I've driven on."

* * *

And we just learned that our revered friend from the wilds of Monte Vista, Heinie Leonard, was struck by a fast moving snowflake. Before fully recovering from that tragic mishap he accidentally swallowed a half glassful of water and flopped over in shock diagnosed as J. Daniels Syndrome. Vivian transported him to a lower altitude, where he is slowly returning to his natural state of disconfiguration.

He still goes into convulsions at the mention of water but his psychiatrist feels that once he learns the amber liquid that has sustained him for over fifty years is mainly water, the shock will pull him over the hump so he can, at least, be given a bath. He will appreciate your cards and letters during his convalescence.

Trying to Quit Vice Can Be a Killer

Never before have I seen such fire and determination in her eyes. 1990 had become the year for profound and concrete resolutions.

First she fell for the diet advertised by Tommy LaSorda, then the evils of smoking the tobacco plant registered; "This is the last pack of cigarettes in the house, when the last cigarette is gone from this pack I won't buy another and you won't have to gripe at me again."

Lordy, it was wonderful to sit with the love of my life and not have to part smoke to see her beautiful eyes or resuscitate little Pee Wee cat when she inhaled a particularly loaded second-hand draft.

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday passed without undue tension. Thursday she spilled her coffee once, her water glass twice. Friday she burned the potatoes to a crisp and forgot to put yeast in the bread dough. Saturday and Sunday she alternated between throwing cats from her path and running me to the lower meadow.

Nights were worse. It seems I would barely nod off when the rolling, twisting, twitching and pillow-pounding would begin.

It reminded me of our old assayer who loved corn whiskey. Folks would try to dry Jack out from time to time, but he had a devilish time weighing gold or silver buttons with his hands jerking like a bandmaster directing a fast polka. With everyone denying him a drink, he would go to a grocery store and clean the shelf of vanilla extract which tested around 12 percent alcohol and corral the delirium tremens until Bill Tingley ran off a batch of hundred proof and dropped a bottle or two in Jack's cache.

After ten days withdrawal, she started scouring the roads for discarded butts by day and dreamed of rolling in South Carolina's long green at night. It was more than the cats and dog could take when she climbed William's flag pole and screamed at passing airliners to drop a pack or three or six.

So, the ashtrays are back in place and peace reigns supreme at Jackson manor. Who will cast the first stone? Not I, dear friends. I have courted the many facets of evil since I was old enough to lie cheat and steal. The temptations are still there and I succumb to them daily though not in the abundance of yore when I was faster on foot. I find the odor of tobacco smoke much easier to take when I think of the times the dear girl hoisted me from the cold ground and revived me in warmth and comfort after a night with the Upper Willow Creek choir boys.

Should we encourage or condemn and where do we get the wisdom for either?

My old Dad chucked his last pack of Lucky Strikes in October of 1956 and died May 10, 1957. A brother quit the habit and was killed within a year. A dear friend poured the remains of a quart of whiskey down the drain of his sink and swore to never touch a drop again. He died of a heart attack not long after. Inie's grandmother never lit a cigarette and died of lung cancer. Two old friends in Creede smoked heavily from childhood until they died of old age at ages 85 and 87.

I was lucky. I fired up a well-used pipe with several types of shredded tobacco, even a little chewing tobacco thrown in, when at a tender age and puffed it like a professional for a full 15 minutes. Long enough for both lungs and stomach to turn me into a retching, coughing bundle of agony. Mom Jo turned me into something else after confession.

By and large, there are worse evils — love of money and envy are right at the top of the list.

Wedding Reminds Us of Our Own

And there they stood, the groom, ramrod straight, handsome, eager to start a lifelong journey of marital bliss; the bride, prim and pretty, calm and collected, brimming with plans to tame this maverick. Tears were forming in the eyes of the mothers, sighs of relief clearly audible from the lips of the fathers.

We had Les for a period in 1968 when I was starting a new tunnel at the Midwest project. A 5-year-old sprite full of curiosity and ready at the crack of dawn for the day's adventures. He helped chain the heavy loads for transport up the steep grades to the mine site and he helped me tow the compressor to its working place. A steady, reliable hand until I fired up the diesel engine of the compressor. I didn't miss him for several minutes, then found him face down on the seat of the truck, tears spotting the vinyl cover.

He looked up at me and screamed, "You go shut that thing off." After the initial scare, he recovered to help dap the squaresets, blow muddy water from the drill holes and tamp dynamite as we cleared bottom to a solid face. He delighted in igniting the fuse to the charges and thrilled at the concussion from the explosions.

As we looked at him in his place of honor by the bride, we selfishly hoped he would remember his time with us when he made us feel like parents, that a little of the atmosphere from that pleasant period would remain in his heart and mind.

Weddings are expensive affairs in this day and age. Too expensive when the marriage often ends in divorce court before the last crumbs of the wedding cake are swept under the rug.

Creede hosted few weddings during the depression years and for years after due to the proximity of Taos, N.M., and shortage of cash for a wedding gown. The girls' hope chests were usually a cedar cigar box filled with a small amount of dime store jewelry and a lot of hope. The prospective husbands and fathers hoped for enough gas for the round trip and no flat tires.

Inez and I left early one Saturday morning in a spring snowstorm that turned to rain in Antonito. At Tres Piedras, we slid all over the gumbo road, ending up headed in the direction we came from very well mired. We opted for a detour by Arroyo Hondo, which was even worse. When we arrived in Taos, I was mud covered, head to toe, from shoveling and pushing the car from the narrow bridge spanning the Rio Grande to the east bluff of Arroyo Hondo.

The county clerk let me use her rest room to become presentable for the justice of the peace. Most of the interest was in the $12 it took to cover fees and tips for the witnesses and little attention was paid to the attire of the bride and groom.

I'll never forget the bridal shower held in the old Red Cross Hall a week or two after we returned. Gavin Skinner was helping me adjust to the change in my living habits in the Rainbow Bar when a delegation from the shower spirited me away to help cut the cake and open presents. An old matron whispered to me, "The first baby only takes 6 months, but all the others will take nine." We fooled her.

I remembered other weddings as we waited for the ceremony to start. Eldred and Leola, Whitey and Ruth and the shivarees where the groom pushed the bride in a wheelbarrow as baritones, well oiled with bourbon, sang "Here comes the bride, sore but satisfied; here comes the groom, skinny as a broom." The wedding of Al and Frances whose bed was adorned with several cow bells on the under side by Mom Jo, Ethel Manning and Lena Slater. At a later date when nothing had been offered by Frances concerning the bells, Lena asked her if she liked the tinkling bells with her romancing. Frances replied, "Why it sounded like a whole herd of dairy cows coming home."

The little ring bearer was more interested in the surroundings than his duties, causing a minute's delay before the minister pronounced Les and Lee Ann man and wife. Relatives, friends and weather contributed to a beautiful launching of this union. Only time will tell if they can weather the rough seas and storms that strengthen marriages for the serious or doom them for the weak and misguided.

Eat Beef and Help the Ozone Layer

I recently read an interesting, enlightening, thought provoking, titillating newspaper article, an article that should be posted on the walls of every farm and ranch house and carried in the pockets of Al "Hoots" Colville, Bill Steffens, Ed Wintz, et al.

Brace yourselves. Did you know that, on average, one feeding cow produces enough methane gas each day to blow an "Earth First" bowel technician flat on his back if emitted in one burst?

Multiply that by the millions of cattle feeding on your grass, that's right, your grass growing on Bureau of Land Management and Forest Service land, and you have enough methane gas to blow the entire "Earth First" movement to the moon.

I was flabbergasted and I'm sure you will be also to learn that the methane gas generated by cattle is contributing to the ever-increasing hole in the ozone layer. Next time you savor a T-bone or carve a roast, pat yourself on the back because you are helping destroy part of an industry that is making a greenhouse of our Earth. Think about it next winter while trying to start your car in 30 degrees below zero temperatures.

Several years ago it was suggested that cattle raisers be forced to put potty bags on each moo-er to prevent contamination of mountain streams and valleys. This sounded logical and prudent to those who thought milk and butter came from bone meal and soy bean by-products.

I expect the next brilliant suggestion will be to install catalytic converters on the rumps of the offenders with a minimum 96 percent combustion efficiency and less than six parts per million contaminant wafted in the breeze.

The study has at least given us a clue to the possible cause of dinosaur extinction. Those giants of the veldt may have all let 'er rip at the same time with the force reversing Earth on its axis and blowing the ozone layer to Mars or thereabouts.

We had an old codger in Creede who could equal any cow's output after one beer and six pretzels. You could actually see a ripple in the lower rear of Clyde's long coat on venting even if you couldn't hear the report.

There was a daily contest in Soapy's Pool Hall and Barber Shop to see who could lift himself the highest with a single burst. Those consumptive old buggers were helping change the Earth's temperature without a trace of shame. It's a wonder Clyde himself didn't open a hole in the ozone layer directly over Creede and turn the area into a desert.

And Charles Steele, 80 years and past, a man who should know better, is out dragging meadows and repairing ditches preparing for the arrival of 200 head of cattle. A herd that will generate 4,000 cubic meters of methane gas daily and cause all sorts of problems for those dedicated souls who must measure such production and alert the rest of us to the dangers presented by the grass clippers. If I had time I would go let the air out of his tires.

Years ago I milked a brown Swiss for friends at various times. After a foraging trip along the mesa ditch, the old girl could blow her tail straight as a ramrod and nearly strip the hair off.

Have you ever looked deep in the eyes of a brown Swiss while she eased the cramps along her chain of stomachs? I'll tell you, you'll never see a more blissful or contented image in your life.

The environmentalists can crab about my wood stove, gas powered mower and farm tractor, but when they malign my Betty cow, I'm ready to fight. I would wager the gentle folk who travel around from forest to forest pounding spikes in trees and killing bulldozers create more pollution in a day's journey than the entire cattle population creates in a year.

I haven't always been so defensive of cloven hoofed animals. A few short years ago, we roped a steer in need of medical attention. I had the rope looped around my hands when the steer saw the size of the needle pointed at his rump.

That Hereford took off like a scalded cat dragging me, face forward, with the tops of my bib overalls gathering cow pies like a funnel. When I finally got footing and stopped the critter, I looked back to see old Forest Cadwell laughing his fool head off as fresh manure worked its way past my boot tops.

No Birthday Party for Him

Another notch on the cane and still no party with little paper hats or presents or games or cake and ice cream.

It's just as well. All potential gift givers over here are snowed in or snowed out and they know my birthday was in haying season anyway, when they had a good excuse to stay away.

My guests would have boiled down to Skeeter, five cats and three skunks. Not a one could play pin the tail on the donkey or spin the bottle. Shaggy, the gluttonous cat, eats three bites and urps four. That would spoil the round of cake and ice cream.

Mom Jo told us birthday parties ended on the third year. After that the tooth fairy and Santa Claus took care of surprises. We believed her. We believed her even when we were invited to friends' birthday parties in later years. We just figured the honorees were large for their age.

Among my souvenirs, I have a photograph of eight Creede lads at the federal fish hatchery, where Jimmy Mason shared his special day with us. The picture shows Bob Blackburn, Teddy Bucher, Jimmy & Robert Bishop, standing; Bernard Shaw, Wallace Leary, Jack Thompson, David Manning and myself kneeling.

The same 1936 photograph, and the same group of eight, appears elsewhere on this site under "Memories," where the caption identifies it as Jimmy Mason's birthday party.

Jimmy is holding a football, one of the gifts from his parents. By the end of the day, the football had been well christened with blood from the twisted nose of Teddy Bucher. His nose had been altered in a minor disagreement with Bobby Oates prior to this event. Robert Bishop's neatly creased trousers and wool sweater looked like they had lost a battle with a four-strand barbed-wire fence, while Bernard's bow tie lay matted and tangled somewhere along the route of a touchdown.

We knew nothing about football except that it was okay to swear in huddles and anyone crazy enough to carry the ball deserved to be tromped in the turf until only his cowlick showed. Mrs. Mason crossed several names off future rosters for birthday parties that evening.

During a later year, I was invited to a surprise birthday party for my friend Wilson Tabor, who is still living, in a manner of speaking. This was probably the most memorable surprise party of my time, with Wilson providing most of the surprises.

You can picture us in every nook and cranny of the Tabor house, shiny faced teen-agers with a week's earnings invested in gifts we were holding behind our backs, ready to scare the pants off Wilson when he returned from an errand for his mother.

We waited, then we waited some more and some more. Finally hearing her pride and joy as he reached the front porch, Mandy alerted us and opened the door. Before we could yell our surprises and "Happy Birthday" greetings, Wilson stumbled and fell, gathered his legs under him and fell again. Wilson was drunker than a skunk. He had met Byron on his journey and they, in turn, had met a friend of the family who presented Wilson with several bottles of beer to celebrate his 17th birthday.

Mandy kindly fed us cake and ice cream as she planned how best to dispose of his body.

Heinie "Lonesome Joe" Leonard has never had a birthday party. His parents said, "You don't celebrate something you've tried ta forget every day."

Remyssah II, who has just returned from a flyby of the Persian Gulf fracas, tells me Heinie wasn't a product of natural birth.

"He was evolved from the sea and is the only human known to be equipped with gills. That's why they say he drinks like a fish." Remyssah II chuckled after that revelation, so I'm not sure it is the total truth.

On old Lonesome Joe's last physical exam, his doctor recorded that his carcass was 87 percent liquid, of which 84 percent tested 90 proof. We'll have a birthday party for him one of these years and wring him out over the punch bowl. That should give everyone a charge.

Winter Wind, Cold Promotes Odd Bedfellows

The world is becoming smaller and smaller. We just realized how near we are to Lake City when we heard ragtime tunes from a piano with the unmistakable touch of Millie Harmon.

Takes a cloud cover and an easternly wind for the best acoustics. We had both so good, in fact, that we could even hear Hal burp. Hal's timing is a little off but Millie can still make you want to get up and swing a gal in a fox trot.

We recently met a young fellow who came to Gunnison a few years back to work in a lumber yard. It was a blustery, cold day when an old rancher drove in to pick up a few planks. They loaded them on the rancher's truck and headed to the office to record the transaction. A gust of wind blew Bill's cap off and, after retrieving it, he asked the rancher if the wind always blew that way in Gunnison.

"Nope," the old fellow replied, "sometimes it blows t' other way."

Bill cornered another old-timer over a cup of coffee and asked him if he could remember the coldest day he had seen in this frigid region.

The old bird thought for a minute then said, "I reckon that would have been last summer." He laughed. "No, I guess it was around 15 or 20 years ago. I went out to fetch an armload of wood, had to pass the doghouse on my way and our dog, Jake, raised his head to let me know he was still alive.

"He was all scrootched up to one side and there, beside him, lay Carl Stedham's big hound that Jake fought every time they met. I thought it was a little strange. Then the hound shifted one hind leg and I saw another critter, old lady Kelsey's yeller tomcat was curled up atwixt them, snoring away.

"Those dogs hated that tomcat worse 'n a wormin' pill, so I figured it had to be at least 50 below for them to become bed partners."

It hasn't been that cold the past few days but we have had more wind than we could readily handle. The old husky saw something dark moving in the drifting snow and took off like a bullet to catch it. Turned out it was a bundle of hay from early morning feeding. He still hasn't got a toehold for the trip back. If any of Millie's notes cleared Slumgullion Pass today, they will be plastered on the White House Christmas tree by evening.

My old sparring partner decided to have a tree on her rock garden this year. The rock garden is a pyramidal mass of rock, soil, steer manure and dead plants. Getting the tree in position was no major feat but getting it decorated required more acrobatics than we have performed since she caught me and Cathy Lou arm wrestling. We managed to save the lights and electrical extension, but the rest of the shiners are either hung up on fences or the west side of old Jim's house a mile to the east.

"Wild Man" and the Deer Battle

They called him the "wild man" for good reason.

He had survived a tour of duty in Vietnam at the height of hostilities, and his ex-wife had tried to collect on his insurance a couple of times. A knife with a blade much longer than the handle was involved in the second attempt, which prompted Fifi to dissolve the marriage and head West.

We got acquainted at an exploration job in Nevada where he was in charge of locating drill pads for deep holes.

I was at base camp talking with the chief geologist when he suddenly yelled, "Take cover, here comes the wild man."

There was a roar and splashing of mud just before the crash that sent a propane man's utility pickup bouncing forward several feet with a redesigned rear bumper. Fifi vaulted from his truck, checked to see if his own bumper was still intact and cursed a blue streak.

"That bastard knows I always park here."

I was still in shock when Bob answered, "I imagine he'll find a new parking place when he sees his bumper."

Fifi had been presented a brand-new three-quarter-ton four-wheel-drive pickup when he started work. He built a plywood shell for the bed to keep his tools dry and he even washed the vehicle once in warm weather.

But his temperament changed drastically with the onset of winter, so drastically, in fact, he refused to give right of way to a 30-ton bulldozer on frigid, blowing day. He returned to camp with his truck several pounds lighter and the right side exposed to the elements.

It was early January. I had knocked off for the day when the "wild man" bounced from frozen rut to frozen rut, ending in a long slide to near the office trailer.

"Gotta get a cup of coffee then I need to talk to you," he yelled as he scrambled for the door.

When he had dribbled half of it through icicles on his beard he grumbled, "I hit a deer on the way down, broke its neck I think, and I need someone to help me dress it and skin it."

I borrowed a sharp knife from the kitchen and followed Fifi to the truck where there was a noticeable bulge in one side of the plywood topper I hadn't seen before. The bulge seemed to be moving so I asked him if he was sure the deer was dead when he loaded it.

"Dead as a doornail," he assured me and flopped the tailgate down. With the bang of the gate slamming the bumper, all hell broke loose, including one two-year-old female mule deer.

From my prone position, I could see the "wild man" holding an ear and a front leg of the critter just before they tore a hole in a snowbank from which only the deer emerged, making 20 feet to the leap toward the nearest grove of trees.

Backwoods USA & Olio

There are sights, sounds and smells that are indelibly imprinted on the mind as one travels around this great country.

Where else would you see a vacationing family peering from the windows of a motor home as it zips along a high country road, with motorcycles strapped front and rear, pulling a jeep with a motorboat attached? Throw in a lawn mower, a swing set, a dog or two and mother in law, and they could take root anywhere.

* * *

While rambling around the rain soaked backwoods of Oregon, I met a fellow who had improved his acreage with a well-built house, a garage and outer sheds. As we talked, a pit bull that looked like a miniature Sherman tank trotted from between the sheds and approached me to be petted. Not far behind and dragging a 75-pound log chain with weight struggled his mate.

I jokingly asked the fellow if she had ever broken the chain. He laughed and replied, "Well, I usually keep it on old Jake, here, to strengthen his neck and shoulders as well as to keep him at home, but the female is in heat and we want some pups so I had to snap the chain on her collar as Jake can't perform his chores with the chain on his neck." This arrangement apparently kept them both at home.

* * *

Better than Monday night at the movies! While I was watching and listening to insects making contact and being fried in an electronic bug zapper one evening in Canon City, two sparrows swooped in and began hassling each other for the charred remains of the victims hanging on the screen. The winner fished too deep for a morsel and felt the surge of instant power. When last seen it was rubbing its beak in wet grass and wondering where that moth bought his chili peppers.

* * *

For "hanging right in there" in another Colorado town, my vote goes to the inebriated gentleman who angle parked in front of us in a parallel parking zone. He laboriously extricated himself from the car, recognized his error and returned to the steering wheel with his door open to jockey the vehicle to and fro until the right front wheel was well up on the sidewalk.

After falling from the open door as he reached for the handle he saw, from his prone position, that he was still illegally parked, so he crawled back onto the drivers seat and in several minutes of slam-bang maneuvering managed to completely block the sidewalk with the rear half of the old brown Pontiac. Apparently satisfied that his last effort met the parking requirements of the city he staggered from the scene. No, Heinie, it wasn't Shorty.

* * *

Not highly recommended but for instantaneous chilling of the contents of the bowels there is nothing like unwittingly putting a leg by a coiled-up rattlesnake.

While prospecting a mineralized area of much lower elevation than I'm used to, I placed my right foot inches from an ill-tempered diamond back that struck at me twice.

I have been chided since for not collecting his rattles and buttons but I felt that I was the intruder in the case and should he ever enter my domain and wake me from a midday snooze as I did him I would try to scare him as drizzlelessly numb as he had me.

There are benefits to be realized from all mishaps, regardless of how calamitous they may appear at the time. After that encounter, my bride may rest assured that I will never be arrested for indecent exposure. Whatever exposure I may have enjoyed retreated to a safer part of my anatomy at the first strike of the snake and at this writing has not reappeared.

Shorty's Café on the Mount

It makes my mouth water to think of the shrimp Creole and prime rib prepared with the culinary wizardry and hands of Gordon "Shorty" Wheeler.

It was a real treat for us to visit the Rock-a-way during the time Shorty and Peg felt it their duty to extend the waistline of everyone residing in the San Luis Valley. We thought Shorty was the finest chef in the country and it is a darned good thing he was, or Peg would have married someone like myself with a whole list of superb marriage credentials.

Shorty spiced his kitchen duties with many forms of deviltry that brought him one rope short of a hanging. We were exchanging pleasantries one Saturday evening before taking our seats when Vern Rominger, fresh from an up-river plumbing job, dropped into the Rock-a-way.

Shorty spoke to him and asked what he was doing so far from home. Vern replied that he had come for the prime rib.

"Have a chair and a waitress will be right with you," Shorty advised. Vern grinned and said he had come for the prime rib roast Shorty was to prepare for their party that night. Shorty slapped his forehead and moaned, "Good Lord, Vern, I forgot all about it."

He hadn't forgotten and the roast was ready but he put Vern through five minutes of torture as he pictured the reception he would get from his wife when he told her they would have to serve cold cuts.

Shorty's mention of the "Café on the Mount" was no idle chatter or echo of ice cubes settling in three fingers of bourbon. We fully intended to present Creede with a unique dining hall supported by the spires of rhyolite rising from the creek bed just at the north end of Creede proper. We had planned to buy the vacant lots there and rock-bolt a steel trellis that would guide an enclosed elevator up the face of the cliff to our establishment.

Over the years and over many glasses of bronzed ice cubes, we changed the plans to include a brothel and gift shop. To do this we discarded thoughts of an outside elevator. In its place would be an underground shaft with hoist, hoist operator and shaft house which would double as the cafe. Two underground levels (stories) would provide rooms for the brothel and gift shop.

It was a grandiose scheme but somewhere along the line we got sidetracked. Peg and Inez objected, heatedly, to the addition of the brothel and by this time Shorty had decided that he should run the pleasure palace and hire a cook for the café. I was sure such a change in the kitchen would doom the enterprise.

I would love to revive the scheme and I'm sure we would be joined by many far-sighted investors who could see not only a very successful business but a drawing card that would bring people from every country in the world.

I believe our last mental efforts on behalf of the "Café on the Mount" concerned placing of two exits, one labeled "Fast Descent". It would have opened to a gangplank ending several feet from the cliff face for late-night hangers on and troublemakers like Heinie Leonard. However, since Shorty mentioned Heinie as a possible investor we will include him as a member of the crew to handle the elevator hoist should we revive our project.

It is well to mention that our sense of values has changed, along with our conduct, and we will no longer consider a sideline of ill repute. For one thing, neither of us could go along with being called Madame and it would be cruel and inhuman punishment to chain Heinie to the hoist during business hours.

Campaigns & Growing Pains

We appreciated both the kind and unkind words of Editor Steve Haynes in regards to our campaign. One acquires a thick skin in politics and the barbs of editorial writers only tend to spur us on.

In case you haven't noticed, Steve, our bannered wagon has gained more momentum than a turpentined dog on glazed ice over the past two weeks. While I haven't been officially notified that I am a part of this great movement, I have set up temporary "get out the vote" headquarters on Spring Creek and we have been assured we will have a hand crank telephone by early spring to really spread the word.

It is like a chain letter, all you do is spin the crank, wait for eight clicks then give your spiel, the eight clicks become 64 and the word sings around the nation on two little wires.

I am also checking into the legalities of holding a seance so those poor folk who have crossed the river Styx since 1980 will be able to cast an absentee ballot in another presidential election through the voice of a seer. We have chosen Cook County (Illinois) for this experiment due to its excellent record of voting rights for the departed.

I have a list of names to submit for political appointments upon changing of the guard. At the top of the list, in bold type, the honorable Heinie Leonard for Director of Internal Affairs and directly under that, and only slightly less honorable, Gordon "Shorty" Wheeler for Director of External Affairs. Either can substitute for the other in event of illness or absence as their qualifications for sordid affairs, internal or external, stands unequaled.

I should mention that Heinie recently wrote me promising to sue for defamation of character if I ever become wealthy. First off, Mr. Leonard, we have to establish character, which your attorney might find difficult to say the least, however, in order to protect myself, I haven't entered any sweepstakes competition since receipt of your letter and I gave my horde of aluminum cans to the Boy Scouts.

And, on my return home this week, I found a letter from Shorty Wheeler slowly incinerating on the dining room table. Actually it was two letters, one to me personally and one to the editor, impersonally. Shorty chides me, in the letter, about being so young that I am in a bush league in comparison with his age group. Age is relative to the calamities enroute to the grave, I believe, and not to any numerical sequence or year of birth. Due to genetic alteration in an event many, many years ago Shorty and I are practically the same age.

It was a warm summer evening when David Manning and I pranced up the front steps of a home in Del Norte to escort a young lady of diverse talents to a dance at Shaw Springs. Before I could introduce myself to her father the front sight of a .44-caliber revolver was tickling my belly button as he imparted six words of wisdom for our ears only, "Get the hell out of here."

We got the hell out of there, in fact, all the way back to Creede without dancing a fox trot. I credited myself with aging at least ten years in that brief meeting and David deserved five for being in the line of fire. The father, as we learned later, had befriended us in an unorthodox manner. His daughter was receiving treatment for an ailment we were better off without and not contracted from us as he surmised.

From the above account, Mr. Wheeler, you can see that I matured in a short growing season. I have another bone to pick with Shorty. I have frequently boasted of his culinary talents. To others, in both oral and written praise. In thinking back to our visits to his eating establishments I'm not sure I even tasted his kitchen products. After we had been seated by his lovely wife, Shorty would venture out and offer me two fingers of "Old Dangulower" while we waited for the prime rib to reach a stage of perfection in taste and appearance.

This would be followed by two more fingers till we had used up both hands. Then I would be looking at a smeared plate with a bare bone as Shorty asked about the meal and slapped down the bill. I believe the old pirate used the same smeared plate and the same bare bone each visit.

Rifle, Pen Face-Off Suggested

But, columnist has never driven an assault weapon

It is always a letdown to face a new year after the hubbub of the holidays, visits, letters from old friends and phone calls. For the next month, we can expect nothing but bills, income tax forms, the annual bite from the county treasurer and growls from the spouse.

I propose we inject some excitement into this period and promote a duel between Editor Steve Haynes and Dan Dennehy, CPO retired. The purpose of the duel would be to establish, once and for all, if the pen is mightier than the sword, or assault rifle, as the case may be. I once had a fountain pen that could squirt two desk lengths to stain the trousers of Benjamin Massegee. If I can find one of equal velocity, I will loan it to Steve. I also volunteer myself and Charlotte Powell as umpires, referees or whatever can be called those who assure fair play in foul play.

I appreciate Mr. Dennehy's defense of the National Rifle Association and the right of men to bear arms. I am hopeful he will also take up the cause and defend the right of ladies to bare legs or whatever else they wish to bare in this age of equal rights.

I haven't fully digested the letter in which Mr. Dennehy compares the killing power of the automobile to the assault rifle. I haven't driven an assault rifle to the grocery store or the doctor's office or even to the South 40. Truth is, I haven't seen an assault rifle other than in pictures and I understand they use little or no gas. However, I believe they would be most uncomfortable to ride.

When I was a soldier, I was proud as hell of my M1 Garand rifle. The main thing in war or playing war is to make a lot of noise and the Garand makes a helluva lot more noise than the old Springfield bolt action rifle. Some of the military carried that notion into civilian life while others melded into a quieter atmosphere. As long as assault rifles are aimed at paper targets, I guess we shouldn't worry, but a small voice in the back of my mind continues to warn me that assault rifles are designed to eradicate two-legged varmints and not to put meat on the table.

Let us move forward with the duel between Mr. Haynes and Mr. Dennehy and, following that, perhaps the Wildlife Division will hold a couple more post elk hunting seasons to grab our attention and provide continued excitement.

The last post season proved very exciting for Inez and her 7 x 50 binoculars. Just across the valley, Inie could see a cow elk floundering around on the hillside with a figure in blaze orange attire watching its thrashing and making no visible effort to end its misery. By the time I got to the scene, the creature had risen and fallen several times stringing blood and its innards over sagebrush for a hundred yards. I told the hunter to finish it off, then I told him several other things that displeased him enough to unsling his 30-06 rifle and show me that my walking stick carried less firepower. I had three things on my side. I was right, I was a whole lot madder and I had at least 40 years more experience sounding meaner and tougher. We parted not liking each other at all, which wasn't a good way to end 1989, but the cow elk was no longer suffering and the hunter had a better understanding of his ancestry.

A couple of fellows from Creede came to see us, well, nearly came to see us as their pickup had a flat tire just inside our gate. Kenny Hosselkus came trudging to the house as Henry wore out mind and body trying to dislodge the spare tire from its hanger. By the time Kenny and I returned with bolt cutters, chisels and hammers, ol' Henry had it figured out. Henry worked in the mines many years ago and hard rock miners have to use their noodles to get out of tight situations at times. Henry found that when the pickup was raised on a Handyman jack, the tire wasn't flat. He was busy tying the jack to the bumper with his shoelaces and figured they could just slide on home that way. Kenny thought otherwise, as it was his jack and his pickup. They never had such problems when Trent and A.J. were with them, but Trent's knees are still mending and A.J. couldn't remember if he was just going hunting or had just been hunting.

Don't Columnists Know Facts?

To the Editor:

It just seems logical to me that if newspaper columnists decide to do a column on some subject, they would familiarize themselves with their chosen subject, and perhaps even do a little homework, or just a little research on what they are going to say.

Notice that I used the adjective logical, but then that quality may be too much to expect from small town papers which seem to attract writers and editors with small town minds.

I'm referring, of course, to John Jackson's attempt to liven up the beginning of a somewhat dull new year with a little jocularity in his column in the Jan. 11, 1990, issue of The Del Norte Prospector.

Mr. Jackson says he doesn't quite understand one of my letters in which I tried to show that any madman intent of killing someone, anyone, for whatever reason, does not need a so-called assault rifle for the purpose.

If a determined killer wants to kill, he/she can accomplish a task with almost anything including a number 5 Mashie, a chain saw, baseball bat, polo mallet, an automobile with automatic transmission, a compound bow, a 20D nail, Mom's favorite paring knife, Granny's knitting needles and big sister's panty hose, (yes, they make a wonderfully efficient garrote) and the list goes on ad nauseam.

The simple fact that you fail to understand, Mr. Jackson, is that legislating against an inanimate object is sheer folly — an exercise in futility. When will you and the rest of the hoplophobics in this country understand this? You're wrong, Mr. Jackson, I did not compare an automobile to an assault rifle. Read the letter again, maybe my point will come to you this time if you read it very carefully.

You're confused again when you say that you understand that assault rifles "use little or no gas." Well, it seems that you really don't understand at all. Gas is the very thing that causes a semi-auto assault rifle to function, but then you should have remembered that from your soldiering days, shooting your favorite M1 Garand rifle, remember? Gas, Mr. Jackson, Gas.

You're wrong again, Mr. Jackson, when you foolishly state that "the main object in war is to make a lot of noise". No, the main object in war is to destroy your enemy as quickly and efficiently as possible. Read a little of Gen. George S. Patton.

You are consistent, Mr. Jackson, and again wrong when you stated that your beloved M1 Garand "made a helluva lot more noise than the old Springfield 1903-A3 bolt action rifle." I find that statement rather ridiculous since the M1 Garand shoots the exact same round as the Springfield, namely the U.S. 30.06 cartridge, which sounds the same in either rifle. Perhaps you meant the M1 Garand made noise more often due to its semi-auto capability. Sure wish you First Amendment folks would get your facts straight before showing your ignorance in print and giving small town papers a bad name.

In case you've lost sight of the issue, Mr. Jackson, we're talking about the Second Amendment and the right that it gives me to keep and bear arms, even an assault rifle, if I so choose.

No, Mr. Jackson, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but we'll get no duel going between me and editor Steve Haynes. I've said my piece to him, but anytime you care to cross quills, swords, M1 Garands or throw day-old marshmallows, I'm at your service, sir and, of course, the rules of the Code Duello will apply. Choose your weapons, sir.

Dan Dennehy, CPO, USN (Ret.)
Del Norte

Let Us Duel It Out With Ink, Mr. Dennehy

To love our Lord is to love his children. I love you, Mr. Dennehy.

I'm not sure the following is the unvarnished truth, I can't even remember the source, but I was once told that a seaman third class in our U.S. Navy who can't learn to tie his knots is placed beneath the 8-inch guns during firing practice. The concussion depresses his brain to an area where it can be warmed by his socks. Thereafter he gains wisdom from the ground or deck up and becomes, in due time, a chief petty officer. I believe this to be true since I have never known a Naval CPO who could function intelligently with his shoes on. However, they seem to maintain the status quo with caps on or off.

Let us keep our pens loaded and ready to fire at will, Mr. Dennehy, we will fight on the beaches, we will fight on the streets and, yes, we will fight in our homes for we are right and all the rest of those idiots will drown in our ink. I love you, Mr. Dennehy.

And thereby hangs a tale. Jack Thompson, wherever you are, Robert Blackburn and I killed your dog's tail. Okay, I've made a start. With my life in peril, astern and aft, I intend to cleanse my soul with a confession as often as my will power allows. The following will tidy up one smudge.

As tads in Creede, when we couldn't go fishing or badger teachers, we went rabbit hunting or can plinking. One such day, Bob Blackburn and I hitched a ride with Walter Waldo to the dump grounds to work the bushes in the draw above for cottontail rabbits. The Thompson dog liked Bob and he liked to hunt, so he followed us, dodging in and out of the dust churned up by Walter's old pickup. We threw everything loose in the bed at the galloping dog except Walter's screw jack and the lug wrench, but the collie-Heinz mix was bent on helping us in our day's adventures.

In rabbit hunting, we were taught to flush them, wait 'til they stopped, then make a clean head shot. Jack's dog had been taught to flush them and make sure they never stopped.

After a frustrating hour of cursing and rocking old Rufus, Bob decided to dust him with a close rear-end shot. Bob used hollow-point long rifle shells that cost 15 cents a box while I opted for the ten cents a box longs. The difference became evident when Bob pulled the trigger.

Instead of raising a plume of dust with rock chips to sting his fanny, the slug hit old Rufus' tail a full ten inches from the end. That section of tail wilted like a frosted spring flower and refused to wag again. Old Rufus jumped a foot or two and looked at Bob as much as to say, "Is this part of the game?" From time to time he would look back at the drooping appendage and try to restore life or at least receive some assurance the flag would fly again. It was not to be.

A few weeks after our hunt, the lifeless end dropped off and Rufus accepted his new role as a bobtail. I remember that Jack and Mrs. Thompson thought Rufus must have come out on the short end of a quarrel with one of the more belligerent dogs in the neighborhood. Bob and I were willing to accept this solution.

Dennehy Breaks His Low Profile

Dennehy writes again without a headline of his own in the original — an editorial title, same liberty taken with the untitled chapter groupings.

To the Editor:

Well, it seems as though you folks have missed me and my letters over the past several months, during which time I've been relatively quiet, keeping a rather low profile.

It seems as though John Jackson just couldn't let a "sleeping dog lie." I'm really flattered, J.J., to think that you came right out in print declaring your love for me (blush, blush).

That kinda gives me a guilt complex because as a "good Christian", I should also love you too, but I don't think I do. Hell, man, I'm not even sure that I like you very much! However, that could change in the future should we ever meet, because I have it on good authority (through the grapevine) that you're one of the "good ol' boys".

Got a chuckle out of your story about the P.O. 3rd growing up to become a CPO and there just may be some truth in it. Not much, but some.

Who knows, J.J., but you and I might have served together in the U.S. Army but for a quirk of fate. When I tried to enlist in your Army in 1940, I passed all tests and requirements with high grades and no problems and I thought I was "in". But somehow they found out that my parents were married, and I was promptly rejected! Hence, the Army's loss was the Navy's gain.

Keep up the good work, J.J., I enjoy your column.

Dan Dennehy
Del Norte

This Soldier Says Navy Men Are All Wet

"Oh...if I could be a sailor and sail the seven seas"
I would eat no more bananas or climb these bleeping trees.

Foul! Foul! Mr. Dennehy swung from the branches of my family tree with one of our worst-kept secrets and now the world will know that I nestled and nurtured at the end of the umbilical cord without benefit of clergy or justice of the peace approval.

As I was ranting and raving, alternately shouting blasphemies toward the sky and tearing letters to the editor into smaller and smaller pieces, Inez suggested, "Why don't you rise above this and turn the other cheek to Mr. Dennehy?"

I replied, "Yeah, and then they'd get me for indecent exposure."

Batten down the mizzenmast and leeward point the bow
We'll run aground near Puget Sound and sleep with Murpity's cow.

Where are my reserves? Where are all my old Army buddies? I have been under siege for over six months and nary a one has ventured from his foxhole to defend me.

Loyd "Bo" Roberts who served his 20 in Big Red 1 crawled so far in his hole Cleta had to feed him through a garden hose. Everette Wyatt, a former paratrooper, offered help then got tangled up in his cane and sprained his back. Jackie says he still plans a forced march from Missouri with full battle gear consisting of a camper trailer, two cases of Geritol and half a parachute. He left the other half wrapped around a female prisoner in 1945. With so few of us left, it seems we could band together and drive the enemy off with our smell if nothing else.

And so I joined the Navy, I've sailed on every sea
I blew my pay in old Bombay, and my brain in Tripoli.

I beg for a truce, Mr. Dennehy. I am too old to fight, too crippled to run and you have bested me fair and square with pen and wit. I would like to turn you over to Brodie Farquhar, who has just cut a swath through city council and county commission. However, there may be a conflict of interest as we once had a Naval vessel, USS Farquhar, on which hometown boy Gerald MacCaulley served in World War II, which you would no doubt turn to your advantage.

I've braved the North Atlantic, I've seen Australia's shore
They threw me down in East Capetown
and I went right back for more

With that fearful burden behind us, we can return to what we do worst. The letter from Elizabeth Conour reminded me of an evening many years ago when pending litigation placed me and Dad Bill in Judge Richard's and Attorney Betty's home.

A large cat jumped on the sofa and curled up behind my head. I asked Betty if she had a bassinet in readiness as it looked like the cat would soon be in production. Betty informed me the cat was a neutered male and she was quite certain it wouldn't give birth.

See Dan, even then I was always sticking my foot in my mouth. Best wishes Judge and Betty, we appreciate all you did for us. Is there a chance we could shackle Mr. Dennehy with a peace bond or cease and re-enlist writ?

I've trod the decks of battleships in weather fair and foul
I served my time in the crow's nest, ejected from its bowel.
Old sailors never leave us, my Grandma used to say
They turn into landlubbers and bray and bray and bray.

Can You Get Charge Out of Bed?

Go ahead, sneer, grin, tell the world that he's finally lost all his marbles; it's true. The body is made up of electrically charged atoms with positive and negative attitudes. When the body is standing, working or playing, the ions are doing their part and at the same time slowly losing charge. When the body is prone, at rest, the atoms have to be recharged. It's as simple as that. To recharge, the body has to be in a north-south position and that means the bed has to be in a north-south position.

I believe my old partner knew this all along and has kept our beds in east-west positions to keep me overwrought and undercharged. I should have known years ago on far-off exploration jobs when I felt like I had discovered the fountain of youth after a restful night. Motels have their beds running north-south. That must be why so many businessmen, television evangelists, newspaper editors, etc., take their secretaries to motels. The correct charge means everything in all endeavors.

Last week, when it was too cold to bend nails, we rearranged furniture, mainly the bedroom. When the smoke cleared and nothing was back to normal, the old four-poster was magnetically north-south.

The first night I could actually feel the direct current straightening out all the twists and crooks in my ions. From head to toe, I had this strange sensation that each cell was being rejuvenated. For the past few days, I have been a regular ball of fire on the walks around the South 40. On Tuesday, Skeeter and I ran a jackrabbit 'til his tail wilted and he couldn't hold his ears up. Wednesday was a different story, but one shouldn't expect to get all his ampere hours back in a couple of nights.

I advise all you readers to borrow a compass and line those beds up, even if it means turning the house on its foundation. Inez has been so charged up, she glows in the dark. The old dog saw her going to the bathroom last night and howled for an hour as the air crackled with static.

With all my ions in order and charged, I must answer Mr. Dennehy's letter in the Jan. 24 issue of our paper. You are absolutely right, Mr. Dennehy. My wife agrees with you on nearly every point you so carefully made and in over 40 years of our association, I have never found her wrong. She read your letter, carefully, as I went through accumulated mail and I could hear her chuckling and whispering, "Good for you, Dan. Right on target. Rah, rah, rah."

I try to make it a practice to never argue with a person of superior intelligence or one who disagrees with me. You win on both counts, Mr. Dennehy.

However, to clear the air, let me state that I am not a gun control advocate nor have I ever favored gun control. Our founding fathers assured us the right to keep and bear arms, "for the common defense."

I would resist, with every breath in me, anyone trying to deprive me of the means to defend my home or my nation. I doubt that the founding fathers had the slightest inkling that firearms would evolve to the present form of death dealers and I am sure they would have made provisions had they envisioned such weapons. I believe the key words to remember are "for the common defense."

I have lived a fairly active and precarious existence with a normal amount of confrontations that spilled blood and caused hard feelings. We have lived in large and small communities as well as rural areas. In all that time and in all those places, I have never been in a situation where I felt an automatic or even semi-automatic weapon would have provided any more security than a small caliber handgun or rifle.

I respect your feelings with regard to firearms, Mr. Dennehy, but I don't agree with them. I would rather see automatic weapons in the hands of the military and protective agencies with men and women of stable minds who have the training and ability to use such weapons reliably in life-threatening situations. The trouble with assault rifles or other automatic slug throwers, as I see it in my ignorance, is there is far more chance of many bodies littering the turf, as well as the intended victim, if handled by a deranged mind.

I am sure that more is expected of me in defense of my ignorance, but you must remember I stuck my neck out a few weeks ago and it was returned considerably shortened. I was even labeled a hoplophobic, which really pricks a tender skin, especially since I haven't the foggiest notion what constitutes a hoplophobic.

I beg you not to blame Editor Haynes for my ravings. Steve was placed in an untenable position when his wife, Cynthia, offered a recipe for red snapper that caught my wife's eye. One serving grew hair on the plastic dishes and removed my toenails completely. I threatened to sue for a large sum or be placed on the staff of their newspaper.

In view of that, rather than a hoplophobic, I probably should be labeled "illegitimate", a bastard, if you will.

Now, sir, I accept your challenge to a duel. Since I have the choice of weapons, day-old marshmallows thrown from ten paces sound logical for the likes of an old Swab jockey and an even older Doughfoot.

'Gas' Pollutes Social Gatherings

The first time I saw the word "flatulence" I thought it was a condition a young lady could cure with a padded B cup. The word is being used more and more since scientists theorize global warming in pre-historic times may have been caused by flatulence in dinosaurs.

According to an article I just read in a magazine, flatulence results from partially digested food reaching the colon from the digestive tract wherein it ferments, producing volatile gas which must be expelled in one of two directions with all the control one can muster in social gatherings.

The dictionary we use describes both flatulence and flatus. I like flatus as it is easier to spell and is described thus: "a puff of wind, gases generated in the stomach or bowels." No room for error there.

I realize this isn't your usual topic for publication, but we are all afflicted with flatus, some more so than others, and I found the article interesting.

Beans are listed as one of the most flatus-producing foods. It is suggested that beans be allowed to soak in cold water for an hour or so, the water then poured off. Boil the beans in water for another hour and again pour the liquid off before final cooking. Since water is not saved, it would appear it is the culprit and not the beans.

Old Lonesome Joe Leonard will seize on this information to bolster his argument that water is the root of all evil. Lonesome Joe accidentally took a drink of water years ago and went into immediate shock. It took three jolts of 1800-volt direct current to restore pulse and he didn't breathe for 30 minutes after the first heartbeat.

I once worked on a road crew where the foreman had stomach problems. He was constantly taking soda in water followed by belches of tremendous pressure that fogged the windshield of the old truck he drove. He was sorely plagued one day and was driving us to town where he would find relief. I would return to the gravel pit with the truck.

Somewhere around Wason Ranch, his colon overextended and he ripped forth a flatus that most surely parted the seam on his trousers. This ripe fermentation was more than flesh and blood could handle. Cold as it was, I wound my window down and posed like a hood ornament for the rest of the trip.

During an exploration job in the Gunnison area, two companions partook of an evening meal in a Mexican restaurant. They had good appetites, and both had the combination plate which included bean burritos as well as refried beans. The next day, Bob and Dave were in a Ford Bronco, followed by me and a female geologist in a pickup. Hardly a mile went by that one or the other didn't have a window down with head protruding. Anne asked me what they thought they were doing. We were in a canyon of pre-Cambrian rock, so I told her they were looking for contacts with more recent rocks.

"Can they honestly tell the difference traveling that fast?" she asked.

I assured her they could.

She exclaimed, "Gee, it must take an awfully long time to become a real geologist."

I wanted to tell her, "Only as long as it takes burritos to pass to the colon."

I was debating a run to the stool one night when I saw the covers ripple and caught the first draft of potent flatus. I knew my bride had violated our air space. I was holding the quilts as tight to my neck as possible when she awoke with a start.

She turned to me and screamed, "Oh, ohhh, that is awful. How can you stand to lay there in that awful smell?"

Then, even more indignant, "If you ever do that again, I'll go sleep on the couch."

Health Alarms Don't Ring This Miner's Bell

With triglycerides steaming on my dish
and more stacked high on shelves,
I raise my voice for one last wish
"Dear Lord, protect us from ourselves."

My first year in high school, a classmate enrolled in chemistry stole enough mercury to pass samples to his best friends. What a time we had with it. We made silver pennies by holding a globule in the palm of one hand and rubbing the coppers vigorously in the mercury with two fingers of the other hand. We rolled the magic liquid down the creases between our fingers, and we lost small droplets on our trousers and on the floor. I kept my treasure in an ink bottle for a year or more.

There is a canyon near our Cebolla home where tributaries of a creek pass over mineral-laden fault fissures that both cross and follow their paths. These streams constantly grind at the quartz to loosen grains of ores and transport them to regions of less gradient.

A creek, further to the west, that joins the other north-trending stream, has washed into mine tailings assaying anomalous in arsenic, mercury, lead, zinc, pyrite and copper. From the tailings dump, the waters meander into a beautiful meadow with lush grass and beaver ponds nourishing brook trout in a high elevation environment.

We camped here many times, drank and bathed in the waters and caught tasty trout both above and below the tailings dump and veins outcropping under water.

Over the course of 40 years working in and around mines, I was exposed to asbestos in various forms. It covered pipes into and from steam boilers. We used it as protection from fire around wood and coal heaters and we used it as insulation around plumbing in our homes. During this period, we mined lead in oxide, carbonate and sulfide deposits.

We ate underground where there was nearly always a dusty haze of minerals from blasting and passing bulk ores through draw chutes. The dust was on our hands and filtered onto our sandwiches and open coffee containers.

Carpenters weatherproofed the roofs of most of the business buildings in Creede with hot tar. Cold tar was shipped by rail in wooden kegs. As youngsters, we bummed small cubes of this hard substance to chew as one would chew gum. We liked the odd taste and always carried a plug on our hiking and fishing trips.

I drink too much. Less than in previous years, but I'm told it is more than the recommended daily allowance.

I eat fat. I like crisp fried fat of pork chops and I would rather have a meal of pork side, eggs and fried potatoes than any offering on a French menu.

From what we read and hear, my body should be loaded with all manner of carcinogens. My vascular system should be plugged with cholesterol, my lungs stitched with asbestos fibers and every cell bulging with toxic minerals.

Rarely a week goes by that some egghead doesn't push the panic button warning us of a new and deadly threat to our health. This is known as control by fear.

To hell with them. If we live only for the next crisis, we will become a nation of neurotics. I may die tomorrow, but I'm sure it won't be from a diet of fear fed us by bearded alarmists with an alphabet of degrees after their names, intent on perpetuating their own high-paying jobs.

All Fabled Out

A consulting geologist based in Denver, Dave Jonson, reads the Mineral County Miner and South Fork Times as frequently as possible. We have been acquainted for several years and by chance our paths crossed while looking over mining property. During our visit Dave asked me, forthrightly, if the stories I write for the M&T are factual or if I take a few liberties with the truth. I was quite taken aback by this questioning. Never before has anyone openly doubted my veracity other than my family, friends or strangers.

For those of you who have the same reservations about my stories and don't wish to offend me by asking about them, I want to assure you, I would lie only for monetary gain, to save my own neck or to impress someone.

I have been a student of prevarication for many years and have only two quarters to complete to receive my degree as an accomplished liar. The remaining two quarters are to be spent in on the job training as a politician and I have been advised that if I choose to politic with the present administration only one quarter will be required due to the administration's proficiency in maintaining its level of prevarication in balance with the rate of inflation.

I remember a time, many years ago, when Frank Davis and I took a day off from our laboring to help lay an old friend to rest. After the services we joined others at a local bar to reminisce about Bernie as he would wish to be remembered.

In the twinkling of an eye, so to speak, a day and night vanished before our eyes and I had failed to let my dear wife know I would be detained. After delivering Frank to his home I began fabricating a story that would be both plausible and acceptable to Inez. I discarded the first four or five before gathering up the loose ends of a story even Mom Jo would believe and shed a tear over.

I rehearsed the story over and over as I took a circuitous route home. I was prepared for any eventuality and wasn't at all detracted by the sight of my loved one as I stepped through the front door to face her standing with arms folded, last evenings meal resting cold on the kitchen table, and fire in her eyes that had been building over the last twenty-four hours to a temperature that could melt the strongest steel.

I cautioned her to please hear me out as I began relating my story and restored the limp in my right leg I had forgotten for two steps. I told her how, after the services for Bernie, Frank and I had decided to go to Rat Creek to gather samples for assaying from the Cowboy Johnson mine. We had only recently leased the property and such a procedure was well within reason. I continued the story with the condition of the road and how in fording the creek we had mired the pickup to the running boards in mud. Frank had started walking out for help as I tried to jack the vehicle from its predicament. I stopped to catch my breath and assess the affect that portion of the story was producing.

With only the first scene reenacted I could see seeds of disbelief sprouting between tongues of flame in her eyes. I frantically added more and more to the tale until I found I couldn't believe it myself, and clamped my tongue between my teeth hoping the execution would be swift and sure.

To show you how far I have advanced and how well deserving of a degree in the Art of Prevarication soon to be bestowed upon me, last week I told Inez an absolutely true story of meeting a scantily clad female geologist on a mountain top, of discoursing on many subjects with her and what a treat it was to meet a lovely young lady after encounters with male geologists of every disposition.

Inie looked me in the eye and told me she didn't believe a word of it. In her words, "You always lick your lips and move your thumbs up and down when you lie to me."

Men Face Harassment, Too

Man is the root of all evil! Man has polluted his lakes, his streams, his wells. Man has injured the ozone layer and befouled the air he breathes. Man harasses woman in the work place with foul language and unwanted caresses.

That's right; your sisters, your mothers, your aunts, your grandmothers have all suffered from the leering eyes and sexual undertones of man, not to mention the patting and fondling so humiliating to the weaker sex over the years.

Spoke silver-maned Teddy, primed, cocked and ready,
As Judge Thomas raised his right hand,
"These rituals I loathe, but you must take an oath
Before we can castrate and brand."

I'm tired of man being the whipping boy for all our ills and imagined ills. I'm tired of the double standard.

Have you ever read or witnessed that woman, who is an equal partner in this scheme of life, had anything to do with the sorry state of our world?

I see women driving the same cars as men; I see women smoking the same tobacco as men; I see women enjoying every utility and convenience supposedly ruining our planet as men, but nowhere do I see or read of women offering to share a smidgen of blame.

Said little Ms. Hill, called to Capitol Hill,
"I'm sure I've been grossly mishandled.
Imagine my fright when exposed to his might
Why...I felt like an egg being candled."

Gentlemen, be honest, have you ever been harassed by a woman in the workplace? You're darned right we have been harassed, both sexually and downright cussedness.

We were blessed with the smell of Chanelle No. 5 and underarm deodorant in my workplace in the late '70s when colleges welcomed females in geology and engineering courses and progressive firms were required to hire them in the guise of equal opportunity.

I was not pleased. I was not at all pleased.

Have you ever tried to run a grid line or gather rock samples with a woman suffering the symptoms of Pre-Menstrual Syndrome? Have you ever waited upwards of two hours at the work site while your female partner drove back to the motel to retrieve chap stick, suntan lotion and birth control pills she had forgotten in her rush sorting tools and notions?

In lurid testimony, some factual, some phony.
A lesson we surely have learned.
Man can have his desserts, he can keep chasing skirts
But beware of the woman spurned and...
Don't touch the women that's in 'em

Thundermug John Returns to Bosom of His Family

I returned from rock breaking to find our old tomcat looking like I felt, his back as narrow as his mistress's mind and a dullness to his eyes suggesting the fall worming was due and payable. While on the Cebolla, he had tried valiantly to reduce the population of mice, moles and shrews. This whole-meat diet with a little fur thrown in always sets his intestines to wriggling with strength-sapping visitors.

I was ailing, too, but I received no pity from the residents at 1109 Ridge Street. I have a whole family of ingrown toenails along with a row of turned-under toes from wearing size 7-B jogging shoes that Inez found under my bed in a Nevada apartment. With Inez, I usually get ten seconds for explanation and no rebuttal, but I was able to convince her that even great football players wear pantyhose. The items had been left by the last occupant, but it was easier to wear them than try for depositions or a hole between my eyes.

So, we are a family again with all the latitude and loving atmosphere of four types of hunting dogs in the same kennel. Paul thinks I want to violate his daughter. Mary thinks I want to violate Paul, and Inez thinks I left all my violations in Nevada. In truth, and in spite of her suspicions and actual behavioral observations during the '40s, Mary likes me and we have a sound, mutually respectful relationship as long as I don't interrupt her soapies. Paul likes me as long as I'm out of state and traveling further. Inez likes me as long as I keep the double indemnity policy in force and my seat belt unbuckled.

It is good to be back. Waiting, unopened, was a long letter from Heinie "Adorable Jones" Leonard. You should all remember Heinie. He was as poor as a church mouse until he started managing my presidential campaign. I didn't realize his true worth until I reported campaign expenditures and found campaign managers rank with quarterbacks in salaries. All that and we even failed to carry the Powderhorn Valley, where women's lib is unheard of and Jesse failed to appear. Heinie's letters ramble from sentence to sentence with little amber circles between where elixir glasses have rested. Vivi had a postscript mentioning how good Heinie is doing — he made it twice to the bathroom on his own, he piddles in bed and falls asleep on the stool.

And I read in The Mineral County Miner where old "As Time Goes By" Shorty Wheeler had his nose rubbed in it for a slipshod memory in the same letter that my nose was used to clean up the splatters. That will teach us to write of anything that happened day before yesterday when we can't even remember if yesterday was last week or the week before that. My only consolation was I wrote of a purported incident 64 years ago, so now we know Charlotte's age. I suspect Shorty has prizefighter's syndrome, memory lapses due to Peg wrinklin' his skull bone from time to time.

Our annual letter from Loraine Wills is past due. Inez looks forward to these missives as they are full of advice on how to harass your husband and maintain total control of the household. She and Inez didn't know what a shoe looked like before they came to Colorado but they have been trying to fill Billy's and mine ever since. Inez keeps badgering me to get a hearing aid but Billy taught me years ago how to adjust my ears to mute unpleasant sounds.

Brother Joe even found time to drop us a line. Joe was a member of "The Forgotten Battalion" of Guadalcanal to Iwo Jima island hopping in War II and still likes to be forgotten for years at a time, especially by creditors. As growing tads, when relatives would ask our ages Joe would rattle off our respective years then add, "and we would be older but we were sick a lot when we were babies."

After puzzling that exchange out, they rarely asked any more questions. Joe liked to walk up to Grandma Fry and mouth words without making a sound. It startled her as she was hard of hearing anyway and thought her hearing had totally gone.

Joe has his problems. Some old gal caught him between her front bumper and his rear bumper at a gas station and made him grow several inches. She had presence of mind to shift into reverse and back off, then panicked and rammed him again. Joe likes being six feet tall, but his knees don't articulate as well as before.