"Get Grandpa Off The Thunder Mug": Chapter VI

Old Dave Skins a Cat Backwards

One of the best things about living where your nearest neighbor is far enough away you can't throw rocks at each other is you can pull darn fool stunts and no one is likely to find out about them unless your wife lets her tongue run away with itself or you get drunk and blabber to a friend.

We have a neighbor, Jim Goodjion, also retired, who loves horses, good liquor, and needling the ladies. All three categories cause him problems which we solve together over a drink or two on occasion.

We were rattling the ice cubes in our drinks one visit when Jim says, "You know old Dave, down the way, don't you?" I nodded and he went on, "My wife picked up Old Dave's wife the other day to do some shopping in town...seemed like they had no more than left when Old Dave called me and wanted to know if I could come down and fix the stopper on their stool...damn thing wouldn't shut off and it worried him...I told him, hell Dave, you can fix it, just take the top off the water closet and bend that little rod down so the float rides lower...he tells me he can't do a thing mechanical and would rather I take a look at it. So I get in my pickup and head down wondering how city folk survive if they can't fix a little thing like a a float in a water closet.

"I pull in at their house and he's waiting for me...shows me in and I get right to it 'cause I gotta get back and pull a shoe off a horse...takes me a couple of minutes to get it adjusted just right and he invites me to their mobile home for a drink...keeps a bottle there for our visits."

"He pours us a hefty one and we're sitting at a little table as he pulls the curtain aside to his left, raises his eyebrows and says to no one in particular, 'Ha, there you are, you black devil, just come a little closer.' I'm sitting there wondering who in hell he's talking to when I see this black cat crossing the driveway...all of a sudden Old Dave jumps up, pulls a .12 gauge shotgun from a closet behind him and pumps a shell in the chamber...I'm trying to sort all this out in my mind when he pushes the screen door open with his left foot, aims and pulls the trigger...that black tomcat turned two cartwheels and stretched out without a quiver when that load of shot reached him."

"So, here I am, nearly deafened by the blast, thinking it all must be a bad dream. I've seen old Dave live trap mice and carry them across the creek to turn them loose and here he's just blown a housecat to smithereens."

"I down my drink...he says I can't fly with one wing and pours me another...followed by another to chase the first two...by this time I'm figuring I'd better head home while I can still navigate. Old Dave is already on his way to pick up the remains of the cat when our wives drive in and skid to a stop so's not to hit him...I'm just clearing the door when my boot hooks on something and I fall flat on my face...I'm laying there, flat as a fritter, trying to work my boot out of that damned metal step when my wife walks up and says... "My, my, aren't we a pretty sight, I knew you'd be drunk before I was halfway to town.' Hell, John, there are some things you just can't explain to a woman."

The last quotation in this story opens with a double quotation mark and closes with a single one, kept exactly as printed. Jim Goodjion appears, with the same trait of needling in mind, in "Echoes from the Thundermug," in "Hopeful Wife Can Be Trying." "Old Dave" is given no surname and is not otherwise identified on this site.

Cold Goose and Warm Chickens

Ed Mahoney was on his way back to his farm adjoining the George Perlmutter place. As he turned into the lane that separates the farms he saw George dumping a dishpan off a bank behind their house so he stopped to visit a few minutes.

They sat on the back porch, George set the pan off to one side and wiped his hands on his overalls.

"You must have had a tough day George, you look plumb tuckered out."

"I am tired, Ed, me and the missus plucked and dressed 23 chickens today."

"Holy mackerel, that's a lot of chickens, did they quit layin' on you?"

"Well," George answered, "in a manner of speakin' they quit laying all of a sudden."

"Last night, I was sittin' on the john in my long handles with the flap down, when I heard a ruckus in the chicken coop...I got my shotgun and headed out there...old Rex never hunts anymore, but he saw me pick up the gun...thought he ought to go along and came paddin' behind me.., we come to the barn and I stepped inside...stopped to get my eyes adjusted 'cause we only had a little moonlight...old Rex couldn't see neither, but he didn't stop...ran his head right past the flap. Well, Ed, I hadn't been goosed by the cold nose of a dog before and it scared the hell out of me, the first barrel cleared the top roost and the second barrel got half the chickens on the next one."

Ed Mahoney of Lee's Summit, Missouri, tells stories in "Echoes from the Thundermug" as well, in "Getting Ahead Can Be Golden"; whether it is the same Ed Mahoney as this story's is not confirmed. George Perlmutter is named only here.

Returning to the Fold

I was helping Forest Cadwell with a group of hunters in the mid 1960s for a break from mining silver ore. We were in elk country and one of the gentlemen was having some problems walking, at times he appeared to be in considerable pain. His companions kidded him about his ailment, one of them asked him if he had passed any stitches that day and laughed.

We were resting and eating lunch on an open hillside. Cal was sitting to the left of Forest and said, "I might as well tell you fellows about my accident before my friends get the story all out of proportion. My wife and I live in the country and we have some livestock as well as chickens, just about what the two of us can handle...Dora woke me one night, back in September, and said the chickens were raising a fuss so I put my pants on over my pajamas, grabbed a flashlight and my .22 caliber pistol and went out to check on them. When I got to the coop I stuck the pistol in my pants by the buckle so I could open the door...I shined the light around and a skunk was just going out the far end...I started to pull the pistol out and the darned think discharged...shot me right in the penis."

"How many times did it go off, Cal?"

"It just went off once."

"How many wounds did you get, Cal?" the same man asked.

"I had two entry wounds and two exit wounds in my penis and one hole in my left thigh where the bullet lodged. I know what Tom's getting at, but it wasn't all that extraordinary, when I put my pants on over my pajamas it sort of...you know...folded things up a little."

Cal and Dora are given no surname and are not otherwise identified on this site.

Please Moo Before You Drop In

Ranchers are slow to adapt to urban conveniences. They aren't stubborn, it's just that when you are brought up in an environment where a little baling wire, a pair of pliers and a daub of grease will keep the wheels turning they aren't anxious to get involved in anything like plumbing or propane stoves.

Bathrooms, however, did come to the Cebolla Creek area due to the urging of housewives and tourists. Owners of a ranch at the junction of Spring and Cebolla Creeks had a bathroom installed for the caretakers. This was the era of cesspools and grease traps before we learned that septic tanks were safer and less polluting than a rocked up hole in the ground with a wooden deck over it.

John Martin was enjoying his morning constitutional on one of the new-fangled china stools with a week old newspaper in his hands when one of his cows grazed upstream and crossed their backyard headed for green shoots by a fence. Her route took her directly over the cesspool and a dirt covered platform that hadn't been designed for a cow-path.

A thousand pounds of potential beef patties disappeared in one grand "whoosh" accompanied by an equal amount of dirt and broken boards. The sudden overloading of the cesspool caused a reverse flush that nearly lifted John from the john.

There he sat, his outdated evening edition well splattered and water dripping from unmentionables, wondering if the Russians had just dropped a bomb on us or Earth's rotation had suddenly changed directions.

This John Martin is the same rancher named in John Jackson's memoir "Please Go to Hell," a neighbor southwest of the Jacksons' place on Cebolla Creek; this book places his ranch at "the junction of Spring and Cebolla Creeks," consistent with that location. Identified per family knowledge as the only John Martin John knew.

Hold It's Tail and It Won't Spray

John Martin rarely lacks for excitement. One early winter morning he was throwing bales of hay on a vehicle for transport to hungry cattle. He plucked one from the bottom row with a gap behind that had served to shelter a full grown skunk. The skunk didn't like begin aroused at that hour, raised it's tail, and gave John a high pressure charge from his knees to his boot tops.

There's not a helluva lot one can do in a situation of that making except set the bale down and hope the skunk's reservoir is empty. John removed his trousers and socks, pulled his boots back on and went to the house where he told his wife, Bobbie, "I was in such a hurry this morning I forgot my belt." She looked at his bare legs and replied, "Yes, I believe you did, your belt and a little bit more." Then the smell reached her nostrils and she gave him a wide berth.

"Begin aroused" is printed as shown, for "being aroused."

The Golden Years

I have reached the age where the only thing that works on me is prune juice and the only excitement in the boudoir of recent times was last December 17th when the electric blanket shorted out.

Inez is concerned about my bowel habits. Sort of like she was training a two year old to use a potty. She worries more in the summer when the weather is kind enough to warm a weathered old biffy by a cabin to the west. On such days I like to prop the door open and let nature take it's course. The old dog understands and waits patiently in the shade of aspen trees by the cabin. My memory serves me well on those occasions in the company of a Sears & Roebuck catalog in a far corner and a roll of Charmin under a two pound Hills Brothers coffee can a little closer. I'm not sure if it is the rough seat or the odor that triggers the recollections, but when I'm on the throne I can recall names and faces from earliest childhood. I might stop there several days in succession and if that happens I can be sure there will be a bowl of stewed prunes on the table or a large glass of prune juice by my cereal.

I would guess constipation has been one of the main worries of Mothers since time began. At our home the tension started when Mom Jo hid the potty and we were directed to the outdoor privy, 50 yards to the north and downwind. If we got cranky our heads were tipped back and a healthy slurp of castor oil was streaking down our throats before we could mount a protest. A large family lived just off the mesa hill at that time. One of the youngest, Harry, had a deep raspy voice. He had been born with it, but his Mother was worn to a frazzle and she sometimes forgot. Little Harry would come in and give a deep throated order for a slice of bread and jam, he didn't mean to sound out of sorts, but if Lizzy was caught up in the washing or scrubbing floors she would pinch his nose with one hand and slop a tablespoonful of castor oil behind his tongue with the other before she thought. Harry made so many fast trips to the biffy his little friends called him "Bullet."

We did pretty well when Aunt Claudia visited. She was broad across the beam and never missed her early morning constitutional. When we heard the spring loaded door slam and could see her waddling back up the path we would line ourselves up like a relay team to hit the seat while it was still warm. The only other time our Mother felt at ease was when she had a crock of minced meat aging behind the kitchen stove for filled cookies and minced meat pies. No meat was wasted during the depression with necks of deer favored to strip and grind then mixed with fruit and raisins for the brew in the crock. The meat from the neck of a rutting buck deer was faster acting than castor oil. Just the fumes would start a roiling in the stomach. A vigilant game warden could easily tell who was borrowing deer in late November and early December by checking the ice in Willow Creek under the rows of biffies.

Caption, in full: "'Aunt Claudia' The Bench Warmer. The dear lady above provided one of the few comforts for our family in 1930. Her ample posterior warmed the seat of our outdoor john when temperatures dipped to 40° below zero making the early morning run less harsh on little shavers." "Aunt Claudia" is not otherwise identified on this site.

At my age constipation is the least of my worries, but the first thing my bride and consultant asks when she gets up in the morning is, "Did the prune juice work?" She should be darned glad it didn't because I never move from the swivel chair by the bay window until I've finished my first cup of coffee and I've never completed that blissful 20 minutes before she drags herself to the living room. One of these days, when she questions me, I'm going to answer, "Sure did, can't you smell it?"

In summary, I guess the golden years aren't that much different from our late teens. Now, we really do have all the answers, but we can't remember the questions. When I was seventeen years of age I wasted alot of time trying to teach my Dad a few important things about life. He was more patient and agreeable than a drill sergeant who took over when I was 18 years old. Every time I tried to teach the sergeant something he made me double-time it around the parade grounds with a full field pack and rifle. Either he didn't want to learn or I was using the wrong approach. Later on we had a platoon sergeant from New York who lined us up and barked, "There are t'ree t'ings I'm gonna learn youse before I'm t'rough witcha today, an' payin' attention is both of 'em." I think I should have spent a little more time with him.

What we never forget, in the golden years, is the many mistakes we made along the path of life. Some of the mistakes return to haunt us each day and remind us we should never get too smug with ourselves or ever feel we have reached a plateau where the wind is at our backs and we can unfurl our sails for a smooth journey. We get no free rides.

What we remember, in the golden years, is that pain teaches fear and fear teaches respect. If a small child touches a hot stove he senses pain. The pain will last long enough to teach the child to not touch the stove again. That is healthy fear. He will respect the stove for bringing warmth to the kitchen and warm bread from it's oven, but he will also remember that it can bring pain. I worry that healthy fear is no longer a vital part of education, either at home or at school. I deserved the pain of every lesson from childhood to this day and the educators I respected the most were those who weren't afraid to generate fear to bring out the best in us. A child's psyche is not as tender as the liberal element would have us believe.

Caption, in full: "1930s Entrepreneurs. Mr. and Mrs. Steve North arrived in Creede with a background of hard word and dedication to family and country. They built a little service station boasting one of the first electrically operated gas pumps from Phillips '66'. They added a line of groceries and rental cabins that afforded them a comfortable living after the initial backbreaking start, but Steve could always be seen at the south end repairing a tire or fetching a quart of oil for a thirsty engine." "Hard word" is printed as shown, for "hard work." This photograph and caption are printed at the close of "The Golden Years," between its last paragraph and "Synopsis," below; the Norths are not otherwise identified on this site.

Synopsis

To the young I send this message, it is simple and correct "If you find a friend in pride, your next friend will be respect."

In the 1920s the author put a smile on his face and gripped the steering handles of a vehicle he was sure would carry him to fame and fortune or at least to the kitchen of a clapboard house where his Grandmother was removing freshly baked bread from the oven of a HOME COMFORT range with a buttered heel reserved especially for him.

This photograph carries no caption in the book; the text identifies it as the author himself in the 1920s.

Today we have all manner of transportation to take us anywhere in the world and sample sights, sounds and smells of every civilized nation. The promised land, however, remains the aroma filled cubicle where a bustling matron gently slides freshly baked bread from pans to rest on a white tea towel and titillate the palate.

We have come full circle. We have met the challenges in our journeys with all the strength and courage we could muster. We have not been successful in any chosen venture, but we worked hard in many fields and we have maintained an abiding respect for those who were successful and helped us over the rough spots.

I remember the boy in the photo. I remember that his most prized possession was a black, stuffed animal called, "Felix, the Cat." I remember that he had terrible dreams that made him fight sleep and that his Mother sang "Brahm's Lullaby" to him in a pleasing and soothing voice to assure him that Angels would guard him during sleep. I didn't do well by the little fellow but we learned a lot on this trip and we will do better next time around.

"Forty-three years" is printed as shown; if read as the length of John and Inez's marriage, it would place their wedding around 1951, an inference only, since the book gives no wedding date here or elsewhere. Inez is Inez Mae Schriver.