Thrown Rider Turns Entrepreneur #T

...I sold the brute and got all my money back, with a bit of increase.  Beginning of my business life.

So concluded D. W. Lacy's horse story.  The preacher continues:

Business life was among my brothers as they always seemed to have some need or desire for money, and I had a bit as I was inclined to be rich some day.  A loan, yes, with interest.  Miserly mind.  I'll loan you five dollars for a pair of trousers (worth that much) and a lock box for business purposes. Business venture that opened my eyes on how to:  It worked then and was some help later when I learned to pray. . .  During the great depression 30s and early forties.

My business life venture had to include a Model T Ford automobile.  Not much to look at, but then I was interested in its possibilities as a race car.  It had been remodeled with about anything that would fit where, after it was twisted, bent, and bound together with a bit of baling wire, if necessary, and it was generally necessary in those days to have a spool of that kind of mending material for emergencies experienced along the road when far from help of any kind.  I do believe that the Ford was brought into existence by Henry Ford as a powerful stimulant to the creative powers of the lower middle class people who were unable to pay for road service when caught far from town or home.

The directions to successful traveling included an odd type of jack & handle, a small patching kit with which to mend an inner tube.  Of course there was a handle that could be used for other purposes after patching inner tubes on hot days.  Distance travelers often patched as many as ten or twelve tires in one day.  Oh yes, I almost forgot, a pump of sorts that could be used for inflating the tire; after all that perspiration loss and energy waste the handle could be used to beat the devil out of the car itself, or at least, that was the thought.  I saw a deep dent lengthwise on a car's front fender.  The driver's wife explained when the driver was too embarrassed to do.  She merely said: "It wouldn't run, so Lester gave it a beating."  Because these were depression days in the 30s, that old car wore its scars with pride for many years.  The fender was patched up with a ball peen hammer, pushed back into an acceptable position and wore this sign:  "Its quilted."

Temper tantrums were then found as observed by some as noted, but how times have changed.  Too many times the driver with auto trouble takes a swig out of a bottle, does a little exercise with blasphemous words and then beats the devil out of his wife, scares the little kids nearly to death then leaves them all until his guilty soul lets him crawl back to his family without apology.  Happy change when the two footed demon is safely incarcerated in jail. . . I do think that all society owes itself an apology for the nice places they have for these fellows to sober up in (drunk or just ungoverned tempers).

Part of my business life of running away from our home of ten children.

Here ends that particular document.  The last sentence could be misconstrued, I suppose.  He was referring to leaving his childhood home, not his own children, of whom he had far fewer than ten.
Also, Dad is no longer here for me to nitpick, but if he were, I would point out that by the time he left home at seventeen, his five older siblings had already flown the nest.

Dewy? Indeed He Do!

The following is  from my father's writings.  I go through his material from time to time and share some of his wit and wisdom on the weblog as I feel impelled to do.

The time of this incident, circa 1924, the setting, a  farm in Southeastern Colorado.  These memories were recorded  when Dad was eighty years of age.  I know this because the document is dated July 19, 1991.

When I was in my early teens, I came into possession of an outlaw horse, a very bad deal for the horse, as I remember, but game he was.  He was always looking for a way to ditch rider and destroy life as well.  Oh, that "strawberry roan," under fourteen hands high but mighty in determination and revenge.  Falling with rider on back was his delight.

Number one:  With eyes bulging, running full force, teeth set in the bit, he ran headlong into a heap of discarded woven wire.  At that time I wasn't even classified to be called a Holy Roller, just an angry sinner, until I saw old Dewy doing the roll himself, trying to get untangled from his own mess, while I, bruised and angry went to his rescue, not for pity's sake, but to capture him so that I wouldn't have to walk home.  With disappointment in his eyes, I saw, more than heard, him apologize for his wrong-headedness.  A lesson learned that day from a horse.  A good apology vents the soul from all venom.  Indeed:  Oh, yes!

Number two:  When Dewy ran for vengeance he was trying to find a way to do the thing he had in mind, or did he have a mind?  We always traveled full-tilt out on the farm, but why would he pull to one side and step in a hole?  On purpose, I sincerely believe.  He had a gambler's heart, innocent eyes, and seeming readiness for the run, just waiting his day.  What a trip to the ground!  A somersault on the horse's part, and a belly buster without any water for a landing place for me.  Again an apology-- accepted with the understanding that he must carry me home, for I was bruised awfully.

Number three:  This time a badger hole.  I think my shoulder was broken, but I had to milk my share of the cows anyway, one handed, I must say.  Dad didn't believe in Drs. nor did he have the money for such niceties.  Nature would, in time, take care of that.  About this time I thought of praying for relief from pain that lasted for days, but how was I to pray?  I didn't know how, but I sure did develop a strong left hand for milking.  Bad wind that blows no good, so I had learned the hard way.

Number four:  An indentation in the road was sufficient excuse for another roll.  By this time, I had heard others pray, but when I tried, it didn't seem to do much good.  Does God hear prayers offered in profanity?  Well . . .

Final fall:  Across the ridges in a field.  There must be a magic number some where, but I am not sure where.  I sold the brute and got all my money back, with a bit of increase.  Beginning of my business life, after recovering from my last ride on Old Dewy.*

Business life  (to be continued)




Other snippets of Dad's writing may be enjoyed here and here.

*I heard Dad speak of Old Dewy many times.  I pictured the name as "Dewey" ala Admiral Dewey.  I first thought to change the spelling, then thought, Perhaps Dad did not name the horse after the admiral, but rather called him "Dewy" because he was always in a lather.  You reckon?