Revival of Throw-back Thursday-- Way Back

BBBH and I were working in the yard on this sunny and as  it turns out quite hot afternoon.  She was tidying up the secret garden, I was edging and so forth with the string trimmer, or weed whacker, or whatever nomenclature suits your personal preference.  Power trimmer, and my mind leapt back to the summer of 1947.

Other than the mowing oI the school yard for which I got a quarter per week in the spring and summer, financial resources for this youngster were limited.  Since there are always RC colas and Planters Peanuts to be enjoyed, and Mechanix Illustrated to be purchased, an opportunity for a few extra quarters was a welcome boon.  Or so I thought when the elderly lady who lived just there on the corner of Cooper Street offered me twenty-five cents an hour to cut the weeds in her back yard.

I showed up on the job site promptly at eight in the morning, as agreed.  She took me to the tool shed from which she took a scythe and handed it to me.  I, a lad, and the implement built for a full-grown man.  And the weeds were full-grown, too.  Just to make it clear, it was a scythe, not a sickle, and if you don't know the difference you are either much too young or much too urban to truly understand the import of that.

To the best of my recollection, I worked four hours, the lady was satisfied, I was exhausted, but oh! that dollar!  What a treasure!

Also, that was the summer that my baby sister, Ilene, was born on this date.  Happy birthday, Ilene!

(Two years later I went to work for Western Union, sixty-five cents an hour.)

 Image: Wikipedia.  I went to the shed to get my scythe and could not
find it.  How can one misplace something that large?  Poltergeist!

Get Up! #T

"Let's go.   Day's wasting away."  It was Dad rousting me from bed.  I rolled to the edge, placed my feet on the floor, opened one eye and looked at the clock on my bureau.  4:32.  Unbelievable.  Then consciousness flooded in.  It was Monday morning and we were going hunting!

An hour later and fifty miles down the road, the Arkansas river flowing alongside the highway, we neared Cotopaxi.  A few minutes more and we were at the hunting grounds of Dad's choice.  We got the rifles and ammo from the car, stuffed the sandwiches Dad had made into our parka pockets.  I put my hood up, tied it under my chin.  The sun had broken the eastern horizon.  The sky promised a clear day, but it was chilly and I don't do cold well.

We set off up a long draw, the summit we hoped to attain probably four or five hundred yards above us.  That is we were going to hike probably more than a quarter mile at an angle that appeared to be almost straight up.  It wasn't, though.  As we trudged along I was processing the level of excitement I was experiencing, adrenaline starting to flow.  Was I more excited about hunting, or was the exhilaration due to the fact that I was skipping school with Father's knowledge and approval?  Any day that did not imprison a body in school was a good day.

As we neared the top of the draw Dad was perhaps ten steps ahead of me.  The events in this paragraph occurred faster than you can read about them.  Dad reached the summit, turned to see where I was, and by then  I was right behind him.  Suddenly a clatter of gravel to our right and a magnificent animal, white rump signaling its goodbye to us, took off.  Dad instantly raised his rifle and was sighting in for the shot.  I screamed as loudly as I could, "Don't shoot!"  Startled, my father lowered the weapon and stared after the animal which was quickly out of sight.  Dad turned to me and said, "Thanks, Son.  You just saved me a lot of trouble.  And money, too."



I had immediately identified the beast as a Big Horn sheep.  We had no license to hunt sheep and the fine for shooting one was $500, nearly half year's income for Dad at that time.

Image: Creatures of the Wild Wikia

Hunting Season

 "Deer season starts next week."  Dad was sitting at the kitchen table with the .30-06 lying on the oilcloth, its bolt below the trigger guard, can of gun oil beside them.  The cleaning cloth was in his hand, he was reaching for the ramrod.  I had no clue that it was October or that hunting was on his mind.  Not much.

"We need to get these rifles sighted in," Dad continued, as he screwed the little brass brush into the cleaning rod.  My heart began to race and the excitement welled up as I realized that this might be the year that he would take me hunting with him.  Dad  had brought home the meat every year since I was five years old, never failing to bag the game.  I turned seventeen last July.

Saturday we gathered guns and ammo and  a half-dozen tomato juice cans, placed them gently in the trunk of the Ford and drove to the disused gravel pit which was the local de facto rifle range.  This site was on Mesa road and less than half-mile from a residential area as the crow flies, yet there was a veritable mountain between the venue and any dwellings.


We set up a row of cans at the base of the cut in the side of the hill and paced off a hundred yards.
Dad loaded the .30-06 and from a standing free-hand position, fired.  A puff of dirt shot up immediately behind a can.  My father tinkered with the sight a few seconds, raised the rifle and fired again.  Can flew off into oblivion.  "That'll do it," he said.  "She's good."  He handed me the rifle.
 
Now I had  fired  a .22 many times and even the .25-20 on occasion, but I had never handled the ought-six.  I was in for a walloping, and I got it.  But I also got a can.  Dad then fired one shot with the .270 he had borrowed from a friend, picked off a can and said, "We're good.  No need wasting ammo; run down there and gather up those cans." 

He stowed the rifles in the car as I fetched the remaining targets.  Hunting season starts in four days!

Earl Cecil and the Magpie #T

 Our family moved from Nebraska to Canon City, Colorado the day before my fifth birthday.  Dad was the new pastor of the little church, not yet built, on the corner of Seventh and Floral.  The King family lived on the south edge of town, on the other side of the Arkansas River.  This family attended our church.  They had two teenage daughters, a son, Earl Cecil, about my age, and a younger daughter.  A friendship developed between us boys to the extent that for the most part we saw each other on Sundays as we attended different schools and our homes were not quite within walking distance of each other.

The Kings kept and raised a few hogs and at butchering time Dad would assist Mr. King with the chore of turning the pigs into meat.  This provided an additional opportunity for playtime with Earl Cecil.  To the best of my memory, I never heard anyone call this child anything other than Earl Cecil.  It was almost as if it were one name, Earlcecil.  But back to the story.  When we were probably about eight or nine years of age, Earl Cecil and the Kings moved to Las Animas.

Then Virginia and Marilyn, now young women, decided that marriage represented the life for them and as good fortune would have it each found the man of her dreams at about the same time and I suppose courtships ensued.  The girls decided a double wedding would be the ticket and they asked my parent to perform the ceremony.  The appointed day arrived, and our family made the trip to Las Animas.  It would possibly be a bit understated if I were to say that Earl Cecil and I were less than excited about the wedding and all the attendant folderol, but we were delighted to have the opportunity to catch up and spend time with each other simply horsing around and doing stuff that nine-year-old boys do.

And Earl Cecil had a magpie!  His very own personal pet magpie.  He had been told, and he told me, that were a magpie to be captured about the time it fledged one could clip a tendon or some such thing under the bird's tongue and the bird could be taught to talk.  Which is exactly what the kid did, for on his farm there was no scarcity of magpies.

Could the birdie talk?  Indeed it could.  "Hello."  "Dirty bird."  And probably not much more.  I do not recall exactly but I think its vocabulary was limited.

But of course, I envied my friend and always wanted my own magpie, a desire which so far has not been fulfilled.

It is said that the magpie is the brightest of birds and the most intelligent of all the animals.  I have read stories of magpies calling the family dog by name and waiting for the beast to come to it.  Anyway. . .

Stat feed tells me that this is post number 2500 on String Too Short to Tie.

Eggs and Milk

I offered this little vignette a few years ago and read it again yesterday.  It amused me anew. I hope you will enjoy a re-read.   True story and walking up the hill with the male parent is a pleasant memory.
 
The lad is carrying two pails as he walks alongside his dad, footsteps crunch, crunching in the gravel as they walk. One pail is the milk bucket, the other the near-gallon lard can for collecting eggs. Daddy insists that this is the day the boy will "learn to milk the cow."

When they get to the chicken coop, the boy sets the milk pail down and goes in to collect the eggs. For the most part, this is an easy job. Forget the squawking, the feathers flying around-- pft! pft!-- and the dust the birds kick up. Just go to the nests and gently lift the eggs and place them carefully in the bucket. But of course Old Broody will not get off the nest, and when the youngster attempts to reach beneath her, a quick and painful peck on the wrist encourages quick retreat. David steps out of the enclosure with his bucket of treasure and Dad says, "Did you get Old Broody's eggs?" "She wouldn't let me have them." "Get in there and throw her off the nest." You see where this is going-- caught between the mad dad and the angry hen.  So back into the coop, grabbed the hen and threw her across the house.

Now we take the pail and enter the milking stall, where the "little Jersey" patiently awaits the relief she so desperately needs. She places her head in the stanchion, the boy gets the stool and places the bucket beneath the cow, all the time thinking, "There's no way I'm going to milk her." David sits on the stool and tentatively reaches for a teat. The tail whips around the back of the boy's head. He flinches and complains loudly. "Get your head up in her flank. Don't let her push you around." The boy obeys, reaches again for a teat. A bit of fumbling around with no visible result, unless one counts an increasingly impatient cow and ever more impatient "instructor." Finally the mentor gets down and demonstrates the proper finger motions, starts a stream. The boy again fumbles around with the resulting trickle further irritating both animal and parent.

"Get away from her," says the parent, "I'll do it myself." And he did.

The original title is "Red Hen, Red Cow ."

Watchamacallit

Monday's story at one point featured a thunder mug.  Pictured here is our chamber pot, complete with lid, unlike the one sold by Eli.  Yes, we have one.  An unused item, to be sure, but there it is nevertheless.

Writing about this appliance sent me on a trip via the Wayback Machine as my friend Chuck calls it.

In 1942 we were living in Canon City, Colorado.  We had all the conveniences of running water but the flush toilet was situated in its own building at the alley.  Generally speaking I believe it was the rule that one relieved himself before bedtime and he was expected to perform next in the morning on rising. This would not work for me now.

In June of that year my parents made a trip to Owosso, Michigan where the father was a delegate to the Quadrennial General Assembly of his church.  They boarded us with their close friends Eldon and Leah Bolander whom we referred to as "Brother and Sister Bolander."  Kiddies did not under any circumstances call their elders by their first names, nor did they refer to them that way.  The Bolanders had a daughter, Grace, who is three years my senior.  My sister Vee is three years my junior.

A distinct memory involves doing dishes after the meal.  I recall a chastisement I received from Sister Bolander on one occasion when it was my turn to dry.  I had set down a plate in the stack of dried dishes when the hostess stepped beside me to inspect the work.  "David," she said, "this won't do.  This dish is crying.  See, there are still tears running down its face."

And now to the chamber pot.  There was a slop jar in the guest room.  It was kept under the bed and its use was explained to us.  Yet we were strongly encouraged to avoid the necessity of availing ourselves of its use, for if it were utilized it should have to be emptied properly and scoured clean first thing in the morning.  I think I never used it.

And Then There Was This

I was finishing a shift for Western Union.  It was one of those really cold nights, a rare night when Dad had allowed me to use the car.  I had made my last delivery on North Nevada Avenue and the supervisor had told me he would clock me out so I could go on home as I lived in the northeast side of town.

Evenly matched.  In a way.

I drove east on Cache la Poudre and stopped at the light at Hancock.  A 50 Ford pulled up beside me.  Ford vs. Ford.  His car was black, mine green, but otherwise seemed identical.  The light.  The surge.  By both vehicles.  We ran bumper to bumper in the darkness.  After a block, he dropped back.  I slowed.  He turned on the flashing red light.

Sticking it to the Upper Crust

In a street challenge I found it quite amusing to blow away a Cadillac.  And many drivers of late forties and early fifties Caddys were surprised to see the rear end of the nondescript little jackrabbit I drove.

Shiny New Gold Emblems and All

1952 was the fiftieth anniversary year for Cadillac and in recognition of that the manufacturer used gold plating on the emblems, particularly the big old "V" that distinguished the marque.  A few other minor changes allowed one to quickly identify the '52 model.  There were a few unseen changes, too.
1n 1952 Cadillac had somehow tweaked the 331 c.i. OHV V-8 to generate 190 h.p.  Even at a curb weight of two and one-half tons, it was now a formidable challenger at a stoplight.  I did not know this until

Uphill, around the curve and away!

The new Caddy was stopped at the 8th Street light on Colorado Avenue.  I pulled beside it in the left lane.  The courtesies were observed and the light changed to green.

Now there was a slight incline and a bit of curve to the right at 8th Street which gave the Cadillac the "inside" lane on the turn.  But that would not have accounted for the difference in the outcome, for I saw the rear end of that beautiful cream-over blue two door hardtop half-block ahead before he reached tenth street.

Lesson learned:  Beware of  GM's finest in its latest mutation.

Word of the day:  marque