Work Brickle: A Christmas Story, Digest Version

Today's story is a compacted version of a Christmas story from two years ago ala the Reader's Digest.  Original version can be accessed by clicking here.
 
Did I ever tell you about your Uncle Mil's Christmas?  Ever’one said Milford was work brickle. Waal,  he warn't work brickle, he were more "boss brickle." . See, still a teenager, he had this job over to the yards in Lamar keepin’ the steam up in the switch engine durin’ the night.  One night his boss tell him, “Hey, Mil.  Hate to lose you, but the company is sendin’ you to Dodge.  You start over there next Monday.  No tellin’ how far you go with the company, Kid."

"Nuts to that," says Mil.  "I quit right now.  I ain't a leavin' Lamar."

"Now, wait, now.  You got that firebox to keep up tonight.”

"Fire it yourself."

So then Mil find work at the mill.  Doin' pretty well, too, until his boss come around and give him a new assignment, and you might guess how that turn out.  Boss brickle, like I say.

Out a job agin, Mil see people a thowin’ off perfeckly good stuff at the town dump, he decide he can make a livin’ pickin’ the place an’ resellin’ stuff.  An’ he done hit.  He sorts stuff, repairs stuff, peddles it aroun’ town, makin’ good money.  Waal, he gets official approval an exclusive rights to the dump and he is in bidness, for sure.

Now kids around town make fun of Mil.  You know how it goes, "Dirty Mil, dirty Mil, live on top a garbage hill." But Mil is shrewd, and he know which folk thow stuff out, and which ones never show up at his workplace.

Then a really cold and blustery Christmas Eve come along and ever'body stayin' cozy in they houses.  But lo! On Christmas mornin' folk at twenty-five, thirty houses find the most wonderful collection a toys on they front steps.  Santa done come, and no one saw hit happen.  Waal, there was some talk around town.  But when the same thing happen again the next Christmas Eve, people really start to wonder who is blessin' them thisa way.  It is fine for the kids to believe it is Santa, but we know better.

So on the next 24th a December, three, four a the guys make it up amongst theyselves to find out once and for all who the Secret Santa is.  By postin' theyselves around town, keepin' a low profile,  Frank Chambers finely 'bout 'leven o'clock spot Santa at work down on South 4th Street.  Hit were Milford.  Now whilst Mil was makin' his own livin' sortin' and sellin' rags and metal and all sort a junk, he was collectin' toys and takin' 'em home where he spend his evenin's repairin' and paintin' and makin' those toys just like new!  And on Christmas Eve he was brightenin' the lives of a whole passel a kids who he know warn't likely to get much fer Christmas.

37% reduction in the number of words without serious damage to the story (I hope).
© David W. Lacy 2015

More Christmas stories yet this week!

Gordie #T

Gordie, our pet cucurbit, is doing its thing once again.

Fifteen years ago we were traveling along the road near Bent's Fort, Colorado when BBBH asked, "What is the green stuff growing along the road and into the road?"

"That," I answered, "is a wild gourd that grows in this sere country.  It produces little gourds about the size of a baseball that look like little watermelons."

"No!"

So when I spotted another patch ahead, I slowed, stopped the car, crawled into the vines (aren't there rattlesnakes in this country?) and soon filled the floorboard near her feet with the little globes.

She was amazed.

Back home again in Indiana (wouldn't that make a great song title?) we stored several of the gourds in a box and promptly forgot them.  A year later we discovered them again, dried out and hard. Brilliant me. I broke one open, removed some seeds and dropped a couple of them in the ground near the west side of the house.  And thus Gordie was hatched.

The plant's roots are rhizomes and it spreads by "fingering" throughout any real estate it can capture.  It is a constant battle to keep the rascal confined to its corner.  And it won't die.  I think this is its thirteenth summer with us now.

Gordie is a cucurbita foetidissima, or as it is commonly called, a Missouri gourd, or buffalo gourd.  As the Latin name implies, it is a stinking gourd.  It is a very useful plant, though, and you may learn about its many applications if you do a web search.

(I should explain, too, that it is not the habit  of c.f. to climb.  We installed sticks and strings for its use.)

Son Carl, aka Neil, has a birthday today, not yet raising the number to stratospheric levels. Happy birthday, Carl.

Word of the day:  cucurbit

The Old Farm Revisited #T

Uncle Jep and Aunt Grace had been gone forty years.  I had inexplicably turned into an old man.  Without doubt, this will be my last trip through the Valley.  

My father’s youngest sister, Esther, had passed away.  The funeral was in La Junta. Aunt Esther, at 95, had lived not only long, but well.  I would have made no effort to attend the obsequies were it not for her oldest son, Hugh.  I mean, I thought highly of Aunt Esther, but she is gone.  Hugh, though, is a brother to me.  He is but six months younger than I and we grew up together.  We were best pals from the time we were five until I went to the farm to work for Uncle Jep. Hugh and I maintained our friendship throughout our lives, and now we are two old guys in their late seventies, spouses gone, and most of our friends laid to rest.

I am living in Tulsa now.  I can no longer drive, thanks to tunnel vision, but my son, Marvin, lives nearby and he was willing to make the trip.

The burial and the four-day visit were soon over, and Marv had to be back for work next week.  Hugh and I made arrangements to meet in San Antonio at Christmas.  Marvin and I were eastbound, had an early start on the day.  As we drove we chatted about the days I spent in the area in my youth.  Marvin perceived that I was waxing nostalgic, and it was he who suggested we might drive up to the old place where I had spent so many good days with Aunt Grace and Uncle Jeptha.

We neared Holly and turned north.  It was a matter of a mere three or four miles, and there was the spot.  What memories welled up as I looked around the place!  The old house where I had eaten so much of Aunt Grace's wonderful cooking and fantastic pies, where I had listened to so many of Uncle Jep's yarns, was still standing.  It was clearly well-cared for, seemed to have recently received a fresh coat of white paint.  The old cedar shingle roof had been replaced with modern red tern roofing.  The chimney at the peak of the house was gone, replaced by the PVC vent utilized by modern furnaces.  The propane tank beyond the house gave testimony to modern ways.

The old barn was gone.  In its place stood a much smaller pole barn, its blue steel siding likely to withstand the blasts of winter and the heat of summer for many decades to come. The windmill was no longer present, but a watering tank for the stock was still located where the mill once stood.  As we had passed numerous circular fields it was evident that modern irrigation was being practiced and wind power was replaced by electric power in the barn lot and by diesel fuel in the fields.

Just beyond the barn was a very sturdy pen in which was a lone Simmental bull.  Sudden mental flashback to Uncle's story about Red Hurd's purchase of a bull all those many years ago.  Beyond the bull's pen was a windbreak of Black Hills spruce extending about 10 rods to the east.  On the other side of the trees, a fenced pasture was host to about thirty head of nice cattle. 

Behind the house, we saw an old red Dodge truck, but no other vehicles.  Waal, we parked in front the house and went up to the door anyway.  Knocking brought no response, and as much as I would have liked to walk part of the property, just for old time's sake, doncha know, I wanted even more not to get arrested, or worse, shot, for trespassing.  We returned to the car and drove another three miles to the little knoll on which lay the burial plots for my Aunt and Uncle.  We parked beside the road.  With my pocketknife. I cut six pretty brown cattails from the swale.  These I carried with me to lay on the graves of my departed loved ones.  So ended our brief foray into my past.  We got back on the road and headed eastward.

Marvin was subjected to my recounting of Uncle Jep's tales for the next few hundred miles, but he was a good sport about it.