Christmas Socks

Christmas Socks
Chuck Martin

This is a true story about Christmas socks.

I’m amazed at the presents and toys under Christmas trees these days. When I was growing up in the fifties middle class, of which my family was on the lower edge, presents were more sparing. Each August, right before school started, I’d receive two pair of jeans, one shirt, socks and a pair of shoes that were to last the year. At Christmas I received the same, except for shoes, and one, maybe two toys. I looked forward to Christmas; by that time I’d worn out the jeans, and the elbows had been patched on the shirt. I thought I was truly poor until one day my little Mexican friend came over, looked at my four shirts hanging in the closet, and stated, “Wow! You sure got a lot of clothes.”

Kids have walkie-talkies today; we had two tin cans tied to a long piece of string. They have real cool looking pistols, ray guns, and Star War saber lights. We had a long cottonwood tree branch, split at the shoulder end, for a rifle. Dads would cut out wooden guns with a nail tacked on the top of the end of the barrel. A large rubber band was stretched from the nail to a clothes pen attached to the front of the wood grip. It made a dandy shooter.

They have miniature electric cars today that make sounds like a real engine. We attached playing cards with clothes pens to the spokes of our bikes. BRRRRRRRRRRR down the rod we’d go. Now there’s DVD games that are so life like the kids think it’s reality. There’s no imagination to that. Heck, we thought up our own adventures. There was no end of who we could be. One minute Robin Hood; the next Roy or Gene.

Though, there were times we received some pretty weird stuff for Christmas, like a piece of clay, made by your sister in class, that didn’t resemble anything imaginable. Just a big lump of…clay. We were taught to be grateful for whatever we received and I thanked her.

Now about those Christmas socks. I was fourteen when I received the socks. We had a lot of relatives coming over Christmas morning and my mother had informed them I needed socks. I got up that morning anticipating my receiving a new shirt and jeans, and maybe some kind of toy. We took turns opening presents, my sister, then, me and then grownups. My first present, two pairs of, ugh, red and brown, argyle socks. “Thanks,“ I said, “just what I needed. I opened my second present, two pair of knee high socks. Knee high’s were for old men! “Ah, another pair,” I said, “Thank you…appreciate it.” On and on it went, each contained a pair or two, or three, of socks until I sat there surrounded by 17 pairs of multi colored foot warmers. “Boy, this is great I won’t have to buy socks the whole year,” I said and thought maybe for the next ten years. I did have one more present from my Uncle Bus. It was a black eight ball filled with ink. You asked it a question and when turned over an answer would rise to the surface.

Later that day, when I had my mother alone, I complained, “Seventeen pairs of socks and an eight ball. Everyone else got something useful.”

“Well,” she replied, “I told everyone you needed socks, and everyone gave you socks. Sometimes you get what you ask for. Next year I’ll say you need shirts, maybe you’ll get seventeen shirts. But, before you trip over that pout lip, remember, it’s not the getting, it’s the giving, and mainly the celebration of our Christ Child.

I wish more people today had my mom’s view of Christmas.

To Be Near You

“To be near you”
Chuck Martin
It was Thanksgiving afternoon. All the food had been consumed, roast turkey, giblet gravy, corn, biscuits, cranberries, and of course, pumpkin pie topped with thick whip cream. Football played on the TV, Colts verses the Vikings, and with everyone’s stomach full, the family plopped down on couches, soft chairs, and floor to view the game.

I retired to my office to check the email for the day and write on a story I had started a few days back. Tinker, our border collie, full from under the table scrapes, curled up contented on the floor next to me. I started up the computer, moused up email, and started to read when my grandson, Cole, strolled in. Darn, I thought, I need to get this done, and here comes the questions. I loved that little guy but Cole was a curious boy and never satisfied with only one answer.

That morning I was tuning up my lawn mower with the garage door open. Cole had been playing by himself in the front yard. He darted behind my pick-up truck and crouched down behind the front wheel. Jumping up he pointed his toy rifle over the hood at imaginary bad guys, “Ka-kew…Ka-Kew” he yelled, jerking the gun with each pronouncement, then ducked back down. He glanced over, saw me and came over in a stooped position. “What cha’ doin‘?’” he asked.

“Why are you walking hunched over like that?”

“I don’t want ‘em to see me.”

“Who?,” I asked.

“Injun’s.” he said and stood up. “Are you working on your lawn mower?”

“What’s it look like?”

“Yep, yer workin’ on yer lawn mower.“

“It needs tuning up,” I said as I removed the old spark plug and screwed in a new one.

“Why?”

“Because it’s running rough.”

“Won’t mow huh?,” Cole said patting the top of the engine.

“No,” I answered, “It’ll mow alright. Just needs a little tune up.”

“Oh,” Cole said, “What’s that?” pointing at the starter rope.

“You pull it to start the engine. Say, how olds are you now?” I said trying to change the subject.

“Seven’”

“You sure ask a lot of questions for seven. Why don’t you go in the house and see what your mom and grand-mom are cooking. I’ll just bet it’s something great.”

“Can’t,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Cuz they told me to come out side an’ play an’ get out from under
their feet.”

“I see…”

Well, here I sat at my computer wanting to get some work done and in walked Cole. He walked over and put his hand on my back. “What ya doin’, granddad?”

“Workin’ on the computer, and I have lots of work to do… don’t need a lot of questions.”

“Gee, granddad I’m not gonna’ ask any questions.”

“Your not?” I said surprised.

“Nope, I just wanted to be with you.” he said and sat down in a chair by the window. He sat their in silence watching me as I worked and never said a word.

On this Thanksgiving day there’s so much to be thankful for. How wonderful to have my grandson just want to be near me. It’s the little things, isn’t it.

The Check

“The Check”
Chuck Martin
Money scares me. Well, not money exactly, the transacting of the green stuff. I don’t do much banking and I leave that unpleasantness to my wife, Laurene. She writes the checks; pays the bills; manages the 501’s, 409’s or whatever the numbers are. She’s the banker in our family. I thought c.d.‘s were for music. Now you can save money with them.

One day in Whitewater, Colorado I receive a $20.00 check for a poem accepted by Fence Post Magazine. The check’s bank is in Greeley, Colorado, with no branches in Grand Junction, the closest town to Whitewater. My daughter’s Credit Union is connected in some way to mine in Paso Robles, California. I figured it wouldn’t be a problem getting the check cashed, as it was for such a small amount.

At her Credit Union in Grand Junction I presented my check, plus my A.T.M. card to the lady teller. She was heavy set, young, wore too much makeup, and sported long black fingernails. She said she had to contact my branch before she could cash it.

Why,” I asked, “You have my debit card, and both branches are associated.

She shrugged. “It’s just policy.

After many tries she finally connect with someone in California. She handed the phone to me. I looked at the phone, then her. “They want to verify it is you.” She said.

I said, “Hello.”

It was a man but I could hardly make out what he was saying.
“Mr. Martin where were you b…” It sounded like he was disconnected.

“Lost him,” I said handing the phone back to her. “I’m a little hard hearing. I
could hardly understand him.”

She placed her ear to the phone, said something, and handed it back. “He’s still there, he wasn’t cut off!”

I said, “Hello.”

I heard a faint, “Your mother’s maid…”

“Gone again,” I said.

She took the phone, spoke to someone, and hung up. “He said he is refusing to identify you with the information provided. I‘m sorry I can‘t cash your check.”

“It’s only twenty bucks,” I said.

“Sorry.”

“Well, how about I go outside to the ATM and pull out twenty buck-a-roo’s ,” I picked up my card and flipped it back and forth between two fingers. “I’ll give you the twenty, you write your name and mine on the bill, then cash my check. If the check isn’t good the twenty dollars will secure it, and if it’s good I’ll return for my twenty. What say you?”

She stared at me dumbfounded. She tapped her black fingernails on the counter. I could tell she was considering my scheme, kind of rolling it around in her head. Finally, her eyes widened, she gave a sigh, and shoved the check over to me, “Sorry, against our policy.”

I left feeling dejected. I thought my proposal a good sound one. Banking is not what it used to be. Where’s the trust?

Clabahan, Pudding, & Trains

“Clabahan, Pudding, & Trains”
Chuck Martin

“Whadaya like for breakfast?” Billy asked.
“What do you have?”
“We got aigs, bycon, ham, oatmeal, puddin’…, ” he said.
Pudding, I thought, it’s funny they’d have pudding for breakfast in Ireland. I wondered what kind, chocolate, tapioca, vanilla. We were going to Ireland the next month, to spend time in my friend Billy Hyland’s home and travel by train around the country. He lived in Garryhinch, Portarlington, located in Offaly County, in the midlands.
Billy picked us up at the Dublin Airport, and drove on a freeway, and on narrow roads through many mazes of hedge rows, seemingly both at the same speed. Driving by each church, graveyard, or a long-ago accident scene, Billy would cross himself. With an air of relief we arrived safely at his home in the country, met by Billy’s wife Maeve, and five year old, son, Johnny.
When they visited us in the states, Johnny was fascinated by our parakeet. He wanted to see him fly, so he banged on both sides of the cage. Feathers flew everywhere. I yelled, “Johnny, stop banging that cage!” He marched up to me announcing, “Ya’ve broke me heart, ya clabahan.”
I asked Billy, “What’s a clabahan?”
“Oh, it means something like nin-com-poop. His grand father calls him that all the time.”
The next morning after arriving, Maeve fixed breakfast consisting of eggs, a mountain of red skinned potatoes, and soda bread. “Want some puddin’?” Maeve asked.
“Sure,” Laurene, and I answered.
She placed two small, round pieces of meat on my plate, one white and one black.. Pudding in Ireland is not “pudding” as we know it. It is a sausage. Both tasted dreadful. It was quite hard swallowing, I hoped my look of displeasure didn’t give my distaste away.
My wife, Laurene, and I were to travel by train in Ireland. We planned on making a round trip to the coast and back. The day after arriving Billy drove us around the mid-lands and we had a great time visiting and adjusting to a new country.
The night before we were to embark on our train ride Billy took us to his “pub”. Everyone in Ireland has their own pub, and Billy’s was named, “The High Chaparral” after our TV show. Billy bought the rounds, and we sat there drinking Gunnies and chatting. I said I’d buy the next round, and ordered at the bar. The barman put a pint glass up to the spout, filled it up, and sat it down in front of me. When I picked it up to take a drink the barman reached over, slapped my hand, and took the drink away. “It’s not done!,” he shouted. He took my drink and refilled it. You have to wait for the foam to go down, and then it’s to be refilled. Shame on you if you try to drink it before it’s “Done!”.
The next morning Billy took us to the train station in Portarlington, but had to leave before the train arrived. “Billy, trains on time?”
“No, no, never!” Billy said seriously walking away toward his car.
A train pulled in right on schedule. Well, I thought, Billy’s wrong, it’s right on time.
The seats on Irish trains face each other, with a table between you and the other passengers. Across sat a young lassie with red hair, a freckled face, and wearing a green and tan uniform. The girl said she was returning home from collage.
I relaxed and looking out the window saw cloudy skies, green hills and meadows. I figured the train must be doing 90 as I would see a train coming our way, and within a blink of an eye, and a swoosh, it would zip by.
“Where you folks going?,” the lass asked.
“Cork,” Laurene said.
“Oh,” eyes wide the girl exclaimed, “You’re on the wrong train!”
“Where’s this one going,?” I asked.
“Why, Galway, sir.”
“Well then,” I said, “ we’re going to Galway. You see, it doesn’t matter. Turning back to look out the window, I thought, Billy was right, trains aren’t on time in Ireland.
I love Ireland; the green country side; the friendly people; the pubs; the trains; and a cold Gunnies. I decidedly do not like Irish pudding for breakfast. It is made of blood and offal. I looked up offal and found it to be the edible, internal organs of an animal. I guess they named Offaly County, Ireland, after their pudding. I had noticed Laurene, had taken a small bite, and pushed it away. I thought, “You should have done the same, you Clabahan.”

One Super Duper Pooper Scooper

“One Super Duper Pooper Scooper”
Chuck Martin

I turned 16 in 1958, and bought a light-green 1953 Pontiac, straight eight, with a dark green sun shade over the windshield, curb feelers, and spinner hubcaps. On weekend nights you would find me driving, with a friend sitting “shotgun”, driving up Main, and down Grand Avenue in Pueblo, Colorado. The two streets would be lined with teenagers dragging the “gut“, along with a scatterings of annoyed grown ups. We would turn the volume up on our radios, country music, or rock blaring, dueling our music with the mass of cars on Main. Oh, we thought we were so cool!

The radio station that played country, and the other rock stations went off the air at 10 at night. Sometimes we could receive a station full of static from Colorado Springs, but most nights it was a station in Oklahoma City, K.O.M.A. The station played one song every fifteen minutes. In my mind I can still hear the announcer, 50 years later:

“Koma, koma, koma, koma, ka koma, koma, yea, yea yeah. This is KOMA Radio coming to you from Oklahoma City, Oklahoma…

“Ohhh, Donna, Ohhh Donna, Oh, Donna. I had a girl… Donna was her name , do-do-do dum). When she left meee my life was not the same…Ohhhh, I loveeeeee thaaaat girllll, Donna, where can you be, where can you be…”

“There ya are boys an’ girls Richy Valley singing Oh Donna. Friends does your liver quiver?… does your bladder clatter? Do you feel let down when you put your foot in an elevater that isn’t there? Do you feel run down when you put your foot in front of a moving car? Do you get mad when you step into doggy poo? Well, for one dollar, that’s just one dollar, we will send you… free… one Super Duper Pooper Scooper. You heard me right, free, for one dollar. Send your money to Box 7, Delreo, Texas, That’s Box 7 Delreo, Texas.
“Boys, what do you do when your baby leaves ya. You walk home, go to your room, lie on your bed, turn down the light, put a record on the turntable and you hear,…”

“Only youooooo can make this world seem bright. A-only yuoooooo…”

Grand Dad's Privy

Grandpa’s Privy
Chuck Martin


Grand-pappy’s old privy is probably still
standin’ out back
The hinges saggin’
And the door with a crack.
It was a sturdy little building
fifty years ago.
It stood many a summer rain
and many a winter snow.
The Privy was cold in winter,
There’d be frost on the seat,
It was never insulated
And there wasn’t no heat.
The half moon is probably gone
And has lots cracks in the wall.
It seems rather sad
no one uses it anymore at all.
Now I have an indoor john,
And live in town.
I guess someone should go back
And tear that ol’ Privy building’ down.

Ben Blankenbeker-1861 - 1864

Benjamin Blankenbeker
1861 - 1864
Chuck Martin

My Great-Uncle Benjamin Blankenbeker joined Company J, 41st Illinois Infantry on August 5th, 1861, and discharged on August 20th, 1864.
-----------*---------
Decatur, Ill. August 15, 1861
Dear Ma,
I’m writing to tell you my whereabouts since joining up in Springfield. We’re done with training. We are to board a train and join up with the regulars in Mt. Auburn. Everyone in the outfit is excited and anxious to see some action. Our Captain is Captain Bacon in Col. Pugh’s Company and we will serve under General Smith. Ever your loving son.
Ben
div//
Ft. Donaldson, Tenn. February 17, 1861
Dear Ma.
I’m lucky to be writing this as we have been engaged in a fight to capture Ft Donaldson. I am lying in a hospital tent while writing this. I have been wounded, but not seriously. Our troops Marched for 2 days through Kentucky and into Tennessee. We met up with Admiral Foots gun boats and transported up the Tennessee River and bivouacked in anticipation of our attack on Ft. Henry. On the morning of February 6th canon from gunboats exploded in deafening roar and we could see fire and smoke from muzzles shoot high in gray skies. Return fire whizzed past us, slamming into water with a exploding whoosh. Our boys stood in entranced silence. In short order Fort Henry surrendered. We moved on to Ft Donaldson on the Cumberland River. When we arrived it started to rain and snow and we suffered from want of shelter. On the 14th the Rebs attacked. There was a shouting of orders and we moved forward. Confederate muskets roared from single lines, and several or our men fell. We returned fire, knelt, reloaded, and stood. Boys were falling on both sides. The gunfire was unremitting. I felt a burning on my foot. I had been shot through the ankle and was bleeding badly. Our men kept advancing forward and I was left sitting on the ground. I fainted from pain and awoke in this field hospital. The battle is over and Donaldson has fallen. General Grant has won the day. I will remain here a couple days and rejoin my outfit. Your Loving son.
Ben.

Keingston, Ga. June 7, 1864
Dear Ma,
That you may not be ignorant of my whereabouts I will take a moment to write a few lines. Since my last letter we have marched 150 miles to Keingston. We came here by way of Rome. We crossed the “Sand and Lookout” mountains and it was a hard rocky road. We are barefoot nearly. The Rebs are reported back as far as Atlanta with Sherman at their heels. I have not got a letter from anybody. In two months I’ll be on my way home. I am in good health, but bare feet don’t agree with these rocks… I am as ever your loving son.
Ben.



Sources:
Voices from the Civil War, Milton Melzer
The Personal Memories of Ulysses S. Grant, KONECKY & KONECKY, N. Y. Pg. 175-76
The Civil War, Bruce Catton, Byron Press (Viking), N.Y., Pgs 110-112
Benjamin Blankenbeker’s Civil War Army record
Parts of a letter from Benjamin Blankenbeker to his mother from Keingston, Georgia, June 7, 1864

Philosophizing with Bix

Chuck Martin

I saw the old cowboy sittin’ on the wood plank floor,
leanin’ against the wall.
I was there to catch a train
it didn’t matter, anywhere at all.
I was glad to leave
this hot, dusty town.
Too many bad memories
to stick around.
The man was old had a weather
beat face.
His pants were ragged, a clean spot
there weren’t a trace .
He wore an old grey Stetson hat
All crumpled from wear,
And hitched to a post in front of him
was a run down appy mare.
Tippin' his hat back he looked up at me,
“sit yerself down,” he said,
“ an’ share the shade.
the sun’s beatin down an’
It’s hottern’ Hades.”
I sat down next to the old geezer
Took out my kerchief an’ wiped my neck.
“Might as well,” I said, “trains always late
if’n it don’t get in a wreck.”
“ Beware the pessimist, who sez
the train’ll never get here,
then it’ll never leave, an’ when it leaves,
we’ll never see it again I fear.”
I sez, “I don’t need no object lesson.”
He answered. "‘A stangers business is not yor’n.’”
“It hain’t been a good year fer me,
that’s why I’m leaving’ ,” I mourn,
“What’s eatin‘ you ?”
The old man asked, bitin’ off a piece a chew.
“‘I homesteaded bout twenty miles from here,
had a wife, an’ a good one too.
She couldn’t take the wind an’ sand.
Left ‘bout a month ago, took my horse.
my favorite hound, an’ all the money
we’d saved, a ‘course.”
“Given the right dose of prickly pear
any nag will buck,” he said.
“Yeah,” I answered absentmindedly. “It’s sure been rough
with her gone, an’ livin’ all alone.
No food in the place,
just a no meat chicken bone.”
"Lonesome brings on ailments
that only company can cure.
Sorry looks back, Worry looks around
Faith looks up, thas’ fer sure.”
“Say ol’ man I don’t think I asked fer your advise
sounds like yer makin’ fun a my plight in any case.”
“Advice is like a pot a chili: Try a little yerself before you give
anybody else a taste.”
I said, “ please shut the heck up
yer philosophy is annoying an' I'm 'bout to see red.”
You’re not diplomatic because you put ‘please’ in front of
‘shut up’”, he said.
“Look, son, I been where you are
quite a few times.
Ya can't let it get ya down
an' set jus’ around an' whine."
"Ya sure got a mouthful to hand out
where ya gettin' this stuff?' I asked.
"Bix Bender put'em in a book.
I really didn't mean ta get ya in a huff."
"There's the train," I said, "Before I go
I got one fer you.
No man owning' a dogs gotta' bark his self.
See, I've red some Bix too.
I climbed aboard an' sat down
an' heard the old man yell before the train was gone
"Hey, mister, jus' remember...
DON"T SQUAT WITH YER SPIRS ON!"

What did you say, Huh

“What did You Say, Huh?”
Chuck Martin

My wife, Laurene, and I went to Pepe Delgatos one evening for dinner. We planned to eat and go to a movie. The waitress came to our table, handed us a menu and said a few inaudible words to Lauren.

“The waitress sounds English,” I said.

”The waitress is from London.”

“Oh,” I said, taking my cowboy hat off and setting it in the next chair. “I didn’t hear her tell you that.”

“She was standing next to you.”

“On what landing?”

“Standing….Standing next to you,” she said.

“Oh.”

The waitress came back to take our order. She gave the specials for the day and then spoke so low I asked Laurene what she’d said. “The specials are, chicken enchilada’s, or beef taco’s.”

“I’ll take the taco’s.”

The waitress looking at me mumbled something that I couldn’t hear, so I figure she hadn't heard me and wanted to know if I had chosen an item. She looked a little perplexed when I replied, “Yes,”

My wife nudged me with her elbow, “She wants to know if you want FLOUR or CORN tortilla’s.”

“White.”

“He means flour,” Laurene said.

Our meal came and as always it was delicious. The margaritas were made just the way we like them. While eating, I noticed a family sitting across from us looking around the room with a puzzled expression. The waitress came into the dining room, cocked her head to the side as if she were trying to locate a sound. My wife placed her hand on my shoulder and informed me my hearing aid was buzzing. Sometimes, while I’m eating, it works a little way out of my ear, and makes a loud buzzing noise. The pitch is too high for me to hear. I twisted it back in, and everyone in the room relaxed. I guess they thought it was a fire alarm.

My wife informed everyone in a loud voice, “It was his HEARING AID!”

“Thanks for letting everyone know it was me,” I mumbled.

Driving home after the movie I asked Laurene to explain what the girl in the movie said to the man to make him forsake his job, and get on the ship that sank on its way to Istanbul?

“What movie were you watching, for heaven sake? There wasn’t anything about a man forsaking anything to go anywhere. It was about the sinking of the Titanic.”

It was my turn to look confused. “Well, that's interesting.” I said.

The Barneys

Chuck Martin
The Barneys


Marla lives in Crawford, Colorado, on a small spread of land, with her husband Charlie, a bunch of dogs, a horse, and two donkeys both named Barney. She loves donkeys. She thinks they are misunderstood, as they are patient, smart, and calm if you know how to handle them. She says leaning into their soft coat you can smell the Wild West; look into their eyes you see magic; and they come in many wonderful colors, shapes, and sizes. Marla always yearned for donkeys, and now has two, Brown Barney and Blue Barney.

One day, while driving not far from her place she met Brown Barney standing sideways on the road, blocking the way. Marla tried to persuade Barney to move. No chance! He was going to stubbornly stand his ground. A considerable time later Barney decided he wanted to move. Barney was an escape artist, and a rogue in the neighborhood. One time Barney backed into the front doorway of a neighbor‘s house, and they had to leave out the back.

Marla started searching for Barney on a day to day basis, and thrilled to see him as she drove by his pasture. Soon she was stopping feeding him fruitcake just so she could pet, and touch his velvety ears. Marla and Barney bonded. She found the more time spent with him the more she realized he was much more than just a donkey. He was a friend. She asked his owner if she could spend time with Barney, and he said, go ahead. After a struggle Marla finally got him to bridal, and would take Barney up the road to her place, and then back. One day the owner told her to keep him. The man seemed happy to see him go.

A while later Blue Barney came into Marla’s life. Since then Brown Barney has taught his pal how to escape her pasture, through an electric fence. They close their eyes, and keep walking, as it must hurt only for a little while. Blue Barney has taught his buddy some tricks too, like eating shrubbery, for no reason. They are now a large part of the Bishop family, and if you ever driving through Crawford, and two donkeys block your path, say hi to Brown and Blue Barney, and before you drive off, notify Marla.

Such Is Vanity

Such is Vanity

A poem by my granddaughter whoe's going to be famous

By Jasmine Martin

And would you trade your soul for gold?
A lasting price to pay
For a fleeting time to play.
Would you sell your soul for fame?
An endless masquerade
An everlasting pain.
Is it worth all this time
To live out a lie,
To try and hide who you are inside?
When age and beauty fade
All the colors that you crave,
Gold
Green
All grey,
What is it that you have gained?

Fishing Sickness

Fishin’ Sickness
Chuck Martin

T. K., a big, ruddy faced Irishman, was a friend of mine. He was one of those guys who walks to the beat of a different drummer. He was a nice guy, but give him a couple beers and his personality changed. On a week end he was usually lit up like a honky-tonk on a Saturday night.

One day T.K. asked if I wanted to go deep sea fishing. He said to meet him by the pier at four Saturday morning. The boat would leave at four-thirty.

I had never been out on the ocean. “What should I bring?”

“Forty bucks. They rent poles and bate on the boat.”

< align="left"At four o’clock I arrived and T.K. was waiting. He held an extra large ice chest containing a couple six-packs of Budweiser, a large bag of peanuts, and a couple sandwiches. “Let’s have a beer.” T. K. popped one and handed it to me. I’m not much of a drinker, three beers and I want to lay down and go to sleep, so I sipped it. He handed me a sandwich, “We otta’ eat before we go.” I found it contained wilted lettuce, and a large slice of, ugly looking, Spam. I swallow it down with the help of my beer. He guzzle three beers, handed me some peanuts, and gave this advise. “When we get out there keep munchin’ on these peanuts. Keep yer eyes moving, an’ don’t look at any one object.”

< align="left">With other fisherman we climbed aboard our boat. As we left the jetty waves became large and turbulent, and the boat climbed up one, then plunged down, then up again. I felt queasy, ate peanuts , and kept my eyes moving. I was in the bow and the ocean spray hitting my face made me feel better. We were a mile out when we dropped in our lines.

I tried to concentrate on fishing, but the boats constant bobbing brought the nausea back. I looked at T.K. and he had finished another beer, crushed the can, and tossed it behind him. The bathroom was down by the engine room and I staggered inside. The strong smell of desial fuel made me feel a whole bunch sicker. It felt like every flu bug I’d ever had come back to haunt me. I headed outside to get fresh air.

Unknown to me T.K. was now so drunk he couldn’t hit the deck with his hat in three tries. T. K. staggered over to a man who had caught a lot of fish.

“I shappose you think yer a fisherman,” T. K. said.

“I do all right,” the man answered.

“Well, les see ya do this,” T.K. grabbed a anchovy from the man’s bait bucket, and bite the head off.

At that moment I was coming out of the engine room. I saw T.K bite the fish and ran for the rail. For the next three hours I chummed for the entire fishing party. I wished for two things, to be on dry land, and, to die. But, I had learned a valuable lesson, keep your eyes moving, don‘t look at one thing.

Tufty's Delemma

Chuck Martin

Tuffty stood at the entrance leading into the circle driveway to the ranch house. He was short, barrel chested, with reddish blond hair, a ruddy complexion, and wire-rimmed glasses. He wore a large brimmed, black cowboy hat; collarless white shirt underneath a black, knee length, drover coat. He held a double barreled shot-gun across his chest.

Two weeks before, working as my sergeant at the California Training Facility, a prison in Soledad, California, Tuffty was called out to the parking lot to his pickup truck where the Security Squad was waiting for him. When he arrived Officers Pete and Sam were standing there. “What’s the problem?” Tuffty asked.

“Did you know you had a hay hook in the bed of your truck?” Pete asked.
Tufty scratched his head, “I must’a left it after I bucked hay. I‘ll lock it up” He grabbed the hook and reached in his pocket to get the keys. No keys. Peering through the window he saw them in the ignition.

Sam said, “How you gonna’ get in?”

“No problem,” Tufty said. Climbing in the bed he slid the back window open. Tuffty reached in and grabbed the keys. He unlocked the door, swiftly tossed the hay hook in, and closed it.
“What’s under that blanket?” Pete asked opening the door. Reaching under the blanket on the floor Pete pulled out a rifle. “You’re in trouble. Why do you have this weapon on prison grounds?”

“I’m suppose to go hunting after work."

Sam saw an ice chest on the far side of the front seat. He pulled it out, lay it on the ground, and opened it. A six pack of beer on ice. “Did you know you had beer in here?” Sam asked.

“Well, yeah, for the hunting… Give me a break?”

“Sorry, we got to report it, and take all this as evidence. “ When Tufty came back inside he stated, “I might be in trouble.” He explained what had happened. “What do you think?” “Well, “ I answered, “A weapon and alcohol on prison grounds is a felony.” Now, Tufftystood holding the shotgun. It was April 27, 1988,and I was getting married at a friends ranch house in the hills between Salinas and Monterey, California. We thought it would be funny to dress Tufty as “Marrying Sam” from Lil’ Abner, and greet people as they entered the ranch. Tufty stood there, in trouble for having weapons and beer on prison grounds, holding a shotgun as the Captain and Associate Warden drove up the hill. The day before they had told Tufty their decision to demote him. Fearful, seeing him standing there with a gun, they wanted to turn their car around, but the road was too narrow. They braved it and drove in. Tufty said they had a desperate look on their faces. Thankfully everyone at the wedding joked about it.

Tufty was lucky, he could have lost his job. He retired last year as a Correctional Counselor II.

Mother's Prize

“Mother’s Prize”

Chuck Martin

Last week I was cleaning up, getting rid of “stuff”. You know the things we collect and want to hang on to because we thought it might have a use later. Magazines with stories of world events, trinkets a friend gave you, awards, those type things you put away and forget.

Pulling items out, I inspected them. I had two piles, to keep; to get rid of. In a box on the highest shelf I discovered a piece of wood about six inches by five inches. It was pine and had been stained a light brown. The top was clumsily cut in the shape of roof tops. On one side the word “MOTHER” was scrolled. The letters haphazardly drawn with a wood burning tool. On the other side “MOTHER” was spelled out and this time in a straight line. In the left hand corner a heart was etched. A chip had been filled with wood putty that was to light for the wood. A hole had been drilled in the top center for hanging purposes.

I remember making this board in 7th grade woodworking class. We had a choice for our first projects. A cutting board; food tray, or a picture frame. I chose cutting board because it looked like the easiest to do. Originally it was to be 12X 6 inches, but I cut it off square. I had to do it over and this time I clipped off one end at an angle. I cut it over.
It now had an angle of different size on both ends. What to do? I decided to cut it at the top and make it look like part of the design. I cut here and there. It looked like the eves of roofs, so I left it that way.

I decided to give it to my mother as a prize. I used a wood burning set and burned “MOTHER” into the wood. It was terribly written, so I turned the board over. This time I used a ruler and took more time. Then I etched the heart. I discovered I had made a gouge in the wood with the tool. I filled it with wood putty, let it dry and put a finish on my project. I remember getting a “C” minus from the teacher, which I thought was unfair as the design was pretty original. It was too small for a loaf of bread, but you could cut up a sandwich. I gave it to my mother and it hung in the kitchen for awhile.

My mother passed away in 1988 and my two sisters and I went through my mothers things to decide what each would like to keep. We took our pick of letters and pictures. We came upon the cutting board and I said I’d like to have it and put it into a box with other collected bits and pieces. I didn’t think too much about it as it was a stressful time. At home I put away the things I had gathered from my mothers earthly possessions.

Now twenty years later I discover it again. I looked at this attempt I had made a long time ago to make something for my mother. It wasn’t much and really was worthless for its intended use. I was unaware of it’s value until now. It had great meaning to my mother as she had kept it for over thirty years. I imagine every once in awhile, on a rainy day, to cheer herself, she would pull this out and smile. Her boy had made it just for her.

Crackers

“Crackers”

Chuck Martin

We of the Midwest believe crackers are for soup. I don’t mean those sissy ones made of hi-gluten wheat flour and canola oil they hand out in fancy restaurants. I mean saltine crackers. They are also fantastic with crispy green salad. What would a bowl of firehouse chili be without a load of crumpled up crackers, and lots of catsup? One of my favorites as a kid was Campbell’s Pea Soup loaded with so many gooey saltines it looked like a big green glob of pasty peas. My family wasn’t too prosperous, and with crackers and ketchup you could almost double the subject matter.

Most restaurants in California, especially those with fancy pancy menus, don‘t carry them. “Soup or salad, Sir?” They ask.

“Got saltine crackers?”

“Why, no we don’t.”

“Neither one then”

Growing up I would go to a Chinese Restaurant and order chop suey. The waiters would bring a piping hot bowl and a large tub of crackers. It was a delicious combination. After moving to Morro Bay, California in the late 60’s I ate at a Chinese restaurant. I ordered a bowl of chop suey and when it arrived I asked for some crackers.“Clackers,” eyebrows raised, eyes wide the guy exclaimed, “We don’t have clackers!” He looked upset that anyone with any sense would order such a thing. I thought he was going to throw me out, and ban me from ever entering in his establishment again.

Denny’s has crackers, but they only give you two. There’s not much you can do with only two saltines. If you ask for more they always forget to bring them, and by the time you’ve waived your arm several times at a waitress, who ignore the gesture, you’ve eaten your soup. Sometimes someone across the room will waive back. I go over and see if they have any crackers they’re not using and are willing to give up.

A few weeks back my wife and I went to the “C&C Garden Bread Bakery and Café” in downtown Paso Robles. The bakery is owned by two nice ladies, Connie Jendin and Cherrie Hunter. It features home made soup, great sandwiches, and fresh baked bread. Pea soup was that day’s special. “Got any crackers?” I asked.

“No we don‘t,” Connie said.

“Soup ain’t soup with out ’em, I’ll just have a sandwich.”

A few minutes later Cherrie came out from the back. “You know we should have some crackers. Back home we always had crackers with our soup. Next time you’ll have them.” Sure enough on my next trip as soon as I walked through the door they announced, “We got your crackers!,” and a load of saltines were ushered forth. I crumpled as many as I could into that hot homemade black bean soup. I can’t wait for the next pea soup special so I can load it down into a big green glob of pasty peas.

Mmm’, mmm,’ Good!

The Check

“The Check”

Chuck Martin

Money scares me. Well, not money exactly, the transacting of the green stuff. I don’t do much banking and I leave that unpleasantness to my wife, Laurene. She writes the checks; pays the bills; manages the 501’s, 409’s or whatever the numbers are. She’s the banker in our family. thought c.d.‘s were for music. Now you can save money with them.

One day in Whitewater, Colorado I receive a $20.00 check for a poem accepted by Fence Post Magazine. The check’s bank is in Greeley, Colorado, with no branches in Grand Junction, the closest town to Whitewater. My daughter’s Credit Union is connected in some way to mine in Paso Robles, California. I figured it wouldn’t be a problem getting the check cashed, as it was for such a small amount.

At her Credit Union in Grand Junction I presented my check, plus my A.T.M. card to the lady teller. She was heavy set, young, wore too much makeup, and sported long black fingernails. She said she had to contact my branch before she could cash it.

Why,” I asked, “You have my debit card, and both branches are associated.

She shrugged. “It’s just policy.

After many tries she finally connect with someone in California. She handed the phone to me. I looked at the phone, then her. “They want to verify it is you.” She said.

I said, “Hello.”

It was a man but I could hardly make out what he was saying.
“Mr. Martin where were you b…” It sounded like he was disconnected.

“Lost him,” I said handing the phone back to her. “I’m a little hard hearing. I
could hardly understand him.”

She placed her ear to the phone, said something, and handed it back. “He’s still there, he wasn’t cut off!”

I said, “Hello.”

I heard a faint, “Your mother’s maid…”

“Gone again,” I said.

She took the phone, spoke to someone, and hung up. “He said he is refusing to identify you with the information provided. I‘m sorry I can‘t cash your check.”

“It’s only twenty bucks,” I said.

“Sorry.”

“Well, how about I go outside to the ATM and pull out twenty buck-a-roo’s ,” I picked up my card and flipped it back and forth between two fingers. “I’ll give you the twenty, you write your name and mine on the bill, then cash my check. If the check isn’t good the twenty dollars will secure it, and if it’s good I’ll return for my twenty. What say you?”

She stared at me dumbfounded. She tapped her black fingernails on the counter. I could tell she was considering my scheme, kind of rolling it around in her head. Finally, her eyes widened, she gave a sigh, and shoved the check over to me, “Sorry, against our policy.”

I left feeling dejected. I thought my proposal a good sound one. Banking is not what it used to be. Where’s the trust?

The Bat

The Bat

Chuck Martin

Sergeant Brown locked me in the building. He had the only key to the front door. I was

virtually a prisoner within a prison. I was a Correctional Officer working 1st watch in D Quad,

one of four quads inside the California Men’s Colony. It housed the mentally disturbed inmates.

For security the key to the front door is kept with the sergeant. The officer has a key to the Lock

Box, which unlocks the cells on one floor, and a master key to each cell. Only dim lights are left

on in the building.

I sat at my desk listening to night sounds. A muffled scream from some where down the

hall; loud talking and mumbling from unknown cells. A little spooked I counted the two story

building holding my flashlight, peering into five by six inch cell windows. Inmates slept; stood

talking to the ceiling, and some paced. Eerie sounds echoed down drafty halls, from unknown

places sending chills down my spine.

At my desk I heard loud pounding and kicking on a cell door. I went to the room halfway

down the right side on the first floor. An inmate stood on the other side of the glass. With a look

of horror he screamed. “There’s a bat in my cell…There’s a bat in my cell! Please help me.”

I called Sergeant Brown. “ I’ve got an inmate kicking his door and yelling there’s a bat in his

cell.”

“Tell that guy if he doesn’t quiet down I’ll put him in a “P” cell.” A “P” Cell is for unmanageable inmates.

I told the inmate what the sergeant said. “O.K., I’ll try to be quiet.”

Fifteen minutes later back at my desk the kicking and screaming continued.

“There’s a bat in my cell…HELP ME, PLEASE!”

I called the sergeant. “You tell that guy to be quiet and go to bed or I’ll be over there, and

he doesn’t want me over there!”

I explained what the sergeant stated and the inmate said he would try to go to sleep. A while

later pounding and screaming continued. I called Brown. He came over; angry. Over the kicking

and shouting he said, “You throw the bar and I’ll key his door. I’ll try to talk to him, but we may

have to wrestle this guy.”

Brown walked to the cell door, placed his key in the lock and gave me the signal to throw the

bar. I did, he slid the door open, and a little black, fuzzy bat flew out. “Oh, thank you sergeant,

thank you,” the inmate exclaimed and laid down on his bunk.

The sergeant closed the door and I threw the bar. Not saying anything Brown walked to the

front door, opened it, turned to me, and with a slight smile said. “I’ll be darned, there was a bat

in his cell"

GRASS TRIMMING

“Grass Trimming”

Chuck Martin

Last summer Carlos Ortega moved twenty miles out east of town on a twenty acre farm up in the hills. He bought the property five years ago with an old house needing lots of repairs.In his spare time he worked on the house until he could move in. It had a good well, and a large lawn in front . There is no electricity, or telephone service out there, and Carlos gets by with a butane tank and a generator. He doesn’t have a cell phone, so when he’s at the ranch there isn’t any contact with the outside world. Carlos’ has never been married.

Carlos owns a prosperous restaurant in town called, La Taco Tia, named after a favorite aunt . He’s been in the U.S. for thirty-five years. He is short and stubbly built.. A black moustache hangs under a large nose on his brown, friendly face. Carlos’ has a big heart and I’ve never met anyone who could say a bad word about him.

“Carlos, why do you want to live so far out of town? That’s a long, hilly, curvy road to drive everyday?” I asked one day while sitting at the counter chomping on a bean burrito.

“It’s so peaceful, Chuck.” he said,. “I go relax.. No one around to bother me. It’s nice, real nice.”

Last week I went to the La Taco Tio for some breakfast. It was early, and not many had yet ventured into the restaurant. I sat at the counter drinking a cup of coffee. Carlos refilled my cup, “Hear what happen, Chuck?”

“What?”

“I got robbed a few days ago.”

“Here?”

“No, no, no, at my ranch, around, noon. I come to work, got a headache and drove home. When I come aroun’ the corner I see this big truck sitting in my drive way. A man comes out the house carrying something, and puts it in the truck. I watch. He goes back inside an’ I slowly drive in back of the house. I have my rifle with me an’ I grab it out of the truck. I stand outside and wait. After ‘bout a minute he comes out carrying a box. I point the rifle at him and yell, ‘Up with yer hands, senior!’ He looked surprised., drops the box,. an’ up goes his hands. I have him move out to the center of driveway. He’s a white guy, ’bout six feet tall an‘ mean lookin‘. Now I have a problem. Know what that is?”

“No bullets?”

“No. no, no, its’ I have no phone, no cell thing, no nothing to call the police. I have this guy standing in my driveway, his hands are up. I think, now what do I do with him? What you think I did, Chuck?”

“Shoot him?”

“No, no, I look around to find something to keep him occupied while I think what to do. I tell him to mow my grass. I keep a cover on him as he pushes the mower up the grass an’ down the grass. When he’s done I have him chop wood. He picked up the axe an‘ looks at me in a funny way. I fire one in the ground next to him, an’ tell him not to get feisty. He looks real scared. He must be thinking’ he has some nut on his hands, an’ chops the wood real fast. Then when he’s done choppin’ I have him put everythin’ back into my house from his truck. I finally figure out what I’m going to do with this crook. Guess what I did, Chuck?”

“Now you shoot him?”

Carlos refilled my coffee. “No, Chuck,. I let him go,“

“You what? Just let him go after he tried to rob you?”

“ Ah, but first I tell him to give me his divers license. He reach in his pocket, takes it outta‘ his wallet an‘ gives it to me. I tell him to get in his truck and get goin‘. He jumped in an’ took off fast in a cloud a dust. I drove back to town, called the police, and gave ‘um his drivers license.”

“Good thinking,“ I say, “Have they caught’em?”

“Sure, the next morning they got him at his house. He wasn’t too bright.“

I talked to the sheriff later that day and he said old Carlos was pretty sharp letting this crook go. "The guy is an x-con with a bad reputation. Getting him to mow his lawn, that was one for the books." The sheriff smiled, and added that before locking him up he had him do some yard work around the jail.

Grapes

“Grapes?”
Chuck Martin

“What ya figuring on planting on these ten acres, Vic?” I asked as he drove me around his families forty-acre ranch. There are two homes, one above the other, built on a hill with a beautiful view of the valley. One house is for Vic and his wife Nina and, one for his daughter and son-in-law. They have a lot of different varieties of fruit trees, a pond, and some horses. He was showing me ten acres of bottom land on the edge of the property. Vic’s was in his eighties then and, like me, a little hard of hearing.

“We’re thinkin’ about grapes,” he answered as we drove in his electric golf cart to the edge of a small pond.

“A friend a mine, in the grape business for forty years, says there’s too many people planting grapes. He says one a these days the bottom’s goin’ ta fall out and growers will be left holdin’ the bag,” I informed Vic.

“How many geese ya see over across the pond?” he asked.

“Four.”

“Should be five.”

“It seems like golf would be the thing to put in,” I said. “Pretty popular around here.”
Vic pointed, “There’s the other one. That makes five.”

“What do you think?” I asked.

“We miss counted, or he was under that bank over there.”

“No, I mean about the golf!”

“Been tryin’ to figger out how to get the moss out of this pond,” Vic stated off handedly.
An idea flashed through my mind, “You could do it with just one putting green, with eighteen holes, and different colored and numbered flags.”

“I don’t care how many holes you drilled it wouldn’t drain the pond to get to the moss!” Vic stated.

“No, I mean golf. You could have eighteen driving greens, all lined up in a circle, and each ending on the one putting green. You could tee off and when you reach the putting green find your particular hole to shoot. It’s different. It’s brilliant, and you could make a lot of money. What ya think?”

Vic lifted his straw cowboy hat, scratched his bald head and asked, “About the moss?”

“No,” I stated impatiently, “the ten acre golf course.”

“Grapes, we’re plantin’ grapes.”

“Oh,” I muttered.

Pretty Paper Flowers

“Pretty Paper Flowers”
Chuck Martin

One night, a few years back, I sat having a beer in the local tavern. In semi-darkness the regulars sat at tables, or stood at the bar talking. A small Mexican lady walked through the door, with a withered, wrinkled face, her body slightly bent. Her old muslin, white dress , had faded red and blue flowers at the hemline, her shoes covered with dust. Carried under her right arm a wooden box filled with handmade red paper flowers, each wrapped around thin wire. Walking to the center of the room, she held out her box, and in a low hesitant, heavy Mexican accented voice asked, “Pretty flowers for sale?”

Conversation stopped, and every eye turned toward her, but no one answered. They all wanted to ignore her, a little embarrassed for the old women, and upset that she had interrupted them. “Lady,” the bartended said, “we don’t allow solicitors. Go on outta’ here and peddle those elsewhere!”

In the back corner of the bar, sat an old man in tattered clothes. His cowboy shirt thread bare and filthy, a crumpled, cowboy hat was tilted sideways. His face was tanned, wrinkled and sported grey stubble. He was sitting alone in a corner drinking his beer. A couple hours earler I saw him panhandle a few dollars in front of the bar. In a loud voice he asked, “Cuanto, missy?”
Everyone turned to see who had broken the silence, and saw ol’ Dan, the alcoholic who was always begging for drink money. He had been thrown out of every bar in town.

“Who is he to ask?,” someone whispered, “he has nothing to give anyone. He is just a beggar.”

“Twenty-five cents, Senior” she answered.

Ol’ Dan walked over, searched his pocket and pulled out his change. He smiled, a twinkle in his eye, and asked, “Would you take twenty-two cents, senora?”

“Si Senior, I would, gracias,” she said handing him a pretty red flower.

Dan stuck the flower in the brim of his, worse for wear, hat, and handed her his change. “Might I escort you to the next establishment?”
She nodded and smiled, “Gracias,” and taking Dan’s offered arm, they ambled out the front door.
The patrons shook their heads, mumbled their disapproval and went back to their drinks. I was little ashamed that I hadn’t piped up, “Yeah, I’ll take one.“ But, sadly, I sat there like the
rest and said nothing . There’s an old cowboy saying that anyone who shows kindness to
others will also find happiness, and favor with the Lord. Why didn’t I think of that?

The Braggart

The Braggart”

Chuck Martin

Jim Thomas was a braggart, and could talk your ear off. He was so full of verbal lather it’ed fill a shaving mug. Wind him up on a subject, and he could go on and on. He just wouldn’t shut up. If you said you had ten head a cattle ready for sale, why he’d say he had twenty. If you said you had the fastest horse in the county, why his was fastest in the state. If you said you’d walked all the way up Pike’s Pike, he’d say he crawled all the way up and never rested. You knew he was fabricating, and he knew you knew, but it didn’t make no difference.

One Sunday morning after church I set to go fishing with my friend Tom. Driving up I could see he was heading for the barn. I walked over to greet him, and saw Tom had a cow hitched to a corral board.

“How’s it goin’, Tom?”

“Pretty good. Cows got some grub worm sores I gotta’ lance. We kin take off after I do that an’ take care of a couple other things.” There’s always something needs to be done, or fixed, when your in the ranch business.

If you didn’t know, grub worms are the larvae of bomb flies that travel through cattle’s hair. They borrow into skin, then head for the back of the cow. A sore develops as the larvae grows, full of green puss. You have to stand aside when you cut and squeeze as the contents can fly about ten feet. Tom opened his razor sharp knife.

“Hey, fella’s what’s up?” Jim yelled as he shuffled towards us from his pickup.

“Man here he comes,” Tom said. “I hope he don’t wanna’ go fishin’ with us.”

“Yeah,” I said, “that guy‘s as full of wind as a bull at corn time. Don‘t know how we‘ll get rid a’ him.”

”You fixin’ to lance that sore?” Jim said when he walked up.

“Naw,” Tom answered, “I’m fixin’ to skin this cow. What does it look like I’m doin’?”

Jim ignored the question, “I had a cow one time had a sore twice that size…”

“Yeah,” I interrupted, “an’ I suppose you had to use a chain saw to lance it?”

“Almost. Say, what you guys up to today?”
“We’re goin’ fishing.” Tom said, and realizing he’d said the wrong thing turned and proceeded to do the surgery. He brought the knife up to lance the thing…

“Hey, if’n it’s all right kin I get my rod an’ come along. I was fishin’ last week and come up with a four pound trout. Yeah, took me twenty-five minutes to land that sucker. I measured it an’ it weighed fi…”

Tom cut into the sore and squeezed. Jim, standing directly behind us, mouth wide open, didn’t get to finish his brag. We finished Toms chores, and took off for the lake. Jim followed us out. We sat there all day, and never caught a dang thing. Jim didn’t speak much.

The Grouch

“The Grouch”

Chuck Martin

At times Uncle Buss was a grouch. He had ulcers. When they were hurting he swallowed white chalky stuff and took long walks. When he was having one of these spells I tried to avoid upsetting him. My summers were spent on his ranch in Tucson and he would fetch me at my home in Pueblo, Colorado. Once, when I was eleven, we were to leave the next morning and Buss, decided to tune up his old 49’ Plymouth.
I was standing in the yard as he came out the back door. “Come on,” he ordered, motioning me to follow. I was careful, as the night before Buss took a long walk after supper, and that morning he had chug-a-lugged some of that chalky, white medicine. So with nervous uncertainty I followed him to the back shed where the Plymouth was parked.

Uncle Buss popped the hood, took his cowboy hat off, placed it on a fence post, and stuck his bald head underneath. He started messing with some wires. “Gemmie the kray-sant wrench,” he stated, from under the hood, arm straight out, hand open waiting for the tool. I had no idea what he was talking about. Rushing into the shed I grabbed the first wrench I saw. Nervously I placed it in Buss’s hand. He yelled, “Dad blast it!” and swiftly came up hitting his head on the edge of the hood. He stood there with a painful, disgusted look on his face, rubbing his head where a small cut, and a knot, had appeared. “I didn’t ask for a box end. I need a crescent.” He walked into the shed, came out with the right tool, and ducked back under the hood.

I stood there dreading his next request. Uncle Buss stuck his head out, “Get in the car. When I tell you, turn the ignition over a few times, Jus’ barely hit it. Can you do that?”

“Y-Yes, sir,” I said climbing in behind the wheel. The keys were in the ignition. The silver starter button on the dash. I put my thumb on the button waiting for his command. He yelled something. Thinking it was the order to turn the engine over I pushed in the clutch, turned the key, and pushed the button. The Plymouth back fired, coughed, and came to life. Buss flew out from under the hood, rushed over, and violently flew open the door. The veins in his neck stuck out, his face was crimson red, “Gosh dang,” he yelled, “Ya lil’ idjit! Ya tryin’ to kill me? My head was right by the fan blade. I told ya to hold on a minute, not start the dang thing. Get the dickens outta’ there. Just stand here and don’t do nothin‘.”

Buss turned the motor off, got his head back under the hood, came out, and hit the starter a couple of times. He repeated this. I stood happily doing nothing. He came up out of the engine signaling me to come over. “My glasses are in the shed,” he said in a low firm voice. “Do you think you could find them?”

I looked high and low and had almost given up when I spied a pair on the shelf. I wondered why he would want that kind, but they were the only ones in there. I handed them to him. He stared at the glasses in a strange way. Shaking his head he looked down at me. Buss spoke calmly, and very slowly. “Why… in… the… world… would you… think… I wanted sun-glasses to work under the hood of a car?” “It was the only glasses there,” I exclaimed. Buss looked up at the sky and back at me. “Here’s two dimes, get outta’ here. Go get an ice cream.”

Sitting on the curb by the store eating ice cream I thought, Uncle Buss sure gets grouchy when his ulcers are acting up.

The First Bull Ride

THE FIRST BULL RIDE”
Chuck Martin

My friend Bobbie interduced me to “T-Bone” Bill Roberts
in back of the buckin’ shutes at the fair.
We weren’t there to ride a bronk,or rope a steer
we just took up a friends dare.
To sneek in, an’ not pay, we climbed over a 10 foot fence
with rolled barb wire and fell into some hay.
“Hey you two boys, what ya’ think yer doin’,”
We heard a gruff voice say.
We skiddadled outta’ there as fast as we could
and found ourselves behind the bullriding’ chutes.
That’s when Bobbie spied ol’ T-Bone an interduced me.
He asked if I could ride an I said “bet Yer Boots”
“Next Saturday we’re headin’ fer Denver
to try out some new bulls. They let ya ride fer 5 bucks.”
Did he mean ride’um like in Bull Ride!
I’d never done it, and didn’t want to press my luck.
We’ll be there,” Bobbie says, “We don’t want ta miss the fun.’
I elbows him in the ribs.
“Ya know we never rode no bull before,” I whispers.
“An’ it aint no use ta fib!”
Just then from outta’ the shut next to us a rider an’ bull
come dancin’ out into the arena in the dirt.
The bull flew up in the air and turned completely ‘round.
The cowboy kissed the sky; his chaps hung on a horn by it’s skirt.
With a quick jerk of the bulls head the yahoo was thrown thirty feet
an’ landed on a fence post.
Wow,” I said with a wince, “ that could be us on Saturday.
Man we could end up like burnt toast.”
That Saturday, Bobby an’I hitched a ride to Denver
in the back of a pickup loaded with chickens to sell.
We both had scrapped up enough change ta make 5 bucks
for the entry fee an’ borrowed one bull rope & bell.
We climed off at the fair an’ we were left standin’ there
In the dert and chicken feathers dust.
We sauntered on in like we knew what we was doin’ an’ paid the 5 bucks
in nichles, dimes & quarters, leaving us both bust.
T-Bone spotted us and sauntered on over shoved his hat back, smiled an’
shook our hands.
You boys ready fer some ecitement?” he asked, noddin’ toward the
grandstands.
“We sure are, T-Bone. Me an’ ol’ Chuck’s ready ta’ ride,”
Bobbie says a little quiver in his voice, “Yes sir’ee, you bet.”
“Then let’s get ready to ride.” T-Bone states, as he heads
up the midway to the shuts.

Frindly Advice

FRIENDLY ADICE

Marvin Hass
Buena Vista, Colo

I notice as the years count up
my friends ain’t near as tidy.
Syrup’s hardened on their scruffy chins
where they forgot to lick last Friday
If you’re wondering what they had for lunch
…say a day or two ago.
It’s all right there in front of them
For the world to see and know.
Course when you dare to point it out
In a kindly caring way,
Concern from one friend to another
They will question what you say.
They’ll fiddle with their eye glasses
Adjusting for a peek.
“I don’t see what yer talking about
There’s nothing wrong with me.”
It happens to the best of us
Ain’t pointing fingers so to speak
Believe I see a sign er two
Of what I ate last week
Now when yer wife yells in your ear
Or points to yer second chin
Nod your head, wipe your face
And give a toothy grin.