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.