Back Then Memoirs of a Country Boy: Memoirs of a Country Boy

By Larry L. Laws

Larry learned early on that a mans hand-shake is his bond. To this day he retains that bond as well as one of honesty and compassion for others in all his dealings. Most men are honest, but
at times ambition or greed can influence the best of intentions.

Although Larry had a humble beginning, he rose above it to become a very successful man and was able to change dysfunctional living practices with his own family. He instilled love, honesty and respect in their upbringing all the while exhibiting patience and understanding. His greatest love is for God, his family, friends and nature. That love has been an inspiration in the writing of both Poetic Expressions and now his autobiography.

Larry also managed to take time out of his busy schedule to work with other kids as noted by all his years of coaching baseball and never missing any event that they were involved in, even if he had to leave work early.

His love of nature is unequalled. Larrys descriptions have the ability to take you there. Sometimes that love of nature has resulted in butting heads with preservationists as to timberland and renewable resources. This is especially so with them filing lawsuits to stop burnt and diseased timber harvesting.

A sense of humor didnt pass him by either as noted in his autobiography again and again, as he says, a man without mirth is akin to a horse without hooves. For both must tread lightly upon the rocky roads of life.

To sum it up Larry quotes an unknown author, the rigors of senior years may prove to be very challenging Have we put up a good fight throughout or is it the confusion of genes and how they are inherited to blame?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 14, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465357038

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Copyright © 2011 by Larry L. Laws.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2011915436

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4653-5702-1

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4653-5701-4

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4653-5703-8

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CONTENTS

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Foreword

In The Beginning

Tin Lizzie Memories Of Yesteryear

Sister Doris Comes Home

Greenough

Under-Age Alcohol Consumption

First Grade

I Am A Lefty

Poetry: A Colossal Method Of Thought Portrayal

Blatsky The Electric Bull

Temper Motivated Tantrums

Butchering In The Blackfoot

Mom And The Bee

Random Memories

Mishaps Of Moving

Not Too Bright

The Last Steam Engine On The Np Railroad

The Bullwhip And Snake Dance

Pitching Practice With A Horizontal Log Wall Backstop

Bicycle Broad Jump

Smudged Chicken Brunch

Dinner Is Dinner

The Cleanest Colon In The County

Grade School Basket Ball The Hard Way

Just Two Words

Pre-Teen Wheat Harvest

Right Cross Deviated Septum

A Dog Of Questionable Ancestry

The Rural Dog Goes To Town

Unique Fish Bait

Before Bear Spray And No Gun

From A Cherry Picker To A Carny

The Agate Ring

Slippery Slope

Home Again Maybe

Poetica

Ear-Lowering Decision

Theatrical Chinning Bar Mishap

Atf Problems

My First Car

Dad’s Last Bear Hunt

More Thought On Thoughts

I Didn’t Want To Go There

A Tribute To One Damn Fine Irishman

Sharing A Fish Feed

A Tomcat And A Three-Story School

Gop

Graduation Without The Party

Army Days Gomer Pyle’s Style

Homeward Bound

Company Banker

Right Place At The Right Time

Segregation

Treating The Siblings

Photographic Memory

Victory Girls

Short Timer

First, Last, And Only

Montana Bound

Chain Gang Without Shackles

A Lady Of Interest

Wedding Bells

Identical In All Aspects

Party Time

More On The Chain Gang

First Christmas

Winter Driving

Adios Chain Gang

Construction

Bridge No. 57—Summer Of 1956

A Growing Family

Our First

Divine Intervention

More Bridge Work

Unthinkable

Our Second Born

Growing Pains

Unemployment

Deer Park Employment

Timber Beast Subtitle

French Hobbled By Frisco’s

Adolescent Dancing

Christmas 1959

Our New Home

The Oliver Brothers

A Trip To Remember

Urge To Merge

Wisecracks!

Common Sense

Sleeping Child Fire

My Partner Gets Hurt

Idaho Spud Head

Life In The New House

Our Firstborn Goes To School

Another New House

New Job Description

Roger Gets Hurt Again

More Logging News

Tragedy On The Mountain

Beyond Our Control

A Fishy Vocation

More Fish And Game

Hookers Of My Acquaintance—Logger Type

More Flashbacks

Expose’

Sugar Daddy

Standby

Juvenile Expertise

A Little Humor

Welder Update

Farmer Brown

Credit

Pay Ahead

Ear Injury

A Beautiful Rifle

Some Quotes And Other Humor

Finley Flats

Boys And Baseball

Terrors Of The Aftermath

Little Drummer Boy

Ice Capades And Christmas Presents

Baseball 1971

Our Greatest Loss

We Are Champions

Bad Hair Day

Jaycee Days

Bragging Rights

Laws Sets Scoring Record.

High School Rodeoing

Graduations

Huck—Berry Filler

Mt. St. Helens

Another Hectic Year

But For The Grace Of God!

Firewood

1982 Relocation

May, 1986—Attend Dad’s Graduation

Nelcon Job

Fat Man’s Folly

Fiber-Optic Installation

Ambition

A Blessed Family Event

Nelson Family Reunion

Two More Money Boxes

Harvester Logging

Thompson Falls House Fire

This, That, And Some Of The Other

Poetry

Horse Trader

More Champion Logging

Winter’s Meat

Tri-Creek Fire

Tragedy And Near Tragedy

Another Tragedy

Some Witticisms

Sub-Division Work

From Logging To Construction

Aci Operator Roasts

A Trip To Canada

One More Time

Party Time Perplexity

Some More Aci Operator Roasts

Peter

Five Master Bosses

A Life Curve

Rocking Chair Time

A Long-Held Fable Shattered

One More Of Life’s Surprises

God’s Prescription

A Beautiful Wedding

Writer’s Cramp

Commence!

Another Money Box

Esp, A Flashback Of 1947

Snowbound—Big-Time

More On Poetry

A Little More Reminiscing

Notoriety

Sad News

Betting On The Come

A Little About My Pair Of Crafty Critiques

Onward To The Present

These Are My Two Crafty Critiquers

Appendix

Appendix

Frank Edward Laws Shorty March 6, 1889-January 12, 1966

Good-Bye Mom!

My Brother, Ernest’s Memories Of Mom

Birth, Quest, Destiny: A Tribute To Our Son

In Memory Of Harold L. (Hank) Laws

DEDICATION

I would like to dedicate this book to my wife, Ann, for her patience and understanding during its composition. In addition, I’d like to thank her for the conversion of my longhand to the computer as well as critiquing and suggestions. Without her help, this book would never have reached fruition.

I’ll include my e-mail ([e-mail]) and would truly enjoy hearing from you readers. I don’t guarantee total accuracy on all dates and incidents.

For years, Larry Laws has wanted to capture his thoughts and memories of a rural life he has lived, mostly in Western Montana.

With help and encouragement from his wife, he has written a collection of heart-warming, humorous and down-home personal tales and original poetry.

Hats off to Larry, a cowboy of sorts, who offers readers a perspective on the life of a hard-working, fun-loving country boy.

He shares his unique memories of family, schooling, an honest day’s work, the outdoors, farm life, hard times and good.

Between the covers of Back Then, Larry tells a good story—several, in fact. So, turn the pages, take a fun ride with this North Idaho author and plan to enjoy these recollections of Larry Laws’ personal journey.

Marianne Love

Author/Freelance Writer

Larry,

It is great to see your story has reached your goal. I love the title Back Then: Memoirs of a Country Boy.

Your tales are made better by your soft spoken way of telling a story. We should all look back at the past to understand how much we in society have changed. We are today what our parents and events of the time taught us and we are the teachers of our sons and daughters. A trip back is the best way to discover what people and events shaped our lives. The next step is to impart this to the next generation. This book is a great platform for doing just that. Thanks for making the trip an enjoyable one.

Michael Andrew Marsden, The North Idaho Ghost Writer

Michael is the author of The House in Harrison, The Man in the Closet, A Walk in the Rain and Sam d’Bear.

Larry,

Back Then: Memoirs of a Country Boy is a wonderfully entertaining read that brings yesterday back to life!

Venturing into the exciting and heartfelt chapters awoke many memories of an era that I, too, grew up in. You have such a wonderfully entertaining way with words! Thank you for sharing your biography with me.

Thanks for sharing your adventures!

Shannon Kraatz

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My thanks and appreciation go out to all who helped me in this endeavor; my wife, Ann of course, and Little Sis Ethel (my two critiques). Our children: Larry II, Tim, and Lori, as well as other family members and good friends.

I feel so blessed in having such a wonderful family. Their understanding, encouragement, and help in reminding me of incidents and issues of past experiences were invaluable.

Idaho Writer’s League members: Michael Marsden, Mary Jane Honegger, Ann Washington, and Jim Turner, to name a few, helped me in many ways as did Liz Mastin who was a big help in my poetry writing.

Thanks also to Marianne Love and Shannon Kraatz for their editing skills and, more importantly, their encouragement. It was so appreciated!

FOREWORD

As the title states, I started life as a country boy and have remained as such most of my life. I still admire the code of life that they lived by. They judged others by honesty. Ninety percent of transactions were sealed with a promise and a handshake. Friends became scarce if you didn’t live up to your word. This is quite different from today’s multi-paged contracts with a lot of words that don’t say much.

The era of my early childhood, during the depression, was devastating to some people. The families living in the country had a very challenging lifestyle, but for the most part, were nearly self-sufficient.

By raising large gardens and many farm animals, they provided themselves with more than adequate supplies of food. Being without electricity, their only means of preserving the food was by canning it. Our root cellar shelves were loaded with many jars, ranging from pints to gallons. Every fall, Mom had most of them filled to capacity. The cellar stayed cool enough to keep the fresh vegetables from spoiling.

The families living in town had a much harder time. Those without jobs pretty much depended on charity or bartering for food. With so few jobs available, quitting a job was mostly unheard-of. Several people had the same job for their entire working career. There were very few cars, so walking was the way many went to work.

Also, anyone driving always picked up those having to walk. Foul play by hitchhikers was rare.

In fact, anyone guilty of that offense usually could only chew soup for a while The same applied to stealing, murder, rape, etc., and they usually didn’t live long enough to tell their grandkids. Quite different from today’s gutted legal system’s antics.

My wonderful family had been haranguing me to start writing my life story for the last fifteen years at least. With a lot of suggestions and prodding, I started writing in May 2008. Like the flow of a stream, after I started, I had a hard time deciding which story to stop on. The more I wrote, the more life experiences came to mind. I swear had I written all of them, my book would need a handcart for transportation. So many of my memories will, therefore, have to remain memories.

I hope some of the present generation will compare the lifestyle Back Then, to the present one. I don’t believe self-sufficiency has gone out of style; it was just much more prevalent then. In tough times, they didn’t ask for a handout—just a hand-up. I hope you enjoy my book. I added a few poems, and if poetry isn’t your bag of tea, just turn to the next page. I always get back to the story at hand.

Larry L. Laws

IN THE BEGINNING

Early spring in the year of our Lord 1933, the United States of America was in a terrible state of affairs. President Franklin D. Roosevelt proposed and enacted legislation to withdraw our country from the gold standard. That law compelled the treasury department to keep, on hand, in the vaults, a like amount of gold for every paper dollar printed. It also made it illegal for private citizens to own gold. Several citizens, fortunate enough to have a little, buried theirs. Those attempting to follow the law turned in their gold to the government, who promptly melted huge amounts of coins and bullion.

The great depression was in full swing. It was reported a wheelbarrow of paper money couldn’t buy even a bag of potatoes. Dust from the Midwest was being re-deposited in the east and south, results of the famous dust bowl, often referred to as the Black Blizzard. Jobs were scarce; animals were starving, and there was no measurable precipitation for months on end. Families were loading what possessions that would fit in cars and participating in an exodus of humanity heading west. Frank Laws’ family was no exception. Imagine the family treasures left behind!

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Grandpa (Leonard Nelson), Grandma (Jennie

Peterson-Nelson), Mom (Mabel Nelson) and Uncle

Alfred Nelson.

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Mom (Mabel Nelson-Laws) and Dad (Frank Edward

Laws) wedding picture -1927-

In 1918, Frank moved his family—two sons Don and Roy and one daughter, Doris—from Nebraska to Great Falls, Montana. Tragedy struck the family shortly afterwards when Mrs. Laws (Bess) died. Frank, recuperating from a back injury, and very short of money, had to place the children in an orphanage. He then worked as a cowboy and government trapper in the Augusta, Montana, area for several years. His quest for work led him to Missoula, Montana, where he met Mabel Nelson.

After being married in 1927, in an attempt to eke out a living, with very few jobs available, Frank and Mabel Laws opened a Mom and Pop store. The site was an old log building in Western Montana, thirty-five miles east of Missoula, at the confluence of the Blackfoot and Clearwater rivers. Three children were born to them while they operated the store: Ernest Edward, Leona Ellen, and William Leonard.

In the wee hours of morning, Uncle Clarence and a midwife, Mrs. Ferguson, were en route to Mabel Laws’ place in Clearwater, Montana. Their transportation was a sleigh drawn by a team of galloping horses. While crossing Elk Creek Bridge, a large frost heave flipped the midwife, apple box seat, and lap robe high in the air, and when they landed, the sleigh had already passed. The galloping horses welcomed the whoa command, getting a chance to catch their wind. The wet, froze-up midwife gathered up the lap robe, apple box, and her gingham gown skirt tail and remounted the sleigh, stating emphatically, Go man, go. Neither God nor birthing mothers wait for no one. Had they known the eventual introduction of Larry Lee Laws to the world would not occur until late afternoon on March 17, 1933, (St. Paddy’s day). The mishap, due to speed, would not need to have occurred. This story has been oft repeated over the years.

I have also been told that Mom had a very difficult delivery with me and vowed to never have another home birth. And true to her convictions, the other three children—Ethel, Harold, and Dorothy— were born in the hospital in Missoula.

One of my earliest memories takes me back to my ardent love for a saddle horse Star, pictured on the front book cover, with me holding the reins and looking up longingly at him. Mom said that he was the greatest assist in my potty training. Barring a few unforeseen accidents, the feat was accomplished after being warned that a continuation of these habits would result in no more horseback rides. It’s obvious I liked that horse.

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Mom and Dad’s Country Store in

Clearwater, Montana—1930—Where Ernest,

Leona, Bill, Myself, and Ethel were born

Another memory I have of when we lived up at Clearwater occurred when I decided to hike up to the schoolhouse where Ernest, Leona, and Bill were in school, about one-half mile away. I guess I forgot to ask, tell, or otherwise make my intentions known to Mom, as I sure got a handful of hell when I came home. I was about four years old and couldn’t understand why Mom was so mad.

Also, I remember when the folks brought Ethel home in December after she was born. She was covered from head to toe, including her face, with a blanket. I couldn’t figure out what was in that bundle, making so much noise.

I faintly remember when Grandpa Laws and Uncle John came out from Nebraska to visit. Grandpa used to sit on one foot with the other one swinging in front of him. I surmised the chair was too tall, or else his leg too short.

Our neighbor, Mr. Cahoon and family, lived up the Blackfoot River on a road that branched off the county road running past our place. He used to ride his stud down to get the mail. We could hear that horse neigh, squall, and bawl a mile away. When they came in sight, the horse was prancing and covered with white froth and sweat. Dad said Mr. Cahoon’s stud had a frightful temperament.

Another memorable and somewhat scary occasion that comes to mind is when Dad took Leona and me for a test drive in his old Model T and it went through the guardrail of the bridge.

TIN LIZZIE MEMORIES OF YESTERYEAR

A few years ago, while thumbing through the April/May issue of Reminisce magazine, I came across the invitation to submit a story about the Model T. I have some good memories about the Model T, but one not so good.

One day in 1938, when I was five years old, my dad was tuning up his old Tin Lizzie, and he invited my elder sister, Leona, and me to hop in as he was going to give it a test drive. We lived about a quarter of a mile above the confluence of the Blackfoot and Clearwater rivers in Western Montana. The county road ran right in front of the house and on down across a bridge on the Blackfoot River. Well, we took the test drive, and on the way back, the road made a left-hand curve just before the approach to the bridge. Suddenly, the steering failed, and we crashed through the wooden guardrail.

Miraculously, the vehicle hung by the left hind wheel. The jolt threw us against the windshield, and I’ll never forget the sight of the big rocks and running water below. The car didn’t have a top, so Dad was able to grasp the bridge above and stop it from swaying. He shinnied up onto the bridge and lifted us kids up to safety. What kept the car from rolling ahead enough for the tire to roll entirely off the bridge deck remained a mystery that was never explained.

I took off for home, and Mom was baking a batch of peanut butter cookies. After I told her what had happened, she pulled off her apron and went down to see the wreck. A young boy needs to refuel after a harrowing experience like that, so I filled my pockets before I went back down. Perhaps, this is an example of the safe and sane good ole days.

SISTER DORIS COMES HOME

Frank Laws’s daughter, Doris, from his first marriage, after adoption wound up in St. Joseph, Missouri. There, she met and married Frank Polinsky. With no work available there, they moved to Pennsylvania and stayed with some of Frank’s relatives for a short time. A member of Doris’s stepfamily put an ad in the local paper and found out that her birth father was living in Western Montana. She and Dad exchanged a few letters, then she and her husband Frank decided to come out west. They left Pennsylvania on May 1, 1935 and arrived in Clearwater, Montana, on May 13.

After sister Doris and Frank came to Montana, they lived with us for a while. Their method of travel was quite unique. This being full-blown Depression era, jobs were very hard to find in Pennsylvania as well as the rest of the country. Being without money and Doris pregnant with their first child, Betty, they decided to head west any way they could. Their mode of transportation was by thumb and riding the rails. I can only imagine the trauma and hardships they encountered and have to marvel at their determination and intestinal fortitude. Betty was born later on July 28, 1935 after they arrived in Montana.

After their arrival at our place they got somewhat settled, Frank helped out with the grocery bill by supplementing and utilizing nature’s offerings. I remember Frank used to catch mice and tie one to a fish hook, set it on a chip of wood, and float it out in the current on the Clearwater River. When it got out over a nice, quiet pool, he would flip it off the chip, and as it swam to shore, it would attract the attention of the big bull trout living there. Some of those fish were as long as I was tall. In those days, the fishing was fantastic. Many of the meals we enjoyed were of fresh caught trout, whitefish, and perch. Aunt Babe said she used to laugh because faster than Mom could clean the bones out, I was hollering, Mo’ fish. What a wonderful mother we had.

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Sister Doris, her husband Frank Polinksy, and

their baby, Betty taken at Clearwater, Montana 1935

GREENOUGH

My first recollection after we moved to the Greenough area in 1939 was that damn sticky, clinging, gumbo clay. I was riding an old wooden tricycle on the sidewalk behind the house and wasn’t content to stay on dry ground, so I rode out in the mud. I bet it took me a half an hour with a little stick to clean the clay off the wheels so I could push myself along on the sidewalk again. The tricycle didn’t have any of those fancy boy powerdriven pedals.

One incident I should have mentioned was my young age matador training. Grandpa’s corral was a circular structure about sixty feet in diameter, and was about a foot lower on the inside from the cow traffic. It was made of poles about five-feet high. I used one of my trusty stick horses to undermine a shallow swale about one and a half feet deep under a lower pole. I used to go into the corral when the bull and cows were present, and start bellowing and pawing the dirt until old Mr. Bovine got mad enough to charge. My escape route was well planned, and I made many escapes by running to beat hell and then rolling under the pole in my little ditch. It was getting almost boring until one time when I was performing my usual exit; I felt some hot breath on my right side, causing a change in my escape route. I had to climb over a top rail halfway across the corral from my usual exit, and there was a rusty spike sticking up that ripped my jeans and a jagged slice on the outside of my right knee. The scar is still quite prominent. I don’t know how I kept from getting tetanus. This incident was only a slight deterrent as I’ve been fighting bulls every chance I got most of my life.

UNDER-AGE ALCOHOL CONSUMPTION

When I was about six, on the very rare occasions that I got to go to Missoula with Dad, it was a ritual to have lunch at the lunch counter of the Oxford Bar. Oh, how I loved that oyster stew, complete with double handfuls of those little round soda crackers. Also, Dad always had a glass of beer with his lunch, and the cook would set up a small glass of brew for me as well. Wow, what a smart man he was! I can only imagine what would take place if some of the bitter, biting, biddies of today caught wind of such an act. Dad would have been arrested for child abuse, and I’d probably be sent to an orphanage right after being submitted for a breathalyzer test. Hard to tell what might have happened to the cook. I’d have voted him a raise. Oh, well, times do change and not always for the better.

It was a happy time when Big Brother Don came for a visit when we lived at Greenough. He was a big help to Dad and Mom. I remember he used to go down the river toward Belmont, fishing in the winter and come home with the big pocket in the back of his coat filled with whitefish. I don’t know why, but he said he used to have to cross the Blackfoot River sometimes and get soaked to the waist and then had to walk home in zero-degree weather. I can attest to how cold his feet were as he and I slept in a single bed. Whenever he stuck his feet accidentally (he said) on me, I about went through the headboard. But, I still loved him.

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My first day of school.

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First grade—Spring of 1939—One-room school representing all eight grades. L to R, Virginia Warner, Ernest Laws, Cousin Patty Nelson, Teacher, Mrs. Wisetaner, Barbara Hunter (sitting on my lap), Earl Shunner, William (Bill Laws), Leona Laws, and Ruken Jelks (Barbara’s half brother).

FIRST GRADE

When I started going to school in the first grade in the one-room school, the other half of the first grade was, Barbara Hunter. She had a very queasy stomach and sometimes even the smell of food would cause her to vomit. Her mom, Mary Hunter, apparently thought it was all in her head, so she came up to the school, and after telling Barbara to go out in the hall, Mrs. Hunter proceeded to tell us kids to make fun of Barbara by telling her: we could eat faster and eat more thereby could go out and play sooner. I felt sorry for her, so I told her to tell the kids she had more money, clothes, and pets than they did.

Her folks were very rich. Their large ranch, the former Greenough Ranch, was comprised of thousands of acres. Her half brother, Ruken Jelks, had a bulldog for a pet. Their home was about a half-mile below the school, and many times, when he hiked home for lunch, he’d bring his bulldog, Soppo, back to school in a very different manner. He had a one and one-half-inch rope about three-feet long and old iron jaws would grab a hold of one end. Ruken would then lift the rope with Soppo attached and swing it over his shoulder. That’s how they arrived back at the school house. Hunters also had a huge Great Dane, Blackie, and a tiny little rat terrier named Rags. Those two canines somehow became romantically involved. Thinking about it, even today, I have to marvel at nature’s ingenious reproduction possibilities. This unlikely union produced two pups which dwarfed the mother at six-weeks of age. Rags was a good mother even with that pair of oversized all-day suckers.

One day, when I was in the first grade, Mrs. Hunter loaded up us school kids in her three-seat station wagon and took us to Missoula. She treated us to a movie, Pinocchio, which was my first movie, and a dish of three flavors of ice cream stuck together—but not mixed. Wow—that was a new one on me. I was only acquainted with vanilla or strawberry that we made with the old crank job.

Our first grade school teacher, Mrs. Wisetaner, was a very good and kind lady. Her teaching methods were strict, and she presented the material in an understandable way that was interesting to all kids in the room. In fact, many times, she reminded us younger students to pay more attention to our reading and less interest in the upper grade studies. She had a way of making each kid feel special like they were the only one in the room. That must have been quite a chore, teaching all eight grades.

The teacher that was hired for my second grade was as different from Mrs. Wisetaner, as day is from night. Mrs. Warnkey, by name, seemed to be happiest when yelling at one of us model children. Anyway, we sort of thought we could do no wrong. She and I seemed to have a personality conflict from day one. Of course, my behavior was probably quite lacking in her terms of discipline.

One fall afternoon, after I started school (first grade) during

the last recess, we were having a taffy pull. I went outside where Big Brother Don was digging a ditch for a water line. I did my double darndest to get him interested in helping me pull that taffy. I didn’t realize he was getting paid to work, but it sure hurt my feelings that he couldn’t take time to enjoy the endeavor of making dirty hands taffy.

One time, we had a play at school where one of the acts was Ernest (in his banty-legged britches) dancing to the tune of Put Your Little Foot and the part that required him and his partner, Virginia Warner, to do a little whirl around. My—oh, my, how their demeanor resembled Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire. Too bad that was before video cameras. I still have to laugh remembering his, after the act, strut.

Mom’s brother, Uncle Harold, who was still living at home, being a first class cowboy with a dandy saddle horse, named Pinto, was my hero. I had quite a collection of horses in my remuda. Some were willow, pine, or just plain sticks. It was very educational to be in the backdrops of the grown-up conversations because I was acquiring the cowboy lingo, making it easier to give my ponies real cowboy names. I’ll have to admit I called several of them the same names, depending on their attitudes. In hind sight, it wouldn’t have gained me much notoriety had I repeated them in mixed company (mainly Mom’s).

I used to think Grandma was crabbier than hell when we kids hiked over the hill to visit. One time, I went out to where the men were cutting hay, and I was so proud that being barefooted, I could run through the stubble. When I went in and told Grandma about my stunt, she wasn’t a bit impressed. She read us the riot act for hiking over the hill and sent us home—after she gave us some cookies. There used to be a lot of range cattle between our fence and Grandpa’s place. Those were not your tame milk-cow type critters. There were several nasty tempered bulls among them, and it was a great challenge to go out to my favorite spot, which was a big red fir tree, leaning about 45 degrees out from the ground. It was a couple hundred feet from our fence, and I used to go climb up on it, start bellowing, and thus invite the bulls to come for a visit. It usually wasn’t long till I had a whole herd of mad bovines, under my lookout, fighting, ramming, bellowing, and raising so much dust I could hardly breathe. Sometimes, I had to wait quite a while for them to disperse so I could climb down and make a mad dash over to and under our fence.

I AM A LEFTY

While reminiscing about my youngest school days and starting my required share of book learning, it was easy to remember the challenges faced by teaching in a one-room schoolhouse with grades one through eight. It is hard to even imagine the challenge faced by those courageous, fearless, and unsuspecting teachers, as they attempted to instill an appreciable amount of knowledge in as yet unreceptive minds. On the other side of the learning equation, however, life was not always a bowl of cherries. The pendulum of schoolhouse discipline has changed dramatically from those days to the present, strictly hands-off, remedy of errant behavior. The old adage of spare the rod and spoil the child has been responsible for some serious consideration and was finally totally eradicated from school curriculum.

I believe, if metered with discretion, some forms of physical attitude adjustment should definitely be available in the ardent task of conveying the 3R message. Being the recipient of some discriminatory discipline, in my quest for second grade learning, I was subjected to a form of repression, that if administered today, would provide most any of today’s jack leg lawyers with more than enough fodder for a two-week waste of the court’s time and the tax payers forced contribution.

Through no fault of my own, I was blessed with, at that time in history, the unacceptable use of the southpaw version of writing methods. Well, it seems that sometimes this narrow-minded teacher took exception. At times, to reinforce her twisted version of the only acceptable pencil use, she bound my left hand to a lower web section of the handy metal desk. That restraint usually only lasted until she turned her back as I’m sure she probably slept through the knot-tying class. By keeping one eye on her movements, I could usually trade hands with my inscribing tool and get that trusty left back down, imitating her version of proper pencil holding. Quite possibly not being as easily deceived as I assumed, she, at times, resorted to a more aggressive form of reinforcing her belief of improper transcription. Obviously, her interpretation could have been derived from the era of Pavlov’s psychological practice of sound produced salivating of hungry dogs and the accepted theories of left handed nose picking causes could be varied. Namely a few: lack of oxygen during birth, too many disciplinary head drops or possibly the devil beating God to the inception. Anyhow, I was at times, made aware of the edge of education in the form of a steel edged ruler chopping down on the knuckles of the offending shirt buttoner. Being a peace loving adolescent and aware of repercussions, I convinced my parents that the source of the red-rimmed welts were a mystery to me also.

If she had taken time to discuss my physical deformity with my folks, she might have achieved the desired results by a procedure practiced by Dad. Being a thrice daily face feeder in a family of seven kids with a round table, he believed that the offending elbow flapping in the face and rubbing elbows with a right hand eater was an unacceptable habit. He corrected this by inflicting a rap on the elbows with a table knife. The amount of the force used was determined by the number of whacks perceived to achieve the desired results. It is a wonder my trusty left didn’t develop an inferiority complex and require frequent couch sessions in later life to master societal correct correlation between left-right controller hand maneuvers. Wouldn’t that have produced a windfall of pocket padding for some unscrupulous shrink? Ambidextrous, I’m not.

POETRY:

A COLOSSAL METHOD OF

THOUGHT PORTRAYAL

My appreciation of poetry began early in life, and I remember as a second grader, we were required to memorize and later recite a poem. My assignment was the following:

The friendly cow—all red and white

gives me cream with all her might.

She’s blown by all the winds that pass

and wet by all the showers

She walks among the meadow grass

and eats the meadow flowers.

She wonders, lowing here and there

and yet she cannot stray.

In the pleasant open air

In the pleasant light of day.

A line of one I wish I could remember

What of this life if so full of care

We have no time to stand and stare.

Many are the times I received a think-box thump for practicing that very desirable pastime and viewing nature in the raw. Nature practices no pretenses and I’ve always admired the Creator of All and Mother Nature.

BLATSKY THE ELECTRIC BULL

As I stated in Mom’s commemorative, the lighting storms in the Greenough area, were pretty bad. We had a Jersey bull that had a bad habit of running away, so Dad put a ring in his nose, which was standard procedure, in an attempt to control him. Then for added, stay around home convincing, Dad attached a twenty-foot chain to the ring and the other end of the chain to an old Cat roller. One day another one of those bad thunder storms was threatening, and we couldn’t find Blatsky. I think he earned his name, when he was still quite young, because every time we tried to train him with a prod to the posterior, he would utter a blatant irritating response.

Anyway, Ernest, and I were sent down the field looking for him. When we spotted him, he had apparently jumped over the barbwire fence. Then, maybe remembering some of the former training, he had jumped back on our side of the fence, tangling the chain on the top wire. By this time, the storm was getting serious with some bad lightning strikes. As we were heading over to him, a strike hit the fence a ways up the fence line. It was like an optical illusion, watching the fire ball flashing down the top wire, causing little puffs of smoke on every post. Believe you me, when that current hit the chain, our bull lived up to his name. He let out a blat on one end and a ten foot stream of mostly digested grass on the other and flopped down. We figured he was dead, as he just lay there with his eyes rolled back and his legs sticking straight up in the air. We untangled the chain, looked him over, and determined he was still breathing. Ernest gave him a little persuasion to resume his previous arrogance, with a motivator to the south end of his anatomy which produced a long drawn out, blat and he was on his feet in a flash. We watched him pretty close to determine if he might blame us for his headache and try to give us some lessons in