Short Stories By An Old-fashioned Millennial 3n6r3p

SHORT STORIES by an OLD-FASHIONED MILLENNIAL

CURT ANDERSON

Copyright © 2019 by Curt Anderson.

ISBN:

Softcover eBook

978-1-7960-3622-0 978-1-7960-3621-3

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only. Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 12/16/2019

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CONTENTS

Dedication Chapter

Preface/Introduction

Family

People Watching

UUP

Roger, Max, and Tom

Dating and Duffy

Jessica

Craig’sList

Trailers, Wagons, Hayracks, Etc…

Leroy’s First Rodeo

Neighbors

Fire

Mein Kampf (Sort Of)

Words and Horses

The “Can Do,” Attitudes

The Feedlot Newsletter

I’m Getting On My Soap Box

Dedication Chapter

A typical book contains a page dedicated to dedicating the work to someone worthy of dedication. The last sentence of this book serves that purpose, but for this particular dedication, a sentence is not satisfactory. The man to whom this is dedicated deserves more than a chapter, he deserves more than a book; more than a volume of books. Yet, if he were here, he would detest any homage. Regardless, allow me to continue. This book was completed, or so I thought, before September 19th, 2019. Every chapter had been sent to the publisher, every word had been edited, and we were in the process of production. Then everything came to a sudden, definite halt. That Thursday evening, my phone rang with the worst news that I have received to date. Grandpa had a stroke. Earlier that day, I was helping him cut down trees. He ran his International 606 with the speed of a thirty year old and the experience of an eighty year old. I would cut the trees, he would crank the throttle up, and push them into a pile. Occasionally, I would hook a chain to the tractor, then attach it to the fallen tree. He would pull it out of the way. “You’ll think that I’m a dummy for telling you this, but if you hook the chain the other way, it’ll stay hooked when I lift the bucket.” That was Grandpa’s last advice he ever gave me. I’ve never been so grateful for correction. The stroke was terminal, and Grandpa was non-responsive. For three days, he was surrounded by children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and friends. The following Monday, Grandpa was ushered through the Gates of Glory, where he is worshiping his Savior, face-to-face. Grandpa and Grandma were planning to visit Israel next summer. Grandpa wanted them to be baptized in the Jordan River. He wanted to walk where Jesus walked.

As my dad said, “Like so many other times, Dad got there first.” I won’t resort to cliche’s such as, “He was larger than life. To know him was to love him. He was the best. We will miss him.” While those are true, it doesn’t begin to describe him. He loved his family. He would have done anything for them. Every family event revolved around him. We all adored him. He was more than a Dad, a father in law, a grandfather, a great-grandfather. He was our friend. I hope he thought of us in the same manner. He loved music. A master of the organ and piano; a devoted fan of the southern gospel genre; he used his talents to serve “The old folks.” Often, he would conduct little programs for senior citizens. He would play polkas, big band numbers, and swing, though the program’s central theme was always gospel. I can’t number hours we spent listening to him play, or playing along with him. I’ll never forget those times. One qualifier of “celebrity status,” is: You know one hundred people. One thousand people know you. Last winter, I went to the Farm Show with Grandpa. Aisle after aisle of new equipment used to serve those in the Agriculture Industry. At every exhibit there were people that walked up to Grandpa. The majority had met him once or twice, yet ed him. “Hi Russ!” Grandpa would look at me. I would shrug in complete ignorance. Then he would turn towards them and bellow, “Hello there!” He would talk for half an hour, discussing family, faith, and farming. Eventually, the goodbyes would be said, with a promise being made to talk again soon. Then he would turn to me, “Do you know who that was?” “I have no idea.”

Later we would find out that they met once Grandpa at an auction, or saw him playing the organ at a function. People ed Grandpa, because he was always genuinely interested in their lives. He always made time to ask how you were doing, and earnestly listened to the subsequent answer. The stories. A huge part of Grandpa’s life was story-telling. Every Christmas or Thanksgiving, we would, inevitably, gather around the table to hear about a cattle sale, or a Cardinal game, or a concert, or a hunting trip. Some stories we heard every year. We loved them each time we heard them. When I got my license, I began fabricating excuses to stop by their house. I need to borrow a wrench. I wondered if Grandpa thought the corn market would rally. I just wanted to stop in to play a new song for him. I’m sure he got tired of my visits, but I’m grateful for every second I spent around their table, and only regret not spending more time there. Several grandsons had the privilege of mowing for Grandpa. As we got our licenses, he would ask us to mow with him. He would operate his 1978 Super Cub Cadet, and we would get smaller, newer model. He didn’t really need help. It was his way of teaching us the value of work. After mowing, we would sit at the kitchen table, eat a cookie, and drink a soda. We would hear stories, learn lessons, and covet every word. Again, I will never forget those moments. A large part of Grandpa was the ability to solve problems. When we had a problem, he was first on the scene-always ready to help. During any project, large or small, Grandpa would be called. Engineers could study and figure, but they would always miss one thing that Grandpa caught. Something simple, such as swinging the gate the opposite way, or phrasing a question slightly different. He was always able to simply the complex and reduce the obtuse, he could fix or solve anything. An example of Grandpa’s problem-solving ability can be found in accord with his generosity. When Jessica and I got married, we elected to have cake and coffee in lieu of a large, and expensive, reception. Grandpa grew concerned. He thought it would be best to feed the guests. After all, that was traditional. I told him we didn’t want to spend an inordinate amount of money on a catered meal, so he took matters into his own hands. After the ceremony, Jessica and I ed the guests in the church basement. After we cut

the cake, we saw my brother, Josh, cousins Brad, Todd, and Travis, along with my good friend Ricky, parade down the stairs. In their arms were boxes of pizza and bags of chicken wings-all funded by Grandpa. His generosity was overwhelming. Grandpa always had a theory, right, wrong, or indifferent. When I told him I was thinking about selling our cows and buying calves to feed, he immediately replied, “Why buy the product when you can own the factory?” When I was trying to decide whether to rent a farm for the first time, all he said was, “Go ahead. All you have to worry about is how to spend the money you make.” When I wanted to quit piano lessons at 8 years old, he said, “Any dummy can play by ear like me, you have to be a genius to read music.” I kept the cows, rented the farm, and continued taking piano lessons. Grandpa was no dummy. Grandpa was a ringman for me the first time I ever auctioneered. I’m pretty sure he bought the pie, too. He cleaned the first pheasant I shot. He taught me how to play the piano by ear. He showed me the importance of hard work. He taught me how to step back and think about things from a different angle. I can’t imagine growing up without him. I can’t imagine not knowing what he taught me. I can’t imagine our family without his guiding, calming manner. I can’t imagine our little town without his influence. I can’t imagine how many lives he touched. The greatest compliment I have ever received came before his funeral. The preacher approached me and said, “I see so much of him in you.” I can only hope to prove him correct. We would all be better people if we acted, thought, lived, and spoke like Grandpa. We would all be kinder and wiser if we had little of my grandpa in us. Theologians have noted the “scarlet thread,” running through the Old Testament. This refers to stories pointing towards Christ. An example would be the way Moses led the Hebrews out of the bondage of Egypt, just as Jesus led us out of the bondage of sin. Fiction writers use a term called “fore-shaddowing.” It’s the act of alluding to an event paramount in the pages.

Nearly every page of this book has been inspired or influenced in some way, by Grandpa, and every chapter is a foreshadowing of his impact on my life.

Dedicated to my Grandpa Russel DeWayne Anderson December 30th, 1933-September 23rd, 2019

Preface/Introduction

What kind of millennial would be more comfortable living in the 1960’s, even though he was born in 1995? What kind of millennial prefers to scratch on a notepad instead of a laptop? What kind of millennial thinks life is sacred, begins at conception, and thinks abortion is a moral horror? What kind of millennial believes marriage and family are the foundation of any country, and the Hook Up Culture will bring America to it’s knees? What kind of millennial esteems physical conversation over Facebook, Snapchat, Instagram, and texting? What kind of millennial is convinced that pop artists aren’t roll models, but Roy Rogers is? What kind of millennial believes hard work is superior, and welfare is inferior? What kind of millennial uses Netflix to stream “The Dick Van Dyke Show,” instead of shows about the color orange and some dude named Narcos? What kind of millennial doesn’t go to college, and feels grateful for it? What kind of millennial wants bowling balls for Christmas, searches eBay for Coke collectibles, and thinks bib overalls could make a comeback? What kind of millennial loves listening to his grandpas’ stories hundreds of times, but falls asleep during the latest super hero flick? What kind of millennial yearns for Mayberry and dreads commutes to Chicago? What kind of millennial chooses flannel over graphic tee’s? What kind of millennial mourns his generation’s acceptance of “My truth,” and

disregards the Way, the Truth, and the Life? What kind of millennial writes a book, anyway? Answer Alex! An Old Fashioned Millennial.

Family

Family. You can’t live without them; yet you may not want to live with them. They can be your best friends, and your worst enemies. Some cause a pain in your neck; most put joy in your heart. At times you want to hug them. Other times you fight the urge to hug them. With your bare hands. Around their throat. They’re always the first to appear in times of trouble. Sometimes they are the first to cause trouble. They are always around when you need them, and many times when you don’t need them. I have a very special family. They live just 2 miles from me, and after living on my own for over two years, I still spend more time at their house than my own. This is something I don’t wish to change, even if they do, at times. I can call them at any moment of any day, even if I have nothing to say. I hope they feel they can do the same with me. My mom has been my councilor, my teacher, and my life coach. She’s a rare human being. I say this, because although she knows of the great respect I have for her, she also knows I can rib her. Just last month, at her house, a squirrel decided to nest in the locust tree near their deck. For many days in a row, this little squirrel would sit in the tree and chip every time someone ventured out the back door. Finally, my sister, who I will mention later, called me. In a frantic voice I heard the following: “I’m worried about Mom! She’s outside on the deck with her hands on her hips looking towards Heaven. Her lips are moving!” We thought mom had been struck on the head earlier that day, and now she was suffering from a breakdown of some sort. I grabbed my spare straight jacket and elastic handcuffs and sped over. I found my dear, sweet mother, exactly as my kid sister had said. Standing on the deck, talking inaudibly, and looking to the sky.

As I hid the jacket behind my back, getting ready to slip the cuffs on, I asked her to whom she was speaking. “The squirrel is causing a racket again, and I was trying to see if it was a black or a brown one.” This, of course, set everyone’s mind at ease. Mom was not checked into the funny farm and was reinstated at her rightful place as matriarch. Speaking of arch’s, my father is next in the lineup. He is a man I spend more time talking to as a friend, instead of a father. My love for politics, the country life, figuring, auctions, and the Gospel was instilled by him. Common sense is plentiful in his conversations, as well as frivolity. Many days when I travel, I enjoy calling him to pick his brain on various topics. He as always made sure we had a roof over our heads and food on our plates. Dad is superlative at boiling problems down to their simplest forms and deriving common-sense solutions. Although I don’t agree at first, I usually come around to his line of thinking. Case in point. For Dad’s small herd of cattle, there is no sense in owning a tractor. We use our trucks and a UTV for the daily grind of chores. One winter, Dad utilized corn stalk bales he obtained from residue of his crop that fall. In the winter we cut the wrapping off of them and let the cattle eat them. To prevent waste, he asked our neighbor use his tractor to stagger the bales along a half-mile feeding lane. Then, we would cut the wrapping off the bales and allow the cattle to eat them one at a time. This was ideal, with one exception. Every week, when we fed a new bale, dad insisted I drag the gates down the lane a little further. My idea was different. Instead of dragging two heavy pipe gates through the mud and snow, why not use my big red truck to push the bales behind the gates? I get to sit in a heated vehicle and expound zero effort. To my despair, dad forbade such a notion. Alas, one day, when he was out of town on business I made a brave attempt to put my idea to the test.

As I put my truck in four-wheel-drive and rammed the front bumper into the bale, it slid with ease towards the open gates. After approximately 25 feet, the mud began to cake in front of the bale. The pushing began became more difficult. That’s when I hit a sheet of ice. Before, “Oh no…” could cross my lips, my truck slid sideways. This is when I realized my proximity barbed wire fence. I demolished it with the enger side of that pickup. Later that week, as I was replacing steel posts and stretching barbed wire, I realized Dad had things figured out. From that point on, I made a concerted effort to listen to him, and trust he knew what he was talking about. My brother, who is 18 months younger than me, is my polar opposite in many ways. He is tall, I am not. He is a firefighter, I hate fire. He is a gearhead, I don’t know the difference between a phillips and a flathead. He is training to be an EMT; I can’t stand the sight of blood. He loves sports, and has a large amount of talent on any field or court. I am unable to name one quarterback in the MLB or one pitcher in the NHL. The one thing we both enjoy to the fullest is fishing. We have spent many hours on a dock or a boat together. As with most things, the student has sured the master. There was a time where I gave lure and color recommendations. No longer. He now can out-cast, out-fish, and out-oar me without exception. I the first time I took him out on a boat. Our vessel of choice was a twelve foot aluminum john, with no motor. It didn’t matter. He was thrilled to be on the water. I immediately began to row to the center of the lake, and plunged into the fishing lecture. “No no. Tie it like this. to extend your elbow when casting. Wait a count longer before setting the hook next time.” I was really giving a seminar. The buttons on my shirt were taunt with pride as I ladled my wealth of knowledge upon him. The pride lasted nary a moment. Out from one of the rotting, wooden seats ran a grey field mouse.

Apparently, he was lonely, or so it seemed. He sped directly to my brothers pant leg and made a hurried attempt to nest in the denim. He casually batted it away with his ball cap. After being disturbed in such a fashion, our furry friend preformed an aboutface, and zipped toward me. This was not a good thing. Being afraid of mice, I considered jumping overboard. Then, being afraid of swimming, I reconsidered. Instead, I stomped a mighty stomp. Strike One. After this, my brother began whispering to me in a therapeutic tone, “Be careful. It’s ok. You’re bigger than it is. Just be easy.” Disregarding life and limb, I stomped a second time at the monster. Strike two. “You know the boat’s rocking, right?” I sensed panic in my brother’s voice. Relentlessly, I fixated on the boat’s anchor. Now, when I say, “anchor,” what I really mean to say is “A large cinder block tied to a rotting piece of rope.” In any case, I hoisted it over my head and threw it against the side of the boat, killing the vermin in a single blow. In my excitement, I failed to notice the john rocking from side to side. It was like I was riding on the pendulum of a grandfather clock. To the left, it went. Then to the right, slightly farther. Then back to the left, farther still. It made one final swing to the right. Before we could taste the seaweed, I seem to my brother mumbling, “Strike three.” As with every train, you must have a caboose. Our family’s caboose is my sister. At five years younger, she prefers to think of herself as the glue that holds us together. I think of her has the antidepressant that keeps us laughing. She will tell you her first love is music, and I would argue that a close second is cattle.

Her show calf, Lucy gets her undivided attention every day. I the first time she showed Lucy. The country fair was buzzing with activity. Show barns were full of prestigious cattle and preparations were being made. Lucy had never been away from her familiar surroundings at the farm, and the excitement of the fair made her nervous. Being afraid our sister couldn’t control a nervous calf that outweighed her by a factor of 9, my brother and I took drastic action. Before she entered the show ring we dumped 3 quarts of Nyquill down Lucy’s throat. This relaxed her considerably. As our sister lead the heifer into the arena, she began to stagger. Not my sister, Lucy. From the seat next to me, I could hear my brother quietly gasp. Directly, she burped and began to sway back and forth. Again, not my sister, Lucy. Immediately, always quick with the wit, she paused. This time, I am talking about my sister. As she crossed her arms while shooting us a look that could back up city traffic for miles. Then she stared Lucy dead in the face. In a booming voice, she raised one arm and commanded, “Lucy, lay down!” At that instant, the calf, who now had its eyes shut, fell to the ground. Sound asleep, she lay there before the crowd and judge. “Good girl, Lucy! Great training, Sis,” my brother and I yelled over thunderous applause. After the show, our little sister cornered us in the barn. We were told in no uncertain , that if we drugged her calf again, she would even the score in ways we didn’t want to imagine, let alone experience. These stories are conveyed to make one major point: I have an amazing family. While we irritate each other, we wouldn’t trade our relationships for all the oil in Texas. At least until oil reaches one hundred dollars per barrel.

People Watching

Carmel Apples, popcorn, livestock, and humidity. Yessiree Bob! It was time for the County fair. The social highlight of the year next to the Lutefisk Festival. The fair acted as the United Nations for the county. The farmers never wandered far from the agriculture exhibits and livestock shows. The counterfeit gangsters could be found among the carnival portion. Tom, Lenny, and the Dahl brothers, whom we nicknamed The Social Security boys, were seasoned patrons of the fair. They spent every morning of the fair at the 4-H food stand dunking stale doughnuts in weak coffee, but they didn’t care. With every dunk and every sip, they solved another wold-ending catastrophe. This is what fair week was for them, and they were going to enjoy it, stale doughnuts and all. One night that week, I was sitting on a bench fulfilling two of my favorite traditions. The first was eating a triple-decker layer funnel cake topped with strawberries, whipped cream, chocolate syrup, sprinkles, and fried Ice cream. (This tradition was followed by taking copious amounts of Rolaids.) The second fair tradition was “People watching.” For those of you that lack knowledge of the lost art of People Watching I shall take a brief moment to break down the fundamentals of this old-fashioned time. In order to People Watch you must attain temporary residence in a bench, chair, or grassy area in the midst of a human conclave. In my case this was the fair. Parks, malls, and garden shows also work well. Cement and blacktop seating are optional, but not recommended. Once you are situated in your area of choice you must clear your mind of all serious and prying matters, and concentrate solely on the general public before you. Expert People Watchers allow there mind to wander along whichever path their mind chooses. I am far from being a top-notch People Watcher, but I am a member of PWW (People Watchers of the World) and take pleasure in enjoying my pastime whenever possible. Furthermore, not thinking deep thoughts is a natural manifestation for my brain.

During this specific People Watching session, a young couple walked out of the Grand Stand, and sat down on the bench upon which I had already claimed. I considered charging them a very reasonable rent of one lemonade or cotton candy per quarter hour. After giving the matter considerable thought, I discarded the idea as the young man was twice my size and built like the Rock of Gibraltar. I merely gave them each a courteous nod and continued my People Watching. The young couple did not seem the slightest bit interested in People Watching, but were quite intent on looking into each other’s eyes and whispering disgustingly sweet phrases to each other. Nauseated from overhearing those phrases I rethought my plan to get a sandwich from the Pork Producer’s tent. This young couple disrupted my People Watching session, so I decided to devote my entire attention to watching them. They didn’t seem to notice me anyway. “Odd,” I thought, “not to notice someone sitting 6 inches away from you.” As I watched them, the young man yawned. While expressing his exhaustion or boredom, both his arms shot up above his head to the 11and 1o’clock positions. I observed that he forgot to shower that morning, or that month. As he came to the climax of his yawn, his arms slowly started their decent. When the appendages came to the nine and three o’clock positions the arm on the side of his apparent sweetheart froze. With the grace of a rusty robot, he attempted to rest his arm along the back of the bench behind her. She didn’t appreciate such an advance from him, I suppose, considering she slouched down so far she was practically sitting on the pavement. At least he had the good sense to remove his arm. Fearing he would accidentally try the same thing on my side, I left that bench and took up residence on a bench across from them. I was now watching with renewed interest and amusement… The young couple seemed tremendously ill-at-ease with each other. I’m no Dr. Phil, but it was safe for me to assume by the look on his face that the needle on his confidence meter was well below E. I suppose that was the reason he was so

cautious making his next “move.” From across the midway I could faintly hear the conversation. “You, uh, wouldn’t like to, you know, hold hands, would you?” he stammered. Blushing the girl replied, “I don’t mind, I guess, if you don’t mind.” I took my attention off of them long enough to complete the largest eye-roll ever documented. As their hands slowly moved closer together you could cut the tension with, well, anything. 5 inches. 4 inches. 3 inches. 2 inches. 1 1/2 inches. 1 inch. The young man froze as consternation washed over his face. “Wait!” he exclaimed. “Which way should we do it?” Puzzled by his delay, the girl sought clarification. “What do you mean?” she asked. “Is this the first time you’ve held a guy’s hand?” he questioned. “Yes.” the girl replied still confused. “It is for me to and I want to make sure we do it right. How should we do it? Should we have the fingers intertwined or just palm to palm?” “Which one do you think is less sweaty?” At this point in time it took every ounce of my self-restraint I possessed to keep me from buying them a large bag of ice for each to hold in their free hand. Then, they would just have to switch sides periodically. It seemed like the perfect solution but I digressed… “Probably the palm one.” he declared, quite sure of himself. The girl giggled like Hillary at a pant-suit convention, and grabbed his hand. Thoroughly disgusted and appalled by the whole ordeal I decided that listening to a conversation about denture paste and estate tax would be more pleasant than the incident I had just witnessed. With that in mind, I charted course to the 4-H

food stand. Maybe the Social Security Boys had saved me a stale doughnut and lukewarm cup of coffee.

UUP

Have you ever been caught in the, “I’m so brilliant no one can teach me anything,” trap? It appears to be an all-too-common syndrome in today’s society. For the sake of discussion, we can call it the “Unteachable, Unlearnable Problem,” or UUP for short. Be careful not to confound the letter’s order. Example: UPU may stand for Unitarian Politicians of Utah. We wouldn’t want to offend the Mormon readership. Contracting UUP is a horrifying development. UUP first begins weaving itself into its victim’s mind when the victim learns everything he thinks conceivable. This stage usually begins in 3 major fashions. (A) You go to college or partake in another form of higher education. (B) You believe you were blessed with an immeasurable IQ. This, in turn, grants you the gift of knowledge, reason, and sublime understanding. (C) You have played life’s unfair game for such an extended period of time, that you can now rely on your wealth of experience. There is nothing you haven’t seen, nothing you haven’t done, no problem you haven’t encountered. No matter how you developed your wealth of knowledge, it all has the same effect. You begin to think of yourself as the Wizard of Oz thought of himself, but in reality, you are nothing more than a tiny speck of a God’s creation; hiding behind a curtain of your own self-acclaimed knowledge. You become wellversed in poetry and classic literature, proficient at mathematical equations, and display exemplary whit in matters of foreign and domestic policy. You may even develop such a high regard for culinary arts that you appear on Rachel Ray to correct her of any errors she’s made in the last 15 years. UUP begins as just a whisper, but it grows into an entire opera. It appears to be a mere sliver, but it grows into a stupendous redwood. It starts as a drop, but soon evolves into a mighty tsunami. It is like eating one M&M, but eventually consuming the entire bag. The next stage of UUP is much more dangerous and nearly incurable. It occurs

when you begin refusing all help, assistance, and correction. Persons such as teachers, preachers, parents, and Dear Abby fail to make inroads through your thick skull which has swollen to twice the size of the Idaho State Fair’s largest potato. Failure to take advice is the result of having a protective plate encasing your brain. For now we will nick-name this plate, “Knox,’’ based on the principle behind Fort Knox: It provides you with the ability to survive with no outside help. Supreme seclusion, arrogance, and stubbornness are just a few of the side-effects derived from the “Knox.” Once you develop your very own Knox, you will slip into a perpetual circle of colossal disaster. You will never accept the assistance needed to pull yourself from the Soup of Delusion you’ve managed to fall into. After all, you’d know if you need help because you think you know everything. An example of the dangers UPP presents can be summed up in this entirely made-up, never occurring, completely unbelievable circumstance. Maybe you were driving home from a date with your soon-to-be-wife. Maybe it was a wintery day. Maybe you were texting your soon-to-be-wife. Maybe there was black ice on the road right before it dog-legs to the right. Maybe you realized you were on black ice too late and your recently purchased, fifteen yearold, pristine (please note the word “pristine,”) DeVille slipped off the road. Maybe it was only off the road by a few inches and could be pulled back with a little effort from your dad and his truck. Maybe, your Knox told you not to call your dad, because you would be itting to ignorance. Maybe your Knox told you to crank the wheel to the left and gun the engine. Maybe this caused your pristine DeVille to slide further down the hill, eventually grinding to a stop, but only after demolishing an entire row of seedlings and a picket fence. Maybe then, and only then, did you tell your Knox to shut up and you called your dad. If this had happened, you would understand the pain of driving home in a oncepristine DeVille that now had one good side. That would be awful, but I really wouldn’t know. The only antidote for UUP and its horrific aftermath is a “situation.” The following is my experience with UUP and the “situation,” that rescued me from UUP’s cold, vice-like claws: When I turned 16, I began driving a Chevy Silverado 2500HD, 350 Vortec, V8, 8 lugs, modified suspension, K&N air filter, exhaust, and fresh wax. For those of

you who are not mechanically inclined, suffice it to say it was a “Big Red Truck.” Not a firetruck, just a big red truck glued together with bumper stickers of political and whimsical nature. Naturally the first thing a country boy wants to do with a newly acquired truck is to plaster it with mud. One does this by finding the gooiest, sloppiest mud hole in the county and repeatedly driving back and forth, spewing the mud in a 500 foot radius. Country boys have simple pleasures, with simple minds to match. According to plan, after the first big rain, I filled Bertha (the Big Red Truck’s moniker), with gasoline and hit the road in search of mud. Finding the most beautiful mud hole imaginable, I slipped her into 4-High and crashed into it. Back and forth I went until Bertha was more of a slimy brown than a glistening red. Reaching home, I met a much larger obstacle than navigating through a mud hole; my dad’s disapproving demeanor. He sat me down and explained, in what seemed like excruciating detail, the hazards of mud bogging. Somewhere after the first sentence of the lecture, my Knox kicked into overdrive allowing only a numb nod, and a mumbling, “Understood,” following different points of the discussion. “Poor Dad,” I mused, “He doesn’t know anything about the mechanics of vehicles, soft mud won’t hurt a beast of a machine like Bertha. I’ll just make sure and wash her off next time before I come home.” For some reason or another my conscience disallowed me to engage in the sport of mudding from that time on. Perhaps it was that Biblical platitude running through my mind, softly nagging at the back of my brain. “Honor thy Father and thy Mother.” Unfortunately, my Knox was able to eventually silence my conscience one day in late April. It was a glorious afternoon and I was enjoying it to the utmost by driving through the pasture checking Dad’s cattle. It had just rained that morning, so things were a bit greasy, but with Bertha’s excellent tread and traction, navigation was a non-issue. Then came the object of great temptation. Dead ahead lay a superb mud hole directly below a giant oak tree. My vast knowledge and sublime reason quickly put to rest any notion of avoiding it and directly gunned the engine.

Speeding towards the mud hole I realized this was not one of my brighter moments in sixteen years on Earth. This realization came exactly three tenths of a second too late. Bertha’s front axle was already buried in the slimy slop. At the present time, I still considered myself a kid genius. I was capable of getting out of every problem on my own! I surveyed the situation. In doing so, I discovered that while entombing Bertha’s front axle, her rear axle slid approximately nine degrees south. This meant her back right tire was wedged between the big oak tree and a volunteer cottonwood. Since backwards was the only way out of the mud, the consensus rendered by observation was that I was hopelessly stuck; unable to relive the situation on my own. To borrow the aphorism, I was up a creek without a paddle. What a revolting development a frolic in the mud had become! Just as I was preparing to lower Bertha’s endgate, place myself on it, and cry, I ed I was a former Boy Scout and Boy Scouts don’t cry. So instead of cry, I did what any honorable boy scout would have done. I grabbed a hatchet that was equivalent in size to a butter knife (and half as sharp). I then began slashing at the cottonwood sapling with zeal and exuberance. Thunk! Thunk! Thud! “OWWWW!!! My toe!!” All these were sounds that filled the pasture that day. With the end of the chopping drawing nigh, I began to swing the butter knifehatchet with more enthusiasm. Each blow was fueled with rage, frustration, consternation, and a twinge of success. That was the next mistake I made. I used too much enthusiasm. Alas, the last swing of the tiny axe brought not only victory over the sapling, but also defeat over Bertha’s back right tire. I overcalibrated and swung through the tree and into a rubbery backstop. This time I really did weep. Boy Scout or not, this was just too much to handle. All in all, that experience is one I treasure. Aside from having to buy a new tire, apologize to Dad, it that he was completely right, and recant the Boy Scout’s creed, it’s a good memory to have. I enjoy sharing my learning experience with people who are in danger of UUP. It’s kind of like a former Cub fan showing other Cub fans the error of their ways. I feel like I am doing the world a small

sort of service by sharing my “situation.” Just , unless you want an overdose of trauma, the United States Boy Scouts for enemies, and one less toe, please fight and ultimately defeat UUP before you have your very own “situation.” Sure, they make great campfire stories, but it’s not worth the stress.

Roger, Max, and Tom

I take great delight when introducing new characters. The next three are certainly no exception. I would like the privilege of introducing to you, Roger. Many of us know a, “Roger.” I feel that many of us don’t appreciate the Roger’s in our life. Roger isn’t like the rest of us. He has trouble reading. Sometimes it’s difficult for him to grasp complex subjects. He’s a little different. Most people would be ready to set this book aflame for such a description. You should have done that many pages ago, but hear me out. Being “different,” is altogether separate from being stupid, slow, annoying, or inferior. Roger is one of the most amazing people in the world. He is always quick with a, “thank you,” and ever ready with a “hello.” Roger is a hard worker. His scenario entitles him to government assistance and welfare. Instead, he has had a storied career of mowing the town park and helping local farmers and cattlemen. What people fail to realize about the Rogers in their life is this: They are far smarter that people credit them of being. Roughly half a century ago, Grandpa acquired a harrow for working ground. Upon delivery, the right and left sections were folded over the center. Being the first of its kind, Grandpa enlisted the help of other career farmers to help him unfold it. Seven mechanically-minded men stood around the implement for no less than two hours. The harrow had them stumped. Then Roger pulled in. It was time for a mid-afternoon pop, and Roger never missed. Seeing the huddle around the harrow, he walked out to the barnyard. Roger was rather aloof, but caught Grandpa’s eye. With a beckoning gesture, he

called Grandpa away from the huddle. Then, without saying a word, he pointed to a bolt on the back of the contraption. Then, he motioned with his hand over towards the front. The other seven men took the bolt out, flipped the right and left sections over, and placed the bolt in the front. Roger solved a puzzle in seconds, while the rest spent hours with no success. Roger is also quite the prankster. Without exception, every time we meet, he’ll tell me our cows are out. Working to a mocked panic, I pretend to race to my truck, only to have him stop and laugh. As part of his rambunctious nature, the first time he met Jessica, he told her that our bull had chased him. Jessica was mortified. She stumbled all over herself apologizing and asking about his wellbeing. Between bursts of laughter and breaths, he was able to convey that he was, “Just kidding, Jessica.” Roger is, without question, a blessing to everyone he encounters, and he most certainly deserves a mansion in Heaven for all the joy he brings our community. Max is the second man I would like to introduce. I don’t meeting Max. He was simply a fixture. Two or three times a month, he would stop by in the morning with doughnuts. He would sit at Mom and Dad’s table to tell stories and solve the world’s problems. When he left, we would be exhausted from laughing and thinking. At six foot three inches, and two hundred, twenty five pounds, he seemed like a giant. Especially to a fourth grader. When Max was nearing eighty, he pulled his Cadillac into Dad’s pasture. We were tacking up some fence boards, and naturally, when Max saw us from the road, he stopped to visit. “You don’t have that board straight. How many times are you going to miss that nail before you give up? I could build a new fence in the time it takes you to fix an old one.” The Greatest Generation could dish out grief without offending. Max enjoyed ribbing me, and I enjoyed taking it. Finally, I fired off a zinger I had been saving. It crossed over from good-natured joking, to youthful arrogance and disrespect.

Max, in a suddenly serious tone, sat up. “If a kid says something like that to the wrong person, he might just get into trouble.” I hadn’t yet realized I was skating on thin ice. I tried one more zinger. “Well Max, you’d have to catch me first,” I said with a cocky grin. Unwavering, he motioned for me to sit down next to him in the enger’s seat of his Cadillac. “I when I was a young kid. There was this gruff, old farmer that lived down the road. I’d stop and talk with him, and we’d tease each other. One day, he told me that he was gonna knock some sense into me if I didn’t watch my mouth. I told him he’d have to catch me first. You know what that old farmer did?” Eyes wide, mouth gaping, I shook my head. “He caught me.” There is no question that Max could have out-run me, or any other smartmouthed kid in the county, even at eighty. Instead, he sat me down, and explained why we respect our elders. He didn’t draw wisdom from societal norms, but from the Bible. He talked, I learned. It was a special moment, and I’ll never forget it. Most of the time, an individual is comprised of more depth than we observe at a glance. If you heard Max telling stories of the times he went West to buy cattle for local ranchers, or noticed his huge callous-covered hands, you would peg him as a crusty, dull country boy. You’d never know he knew the Word of God better than anyone, and had a deep, caring nature for all. You would have never guessed that he was a Sunday School teacher for decades. You couldn’t imagine him shedding tears for people that didn’t know Jesus. He was a special man. A man of Christian principles. A man of Faith. A man that I enjoyed knowing. The most irregular person I’ve known was a man named Tom. Tom lived, coincidentally, on the same road as Max. He was the loudest, scatter-brained fellow you could meet. Again, part of the older generation, he enjoyed

conversing with people. Many summer afternoons and glasses of lemonade were shared with him. Tom would stop by on the way to town. Sometimes I thought he was just looking for reasons to chat. He would roar into the driveway, leap out of the vehicle and ask an entirely random question. “What did you do to make those potatoes grow like that?” “Well, I’m not real sure, Tom. I just put a wheelbarrow of cattle manure on them.” Then, without so much as a, “Goodbye,” he would leap in his car and speed away. One day, we met Tom driving down Main Street. His car was rattling down the middle of the street at no less that seventy miles an hour. Then, he saw us, he stuck his left arm out the window and began waving like a maniac. Dad smiled and casually remarked, “There goes Tom.” A week later, Tom stopped by. He instantly cornered Dad, and flew into a frenzy, “Why didn’t you stop? I was cut my hand open in an auger and thought I was going to out before I got to the vet’s office. He stitched it up, but I thought I was going to out!” Never a dull moment, yet that was a par for the course with Tom. The majority of people in Tom’s life thought him to be uncouth. Uneducated. Loud. Annoying, even. You could almost see it on their faces. They would think, “There is a man who has gone his whole life without doing anything. Just another farmer. He’s given the world nothing. He won’t be ed.” They couldn’t have been more wrong. Tom served in Korea. Drafted into the Army at eighteen, he was immediately

sent overseas to fight. Tom would never tell you what happened in Korea. Tom never wore a military cap. He never even stood to be recognized as a member of the armed forces. He never flaunted a bumper sticker. He never asked for a military discount. He had done what he thought was reasonable. It was nothing special to be in the Army during Korea. It was a part of his life that he took with stride and a large measure of humility. One night, I was talking with Dad about the latest nutty thing Tom did, and he stopped me cold. “Let me tell you something about Tom. When he was in Korea, his unit was pinned down by a machine gun. For days, those kids were stuck in the same fox hole. Food was scarce, and their radios were broken. There was no chance for escape. They were just waiting to die. Finally, Tom concocted a plan. He was going to run, full steam ahead, towards the machine gun. While he ran, the rest of the soldiers were to escape from other side of the foxhole. Tom ran, and the unit escaped to safety. In the heroic feat, Tom was shot four times. Once in the leg, twice in the chest, and once in the head. Somehow, he survived. He spent months on his back in a German hospital recovering from his life-saving wounds.” I saw Tom through an entirely different lens. He wasn’t a crazy, loud, scatterbrained old-timer. He was a super-hero. After begging and pleading, Tom brought over the medals he was awarded, a Purple Heart, and a Silver Star. His quote, as I opened the boxes with awe, the county’s very own super-hero chuckled and muttered, “Somebody had to do it. It wasn’t a big deal.” Tom was a very big deal. You have now been introduced to three unique of my life. All three of them would object to holding a place in this book. They would tell you that their life would bore readers. They would say that they were nothing special. To me, that is what makes them special. That is what makes them worth ing. I’m honored to have known them. I hope now, that you are as well.

Dating and Duffy

To preface this next bit of faux-literature, I would like to reiterate that I am happily married. This was, as my wife puts it, “my dark stretch.” Ah yes. As the solitude of living alone begins to grow, one turns to thoughts of companionship. Someone who can spend hours with you talking about nothing. Someone with whom you can enjoy life. Someone with whom you can be yourself. Someone who enjoys what you enjoy. I needed to get into the dating game. “Put me in, Coach! I’m ready.” This is what I thought several months ago. There are lots of fish in the sea. All I have to do is start swimming. Homeschooling has many advantages. Personalized teaching, the ability to learn at one’s own pace, tailored curriculum, no definitive schedule, and better lunches, to name a few. There are most certainly draw-backs as well. Prom was weird. Homecoming was anytime we left the house, but then returned. I couldn’t complain to my parent’s about my teachers. Mostly, there were not an abundance of choices in the area of girlfriend material, so I had to make other arrangements. How about the girl that works at the gas station? She was cute. Maybe I should try to get the new secretary’s number at the feed mill. She seemed nice. After many awkward moments, and many more brutal rejections, I had collected a handful of phone numbers from eligible women. Great! Now what? Who knew the initial was the easy part? My dating experience had been, shall we say, limited. Hey, how hard could it be? Pick a girl up, show her a good time, and collect a kiss before you drop her off at home. Right? Apparently, the key is showing her a good time.

The first girl I asked out said she wanted to see a real, live farm. Great. I could do this. Piece of cake. At seven the next Friday evening, I rolled into her drive. She got in my newly waxed truck and we headed to my family’s farm. While it’s a step down from the Ponderosa, it’s still a working farm complete with cattle, corn, and a starlit sky. She would certainly be impressed. As we drove through the pasture, I noticed one of the mamma cows was halfway through giving birth. “How perfect,” I thought. “I’m really gonna look like a hero when I assist in the miracle of birth.” I hopped back in the truck, pointed the headlights at the excitement and killed the engine. Then, I listened to my date’s excitement and awe at what was taking place. Ironically, what was sure to be an easy birth turned into a breech birth. I really would have to assist after all! Upon seeing the calf’s tail and hind legs, I leapt out of the truck. Cautiously I approached the cow. Patting her rump gently, I rolled up my sleeves. All the while, casually flexing my arms. My date, who was thoroughly enjoying the moment, also got out and leaned against the fender. The expression on her face conveyed that she was far more impressed with the miracle of birth than my spaghetti arms. As I felt around, I concluded that it was definitely a breech. This would require me to pull the calf. I asked my date if she could grab a string of bailing twine from the bed of my pickup. This was done enthusiastically, all while taking selfies and posting them to social media. Apparently she wanted the world to know she was a midwife. As I tied the twine around the calf’s hind legs, the cow began to fidget. She had been laying down in a lovely grassy patch for quite some time, and now felt the need to move. While my date was leaning on the front bumper of my truck, I began to gently pull at the twine.

Slowly, progress was made. Before long, the calf was appearing. With one final, steady pull, the entire calf emerged. It fell from the standing cow with a thump. After a few minutes it made an attempt to get to his feet. “Fine little bull calf,” I mused. “I bet my date is eating this up.” As I turned to her with a smile, I noticed she was, in fact, not eating this up. As the calf had plopped to the ground, it landed in a fresh pile of manure, which splashed in my date’s direction. Her boots were covered in afterbirth. Her pink shirt was covered in manure. There was even a piece of placenta in her hair. Less than thrilled, she demanded I take her home. The second date was worse. She insisted she help me move bales from the hayrack into the barn loft. We did this with a series of pulleys and rope. One person would attach the rope to the bales on the hayrack, then tie the rope to the truck. Then, they would pull the bales up to the barn door three floors up. This is where I stood. I would then grab the bales and stack them in the loft until winter when we fed them. I explained all of this to my second date. “It’s very simple. After I tie the rope to the bales, I will yell ‘Go,’ and you will pull the bales up to the loft door where I will stack them. Sound good?” Apparently she did, because she grabbed the keys and skipped back to the truck. We worked for several hours until half of the hay rack was empty. All was going well. That is, until the pulley needed oiling. After the next bale was lifted to the loft, I took the rope off the pulley. I then tied it to my belt as I searched for the oil can. That’s when I heard the engine rev. “Whoa! Whoa!!” I was frantically screaming at my date to stop. Apparently she

thought I was yelling “Go.” Most people don’t get pulled out of a three story window without serious repercussions. I’m just thankful the doctor said the facial tick will ease with time. There were several other incidents that occurred on first dates. I took one girl fishing. It was going well. The mood was right. The sunset was beautiful. Frogs were serenading us. Then she caught her first fish. Apparently, some people have a deathly fear of catfish. After she touched it, she lost consciousness and fell into the lake. Then there was the time I took a girl hunting. She claimed to be an avid hunter and excellent shot. I believe this to be a falsehood, because as she was climbing into the tree stand, she accidentally discharged her rifle. The result was a selfinflicted gunshot wound to the foot. It only took me a half-dozen more incidents to develop a new strategy. Let the girl decide what to do! So, the next Friday night, I called the last number on my list. She was the blonde from the bank. Maddie. Why Maddie was at the bottom of my list remains a mystery. She was a beautiful girl. The evening couldn’t have gone better. It was already a success in my mind. Then I went to go pick her up. In new jeans, a pressed shirt, and a washed truck I pulled into her drive. I checked my freshly-cut hair in the mirror. Perfect. I dusted off the bench seat one last time, and walked up to the door. As I walked back with her to the truck, I reached for the enger door handle, as I always do. Swinging it open with a flair, I heard these words. “You sexist pig! How dare you open my door. Just because I’m a woman, you don’t think I can manage a simple task like opening doors?” Mental note made. Henceforth, Maggie will open any and all doors. She was STRONG, as well as beautiful girl, apparently.

She told me what the plans were that evening. Roll into town. Get dinner at the new Italian t on 3rd Street. After that, we would proceed to the new art exhibit in the museum. Not an itinerary I would have proposed, but I enjoy trying new things. At the restaurant, the waiter spoke english through a thick Italian filter. I never have been good with accents, so Maddie took it upon herself to make identical choices for both of us. You find out many interesting things about a person by observing what they like to eat. Maddie liked eating fried squid. They were covered in, what appeared to be, 5W-30. Some also appeared to be alive. Obviously from her supper choice, Maddie was a strong, BRAVE, beautiful girl. After an obvious amount of stalling, I put my fork down and suggested I begin a much-needed diet. This was something for which Maddie would not stand. “I don’t want to feel like an animal eating while you stare at me! Eat the food!” And eat I did. Every slimy, nauseating bite. Never had I been more excited to see works of art. At the museum, I felt completely out of my depth. The subtle differences in brush patterns eluded me. Don’t misunderstand. I love a good Redfield print, but I couldn’t tell you the difference between a Van Gosh and a Walt Disney. Suddenly Maddie grabbed my arm and pulled me in front of a monstrous canvas. It nearly covered the wall in its entirety. The artist had depicted a tiny ship in the center of a great storm. The grays and blues cause the waves of the ocean to appear in the third dimension. It really was magnificent. “Isn’t it great? If you stare long enough, you can see the waves moving. See? See?” Maddie began pontificating on the status of the artist’s emotions and very soul. Meanwhile, I was transfixed on the waves. They truly were moving. Up and down. Back and forth. Railing, swaying, ebbing, flowing. All at once, the

thought of squid came back to me in vivid detail. I ran to the public restroom with great haste. Once I opened the door, I all but collapsed inside the second stall. That is where I met my supper for the second time. Finally, I shuffled out to the exhibit, where Maddie was waiting. Before she could inform me of how rude and selfish my behavior was, I handed her a ten dollar bill, told her to get an Uber, and walked out to my truck. I reached in the back seat and got a coke and a sack of jerky. Then, I lowered the tail gate and sat there. Finally, Maddie came out. Could she actually be there to apologize for the horrors of the evening? Did she feel remorse for her demeanor and actions? No. “I think it would be best if you changed banks. I’ll close out your on Monday.” Then she threw a crumpled ten dollar bill in my face and said she could pay for her own cab. Maddie was a strong, independent woman, both beautiful and brave. More importantly, she was gone. Well, now. Spectacular. Thanks to dating, I had rescued one girl from a lake, I’d been shoulder-deep in pregnant cow, I’d rushed a gunshot victim to the ER, and I’d been pulled out of a hay mow. Furthermore, I had to order new checks. I had emotionally arrived at the location opposite to the Land of Oz. There was no joy, no singing, no Lollipop Gang. It was kind of like Chicago. I sat there, nearly through with my Coke, when a shadow appeared behind me. I hoped it was Jack the Ripper, ready to end my misery. Instead, I turned to see a mangy, thin, almost sickly, husky staring at my beef jerky. She had no collar and looked like a brush hadn’t touched her in months. I smiled. “Hey there. You hungry?” I reached in the sack and flipped her a piece. In a second, it was gone. “You could probably eat a whole sack, huh?” I got up and reached for my last sack from the back seat.

We sat there late into the evening, just enjoying each other’s company. I talked about my recent adventures. She was a great listener. After the jerky was gone, I opened the enger door. She jumped in and licked my hand in thanks. “This one might be a keeper.” The dog has lived with me for several months now. She has put on nearly twenty pounds since that night, and her hair is soft and well groomed. She seems to like the name, “Duffy.” It fits her. Now we spend hours talking. We both enjoy going for walks. Sometimes when it gets warm, we’ll eat a bowl of ice-cream on the porch. She enjoys when we go for drives on a summer evening, and I enjoy her company. I think we both found what we needed.

After meeting and marrying Jessica, we decided to get another dog to keep the aging Duffy company. Duke is an Australian Shepherd. He’s a bundle of energy, and a riot to play with. Though not as well bred, or well marked, the lethargic and apathetic Duffy will always be my favorite.

Jessica

I certainly doubt anyone has reached this point by reading straight through, so I would like to issue a warning to those that skipped directly to this chapter. The next few pages will be Mushy, gooey, and romantic (sort of). Those who believe in coodies, flings, and Hallmark movies should just flip a few pages. However, if you’re young and believe in marriage; If you understand it isn’t easy; if you work through problems instead of running from them; read on. If you understand that having a spouse seldom involves in fairy tale endings, but consists of laughing, joy, struggles, satisfaction, and friendship, you may appreciate this. If you love your spouse, even when you may not like them, you will relate. If you know you are a far happier, and a more complete person because of them, you and I are in accord. My wife and I met at church. I had graduated from high school, and she had graduated from Bible college. Now, I know what you’re thinking. I must have been held back at least 4 years to make up the difference in our educational timelines. Thanks to hard work, applying myself, and most of all, cheating, this was not the case. There is actually a six year age difference between us. I like to rub this in, when introducing her to friends and acquaintances. “This is my wife, Jessica. Yes, she’s six years older than me. A real cradle robber!” This marvelous little routine only lasted a few months. Soon, she too had a line to trot out to her friends. “This is my husband, Curt. He’s six years younger than me. I had to find one young enough to train.” That anecdote sums up our relationship. I start to stir the pot. Once she’s had

enough, she puts the lid on the pot and shakes it. I firmly believe we are entirely different people than the individuals that were married five years ago. Such a short time for so much to change! For instance, when we first met, Jessica was, in almost every way, an Audrey Hepburn lady. Proper. Urbanized. Reserved, the world’s best barista, and most of all, opposed to risk. Sinatra is her music of choice. She also didn’t like meatloaf. This was almost enough to scare me from the altar, but we all have to make sacrifices for love. For those that doubt the “Old Fashioned,” part of this book’s title, I’ll use another dated reference to describe myself. Pat Brady. Just like that, every millennial raced to their favorite search engine in hopes of understanding the comic that was Pat Brady. Please spend time studying Roy Rogers, John Wayne, The Sons of the Pioneers, and Festus. You’ll be better for it. I was goofy, immature, spoke too much, and thought too little. I was always ready for the next scheme, and never concerned about the consequences. Salad was a sin, and fashion was a farce. Four years into this institution of marriage, and I enjoy a salad several times a week. Jessica will indulge in meatloaf. She isn’t scared to get her hands dirty, and she’s always ready to be the second person on a difficult job. I’m still allowed to wear bib overalls, but I was also ordered to buy jeans that fit like pants, not potato sacks with hammer loops. She is the chief calf-namer, and I am the taste tester for cutting-edge coffee concoctions created. Say that five times fast. Jessica had been fishing once before she met me. It involved a Disney rod and reel, giggles, and worms with bobbers. It didn’t sound very fruitful. It took some doing, but I finally persuaded her to come to the pond one day. I won’t say the trip was complaint-free. It was humid, the sun was in our eyes, and the bugs were feral. Finally, things were set up. I tied a Texas rig on her line, cast it for her, and explained how to bring it in.

She seemed to know what she was doing, and I turned my back on the lake to put a top water mouse on my line. “Oh boy. This will do my ego wonders. She’ll get a few pounders, but I’ll look like Virgil Ward when a five pounder hits on this.” From the bank behind me, I heard a squeal followed by, “When you’re done talking to yourself, show me how to take this fish off my hook.” “Beginner’s luck. First cast and a little fish.” I said this before I turned around and saw her holding a three pound largemouth. Wow. Not bad. I took her fish off, she got a picture holding it, and I cast again and handed the pole back to Jessica. Mildly miffed, I finished my lure’s knot and recoiled to cast. As I was bringing the rod forward to release, I heard another squeal. “How do you guys fish for hours without catching anything? This is easy.” Not as big as the first, but Jessica’s number two, was still a good fish. I took it off, cast, and walked back to my spot-all without a word. “Hey Curt…” “For Pete’s Sake, Jess! I haven’t gotten a hook in the water yet!” Three casts for her; three fish for her. Zero casts for me; Zero fish for me. I threw my rod back in the truck and told her it was time to go. On the way home, I tried to exercise an irritated facade. I don’t think it was convincing, because inside I was bubbling with pride. I’ve since told many, many people that Jessica has out-fished me.

Anything Jessica puts her mind to, she does well. This can be seen in her occupation. After working at the same coffee shop for many years, she has risen to the rank

of manager. I call her the Chief Bean. During a blizzard last winter, she asked if I could pick her up after she closed the shop. Her car had bald tires, and I had a four wheel drive truck. I arrived before the shop closed and took a seat. They had a stack of tabloids near my chair and I began leafing through them to kill time. Apparently the Kardashians were adopting an elephant, and that Trump guy from New York was running for president. That’s why I hate tabloids. Nothing is ever believable, let alone factual. As the clock struck seven, Jess shut the “OPEN,” sign off. Then she grabbed the mop. I offered to help, and she accepted. I was looking forward to putting “Coffee Shop Experience,” on my resume that night. After the floor was mopped, I asked about the next chore on the list. She showed me the beans that had spilled on the counter and floor throughout the day. She then explained that they needed to be placed in the red bowl and run through the disposal. Don’t laugh. This was a serious, time consuming job. I approached it with zeal. It was like a miniature Easter egg hunt. Grab the beans, toss them in the yellow bowl, and send it through the disposal when you were done. The bowl was half full when I started, and I was pleased to have it over-flowing when the last bean was captured. Smug from a job well done, I began dumping the bowl down the disposal. It growled like the hammer mill at the farm. Taking no more than a few seconds, I asked her what the next duty was. “Let me bag up the civet coffee and we can go. Margie wants it delivered tomorrow morning.” I started to Google civet coffee, as I’m sure you are now. I found a ridiculously priced bean. Margie must be a high-roller. Looking up from my phone, I saw Jessica’s ghostly white face staring back at me. There was fire in her eyes.

“Curt, what color is this bowl?” “Red?” “That’s right, Curt. What color is this bowl?” “Yellow?” Suddenly I felt like the fat kid in a horror movies. The fat kid always dies first. “Where are the beans that were in the yellow bowl?” “I sent them down the disposal like you asked.” So, apparently, I sent the wrong beans down the disposal. No big trick. I just needed to take a second, and then a third mortgage out to replace them. All things being equal, we have our downfalls. We try to be stronger Christians, kinder friends, and better spouses. This demands change. I’m proud to say that that is the character trait of Jessica’s I ire the most. She is relentless in self-betterment. Never content with being kind enough, generous enough, or caring enough; she looks to capitalize on any change she can. I’m thankful to have Jessica has a wife and a friend. I’m grateful she indulges and even encourages my “hair-brained schemes.” If she didn’t, this book would be much, much shorter.

Craig’sList

With the dot com syndicate marching pell mell towards domination, personal salesmanship suffers. Why succumb to withering small talk with a man from Topeka when you can order the bale fork online? When Amazon Prime assures next-day delivery, you certainly can’t be bothered to fraternize with Jim from Tires ’N Stuff. Even Marty at the Boot Emporium has been shoved out of the market, no thanks to eBay. Salesmanship has only one saving grace. Craigslist. Craigslist has become the virtual garage sale of our day. Where else can you find warped tupperware lids, a sack of squirrel tails, and a mermaid hood ornament from a ’73 rambler? Variety not withstanding, the value of Craigslist can be found in the phone number each ad contains. In order to complete a transaction, one must have interaction with another human being. This is the source of great oddity, satisfaction, and amusement. An example of the oddity: You list a Talking Billy Bass. The phone rings. You answer. The gentlemen introduces himself as “Bubba.” He then explains that, “Bubba,” is not his real name. He is certain the government has been watching him and recording his phone calls. As he explains this, you make a mental note to prepare your taxes with the strictest parameters next year. After he unravels his conspiracy, he asks if you still have the Talking Billy Bass. Answering in the affirmative, you ask what his intentions are for Billy. You wish you hadn’t asked. He explains that he would like to wire a camera into Billy’s mouth, so he can use it to observe his mailman candidly. After you interrupt, mid evil-plan, you strike a deal and meet in the Wal-Mart parking lot. Talking Billy Bass becomes Covert Agent Tom Trout and is never heard from again. I hope they didn’t water board him. An example of the satisfactory: I once listed three, front-mount Farmall cultivators for Grandpa. After ten days with no bites, plans were being made to take them to the scrap yard. A week before we were to load them up, my phone

rang. Upon answering, a gentleman named Jimmy said he would like to come get them, but couldn’t make it up for nearly a month. I said holding them wouldn’t be a problem, and a date was set. The day before Jimmy was planing on meeting, he called to ask directions. Assuming he was familiar with the county, I started rattling off street names and landmarks. “Hold on a minute,” Jimmy interjected. “I ain’t from ‘round there. I need to know how to get to y’all’s place from Louisiana.” If you’ve ever planned a 16 hour road-trip over the phone with Jimmy LaRue, you have my sympathies. No GPS. No Google Maps. No Interstates. After two hours of looking at section-line roads, highways, and Wells Fargo trails, we devised a plan, and Jimmy was en route. Eleven Big Mac’s, eight Coca-Cola’s, fourteen rest stops, and a road kill deer later, the truck and trailer rolled into the barn yard. Complete with Louisiana tags, Copenhagen spit down the fender, and a dead dear in the back seat, Jimmy LaRue was on campus. After chaining down the final cultivator, He thanked me for the time, paid me, and was on his way. It was a fair amount of trouble to sell 3 old implements, but satisfying nonetheless. Example of amusing: Due to social anxiety our bull began using the cobbledtogether, wooden feed bunk as a punching bag. After 3 weeks of this game of mistaken identity, the bunk resembled a chainsaw carving attacked by termites the size of water buffalo. Obviously a new bunk got moved to the top of tomorrow’s list of projects. That evening, I began scouring Craigslist. An old silage wagon looked promising until I studied the pictures. No floor, no wheels, the tongue looked like an origami figurine, and there was a skeleton underneath. . Another, brand new, was priced at sixty percent of retail value. Upon further discovery, it was a replica at 1:32 scale. The money they got for those things! This led to an hour of searching through toy tractors, implements, and other farm toys. With dwindling motivation, I decided to end the quest until the next morning. After morning chores, I hit the power button on the laptop and re-ignited my feed bunk search. Bingo! Brand new. Metal. Free delivery to my zip code. I dialed the number, fully intent on making a purchase. On the third ring, a woman answered. Mid-Salutation, an un-earthly wail leapt

through the phone and rattled every nodule in my brain. This was the scream you envision during a Freddie Kruger movie. The caliber of such a shriek could be ranked alongside Hitler’s , Stalin’s Russia, and Clinton’s Arkansas. The question remained, what did southern Iowa share with those dictatorial regimes? After daring to ask, the answer was given. “I’m sorry sir. My husband is preparing for his colonoscopy this afternoon. He has to drink this formula which makes things unpleasant.” Right on cue, another piercing howl blasted through the ear piece. The remainder of the conversation was uneventful. Dimensions were given, prices were set, and an appointment was made. The new bunk would be in the barn yard in 48 hours. The experience was beyond amusing. I’m sure the examples given were not page-turners. They wouldn’t make exciting motion pictures, but the excitement they lacked was made up for with human interaction. In a society where fast food, banking, and shopping are all human-free, I challenge you to experience tales similar these while hiding behind a keyboard or mousepad.

Trailers, Wagons, Hayracks, Etc…

I hate people that know what they’re doing. Perhaps, I should refine that statement. I hate when people flaunt their skills and talents, especially concerning the operation of any appendage connected by ball-hitch, three-point hitch, fast hitch, tongue, pin, or chain to a motorized apparatus, vehicular in nature. Now it’s a run-on sentence. I can elicit screams from my publisher’s office, two states away. It’s a talent refined to an art. Pull-type objects are the bane of my existence. I currently hold the county heavy-weight belt in broken fenceposts as the result of short turns and errant backing. Thanks to a new short-tongue dump trailer, I’m runner up in this year’s jack-knife competition. There’s always next year to snag title. Regardless of size, application, or surroundings, pull-type objects pose innumerable threats. The threat of electrocution is one of the favorites. The lights always quit working at the worst times-usually, in the rain; always in the dark. “Spit in the plug,” Grandpa Carl would say. Just don’t let any spit dribble on your hands, which would conduct electricity straight from the vehicle’s battery terminals into your aorta. Another threat holding a spot in David Letterman’s Top Ten would be the threat of legal ramification. As you pull an eighty-eight bale hayrack through winding, backroads, you enjoy an unknown risk. As you pull into the barnyard, you discover bales ninety-four through ninety-seven are absent from the rest of their happy family. You are subsequently informed via subpoena they came to rest, albeit comfortably, inside the radiator of the school bus. You must then sell the hay, cattle, and hayrack to pay legal bills, and PTSD counseling fees. As we stroll down our list of atrocities, we fall upon the next threat: tires. Old trailers under every circumstance, regardless of situation, in every scenario, without exception, rest on ancient tires. They are usually older than the trailer itself. Bald tires are a given. Square tires are a bonus. They leak, wobble, explode, and periodically break loose and you on the freeway. Tires, which apparently went to the same boot camp as lights, go flat at the worst times.

When I turned sixteen, I took up scrapping. It cleaned up the barnyard, and gave me extra money to put towards whatever my Ag teacher said I was supposed to do after graduating. I’m pretty sure it was college. Oops. I traversed the backroads looking for tin cans, mangled gates, and pieces of Tom and Lenny’s combine. We never figured out what caused the old harvester to explode, but years latter, parts can still be found in ditches and waterways. One day, a local farmer, called and asked if I would be interested in his rusty, twenty foot culvert. Assuring him that I was, he told me I could have it if I loaded it myself. I immediately hung up and asked Grandpa if I could borrow his trailer. I have yet to see a new trailer. If approached, I’m not sure I would recognize one. Grandpa’s was no exception. It was a sixteen foot flatbed. It had no lights, no license plate, no paint, no tire tread. Rumors say it was used to haul sick, feeble pilgrims off the Mayflower in the sixteen hundreds. Of course, that wasn’t true. It was actually used to wheel around the Trojan Horse on the Isle of Trojania, or wherever they bred those giant things. I sputtered up to the culvert and backed the trailer towards the south end. Thunk! That was probably close enough. I then used a jack to lift the south end of the culvert higher than the ramp of the trailer. Then, I backed the trailer under the culvert. Once it was resting on the deck, I chained the south end to the trailer. Then, I found the largest tree in the fence line, and backed the trailer against the tree, using it to push the north end of the culvert all the way onto the trailer. Clunk! I guess that’s as far as it was going. Quite pleased with a job well done, I raced to the junk yard. “This was going to be a great haul,” I thought. “Scrap is a hundred and twenty dollars a ton, and I’ll bet this culvert weighs a thousand pounds. That’s almost forty dollars!” And my ag teacher wonders why no college accepted my application… Eight miles before the scrap yard was a wonderful little curve. Evil Canivel wouldn’t attempt such a turn on a track-tested go cart, but my little truck and Trojan Horse trailer were going around at full-speed. Then the culvert started to roll. Wham! Bang! Pow!

The force with which the culvert smashed into the enger side fender cased the trailer’s driver’s side tires to raise off the pavement. As the G forces subsided, the culvert rolled back towards the driver’s side. Once again under the weight of the twenty foot tube, all four trailer tires bear-hugged the pavement. The prehistoric Firestone’s never stood a chance. Both starboard tires were flatter than a hammered meatloaf. It took me two days, and a hundred dollars in new rubber to get the culvert to the junk yard, all for sixty dollars in scrap metal. Being raised on a farm, and enjoying the outdoors in of recreation, has granted me a double-whammy concerning pull-type objects. In a typical day, I might hook up a grinder to the tractor, pull it out to a feed bunk, then un-hook. Then, attach a a silage wagon to the tractor and drop that in a different pen. If it’s not too wet, I’d hook an implement to the tractor, and scratch around in the corn field. After that, perhaps we would take a sick calf up to the vet using the cattle trailer. At last, I’d hook up the boat, and take it down to the lake. Different wheel bases, tongue lengths, and surroundings cause simple minds to unravel. Obviously, this book proves that theory. A great deal of time can be spent explaining the art of backing up a trailer. A seasoned cowboy backing a gooseneck up to a loading chute is a thing of beauty rivaled only by the Grand Canyon, Niagara Falls, and warm blackberry cobbler with hand churned ice cream. I’ve seen only one of these wonders in person. Likewise, watching an inexperienced individual back a pull-type object is, in a word, miserable. Veterinarians, fresh out of college, have self-medicated after the seventeenth attempt at wrestling a portable chute into a workable position. Thus the bumper sticker, “Say no, to Ralgro.” The style in which you back is just as important, if not more important, than the rate of success you achieve. No one really cares if the model fails to reach the end of the runway, just so long as she looks good doing it. The only way I know that is because I was forced to watch, “The Devil Wears Prada,” after seven hours of Roy Rogers and John Wayne. The first rule is the most important. Never, under any circumstances, make a third attempt. It is preferable to take the “One and Done,” approach. You may think that this is to save time. It is not. It’s quite simply style. I have seen entire feedlots shift seven inches westerly in order to prevent a third attempt at backing a trailer to the loading chute. Posts were re-set. Gates were bent. Cattle were

chased. All was done to prevent a third attempt at backing. If the second attempt is altogether unsuitable, you may enlist substitutes. Each substitute gets one chance. They must start and finish on their own. You may not help direct in any way. Many trailers have been dented by substitutes, and twenty percent of your friendship will be deducted for each dent istered. Marching on to rule number two, we will tackle the subject of mirrors. You will never see a seasoned bull-shipper, boat-launcher, or corn-hauler swivel in the driver’s seat and peer out the back window at the trailer when mirrors are present. It’s in bad taste, plus the excess stress placed on on vertebrae C4, C5, and C6 is quite unpleasant. Your faith must be firmly placed in the engineers which designed the machine you are occupying. Mirrors, quite simply, are sufficient. As an aside, if you use a new-fangled, camera hidden in your dash to place your ball hitch squarely under the tongue of a trailer, might I suggest that you also discontinue practices such as: pedicures, meatless meat, and falsetto opera. Get out a dozen times, or so, and re-adjust like “The Duke,” would have. The third rule is not to be held as hard and as fast as the preceding two, just fast. The speed at which you back a trailer is a subjective one, but it is the splash on the high dive. It is the triple lutz in the skate routine. It is the super-backflip-twist with the twinkle toes deely-bob during the balance beam competition. I know this because I was forced to watch the Olympics after eleven hours of Johny Carson reruns divided by fifteen minute installments of Matlock. The third rule is also distinguished from the first two by means of required skill. While rules one and two are beginner or moderate in nature, the issue of speed should only be kept by those holding “Grand Poobah,” backing skills. Failure to comply may result in maiming, death, or worse, mangled props on an outboardmotor. Steve could launch a boat faster than anyone I know. There were times that we would be gathering our gear from the truck beds, only to find Steve ninety yards away from the boat ramp. With straps flying and elbows flailing, Steve would have the boat prepped and floating before we shut off our pump-up music, usually “Eye Of the Tiger.” Occasionally, Steve would be too quick with the backing. Once, he forgot the drain plug. Thankfully, I was dry and safe roaring along with Queen in the second stanza of “We Are the Champions.”

While there are many more challenges associated with pull-type objects, I have decided to save them for seed. Perhaps, you will see a subsequent chapter involving trailer registration, trailer brakes, and maximum axle weight.

Leroy’s First Rodeo

Instead of going to the latest movie, buying an overpriced meal, or going to a sporting event, I seek entertainment in another fashion. I invite city kids over. Oh the questions I’ve been asked. “Does a cow’s tongue look the same as it does at the meat counter?” “Do pigs lick your fingers?” “Can I actually try to tip that cow over?” After they sign the insurance waver and pay $10 the city kids can walk around wherever they want. Well, with this particular day, Leroy, who worked at the local 7/11, decided to venture into the paddock that contained a handful of 800lb steers. The steers were tame enough, and I was planning on selling them to the local feedlot later in the week. Leroy was 19 years old, stood 5’ 9’’ and weighed about 280lbs. His hands were softened by the best lotion money could buy. His face was the color of a sweet potato thanks to repeated uses of spray on tans. His boots had never known manure, his brow had never known sweat, he’d probably hadn’t even seen his own blood…until that day he came out to visit me. Leroy was a city kid who did all his fishing in pet stores when the proprietor was in the back room. He did all his hunting from the 2nd story window of his apartment building with a BB gun, and his quarry was the same pigeon that landed on the power line across the street every day. Leroy isn’t a very good shot. Leroy stood in awe looking at the steers in the pasture. “Bovine are peculiar creatures. I read once that a cow’s tail swishes 85,000 times per day…” “That’s great, Leroy.” I said, and left him to his awe-ing. Later that evening I went back to finish up chores for the day, when much to my

befuddlement, I saw Leroy standing in the same spot I had left him several hours earlier. “Is there anything you’d like to do before you leave today?” This question, I had hoped, would push him politely back to his urban home via his Honda moped. “Well, I always wanted to rope a cow. Do you think I could try to rope one of those baby cows?” Referring to the 6 steers that had begun to accept Leroy as a scratching post. “I suppose that would be all right, except you have to have a horse to rope a steer, otherwise how would you get him stopped? I’m afraid I couldn’t let you do that without a horse, and I’m fresh out. Maybe next time,” I answered. “I’ll use my moped as a horse,” Leroy persisted. “She handles very well and I can steer with one hand while I rope the baby cow with the other.” After much consideration and prayer, I had him sign another insurance waver, opened the gate, and watched Leroy and his moped go rolling into the 2 ½ acre patch. The whine of the moped got the attention of the steers, but didn’t bother them as Leroy circled the herd and picked out the one to rope. Finally satisfied with one particular steer, he began swinging his rope high above his head in broad circles. With the ease of Lobsterman roping a buoy, Leroy sent the rope flying. Unfortunately the landing of the rope took place on the opposite end of the steer and slid off it’s hind-quarters. “Try again, Leroy. Get closer to your target next time.” I encouraged, getting my phone out to take a video of the rodeo. Not to be dissuaded, Leroy wasted no time in picking out another steer. It was an angular creature whose head appeared to be ti-dyed. It also may have been part Thoroughbred. Once again Leroy began whipping the lariat above his head in no specific pattern and let her fly. To my surprise and Leroy’s jubilation, the noose found it’s target around the steer’s neck. “I got her! I got her!” Leroy screamed. The orange color began to drain from his spray-tanned face. “Oh no! I got her. What should I do now?” I began making a mental list. 1. Explain to Leroy the difference between cows and heifers (her’s) and bulls and steers (him’s). 2. Look up the the phone numbers for the vet, the local newspaper for interviews and pictures, and the

hospital. In that order. And 3. Continue recording this adventure. “Just dally the rope around your scooter’s handle bars and hold on!” I hollered. And that’s exactly what he did. Just like a pro he wrapped the lariat around the handle bars of the moped and grabbed the handles with a vice-like grip. This, indeed, would have been a poor time for the Honda to backfire. Instead, it rolled slightly backwards and onto a hedge needle which popped the back tire inducing the sound of a grenade. The steer took off on a gallop, and the slack was being drawn up faster than most people can blink. Zing! Off went the steer. Thump! “Ow!” Crash “Ow!” Bang! “Help!!” There went Leroy close behind. Now would probably be a really bad moment to tell him a fun fact about how loud noises startle cattle. Within 5 minutes the steer had drug Leroy, and his method of transportation around the pasture twice, and had landed enough blows to win the round. After yelling at Leroy to give up and let go, he freed each of his fingers deliberately, slowly, and mechanically from the handle bars. Much like a paratrooper falling back out of an airplane at 15,000 feet, Leroy spread his arms and legs and jumped straight up in the air as the steer pulled the moped out from under him. Unfortunately, the Velcro strap of his Big Bronks and Bulls Rodeo souvenir chaps secured itself to the clutch of the moped, now dragging Leroy on his seat behind the moped, which was still behind the now utterly crazed steer. With each bounce I could hear another one of Leroy’s vertebrates crack, rupture, sever, sizzle, and ultimately be pulverized into sand-like granules. “Better look up the coroner’s number instead of the hospital,” I decided. I faced a decision. A. Rush out to Leroy’s defense to try and corral the steer somehow or B. Succumb to the overwhelming desire to throw my head back and laugh uncontrollably. I chose the latter without hesitation. After several more minutes of Leroy being drug around like a rag doll I began thinking of solutions to his current predicament. As a list of credits at the end of a zombie movie the options began scrolling through my mind. Kill the steer. No. Let the steer kill Leroy. Yes, but unethical, so no. Begin selling tickets if both Leroy and the steer are alive and kicking (literally) by morning. Definitely.

Finally the stroke of genius I was waiting for submerged from the depths of my frontal lobe. “Hey Leroy! Your pathetic excuse for chaps are caught on your pathetic excuse for a motorcycle, right?” He screamed an affirmative after groaning something about leaving the joking to Johnny Carson. “Well just take your pants off!” I yelled back. The response was less than articulate, but I gathered that he was not keen on the idea. To think that I spent all of this time and brainpower trying to think of ideas to save his hide and he wouldn’t even attempt the ideas I thought of…I became indignant. “You’re sweating the fat off of that good steer and I want you to stop it right now! Shuck those drawers!” “Not until you shut the camera off!” Leroy persisted. “Wow,” I thought, “Here is a man that has been drug, depleted, dilapidated, broken, busted, battered, and bruised, yet he still has the resolve of a 2-year-old eating jello with his fingers.” Remorse flooded over me as I hit the power button on the camera and lowered it to my side. Slowly, deliberately, Leroy reached for his buckle and popped the button on his pants. The next mole hill his rear encountered sent him out of his britches, 5 feet high. When he returned to Terra-Ferma Leroy was wearing nothing but his imitation leather boots, a ripped and soiled paisley shirt, and boxers that colorfully proclaimed by way of every color in the universe, “I Love Cows.” I now understood his resolute desire to have the camera turned off. The next morning, after paying Leroy a visit in the E.R. and dropping a copy of the signed insurance waver off at his lawyer’s office, I took a look out in the pasture. Things looked considerably calmer than the night before. The six steers were laying there, chewing their cud like normal. In the middle of the little group lay what was left of the moped which consisted of the handlebars, one tire, a blinking light, and the exhaust pipe. I ambled out towards the carnage and cut

the rope off the steer. Afterwards, I removed the heap of scrap metal out of the pasture. Since the handlebars were plastic and weren’t worth anything at the junk yard, I decided to mount them on a piece of plywood and spray paint an inscription underneath that read, “Leroy’s First Rodeo.”

Neighbors

Neighbors have always been a great source of consternation for me. I don’t want to be placed on Mt. Fuji with goats, llamas, and the occasional hermit; yet I could easily do without the thought of people living 4 feet from my domain. To cover my bases and protect my household from toilet paper and eggs, I feel the need to clarify. Not all neighbors have a contract with Beelzebub. Some are, indeed, good people. Case in point: On Dad’s farm, there is a patch of volunteer trees. Great, majestic, tall, old, elegant trees. They created a picturesque, magnificent picnic location. I hated them. Besides raising cain with local HAM radio operators, they also took up ground upon which row crops could grow. They had to go, so I grabbed the chainsaw and went to work. After a few short hours, they laid, defeated, in the middle of the field. What once was an elegant hinderance, now became an ugly, rotting pile of cottonwood and hedge. One of the old neighborhood farmers, Lester, took it upon himself to pile the trees along the end rows and burn them. What a good deed, and a good neighbor. At the half the neighbors lead 1-0. An hour after Lester struck the match, every firefighter in the county was working to contain the blaze. The country will soon be rebuilt to its former glory and Lester will be released from the burn unity shortly. At the buzzer Neighbors lose by ninety-nine points.

I should also preface by saying, after spending the first two decades of my life on the farm, I moved into our near-by village. It’s a lovely town. The dwellings are filled with big-hearted, fun-loving, good-timing, pious, egocentric natives. The extremes are mind-boggeling. One yard proudly displays a 1989 cavalier; hung on cinder blocks, framed by crabgrass. The next is directly off the cover of Better Homes and Gardens.

Such ends of the neighbor-spectrum are found on my block. Across from me are James, Marsha, and their two daughters. Slice of American pie, anyone? They are the essence of good. James owns and manages the local cafe, while Marsha teaches special needs children. Their two daughters play in the high-school band, ride their bikes, and walk their dog, Spanky. They are perfect neighbors. To the south, lives a woman named Kate. Describing Kate accurately is like weaving a needle with chopsticks. It cannot be done. Being a woman of great experience (ergo, well past social security age), she spends her time mowing her lawn, picking blackberries, and spying on us. She knows when we leave, when we eat, if our apples are ripe-not the ones on the tree outside. The apples in the crisper drawer beneath the caesar salad mix. What a heart of gold, though! Kate offers many times every summer to help weed our own garden and water our plants. There is no better neighbor than Kate. Always quick with a hello, always ready to talk, and a genuine pleasure to be around. It almost makes me forget about the Hubble telescope she aimed at the living room window. This leaves me with the neighbors to the north. As with all things up north it leaves much to be desired. Arctic tundras, frost bite, snow, bears, Canadians, need I say more? Just last week I read about a bear on a zambonie machine chasing kittens through the arctic tundra. The poor kitten died of frostbite in the arms of a border officer while trying to cross into Maine, but I digress. The neighbors to the north have leapt from the pages of an Edgar Allen Poe poem. They are subjects from which many campfire stories have been derived. Rumors of stolen children fill the block. Dogs howl as they walk by. Mysterious sounds echo throughout the night. Haunting shadows by the windows. Plus the human remains on the front porch need a good dusting. Nellie and Ben are names the two psychopaths are claiming these days. They change every so-often. I assume they do that to confuse authorities. While Ben, who is nearing eighty, can be seen getting the mail or trimming his hydrangeas; Nellie is nothing more than a shadow. A ghost. A myth. You get the point. Once Ben actually referred to her existence in a conversation. He spoke as though Nellie was still alive and well. This, we know, is not the case. Following the playbook written by Norman Bates himself, Ben must be keeping

Nellie’s body on ice. I know this because as I mow, two silhouettes appear in the back room and just stare at me. Ben, and his dearly departed wife. He sits, stands, moves, and talks. She remains as motionless, like a state employee during a smoke break. Unfortunately, that’s the best part. As the scene takes a darker shade, we must think about the demise of poor, old Nellie. How did she meet her end? What reason does Ben have to keep her body hidden? Why must he play these shadowy games? Could the answer possibly be murder? Yes. In a struggle one night, I deduce he clocked her upside the head with the very frying pan she used to fry liver and onions. Disgusted with the monotony of eating the dish every Tuesday, he finally snapped like a twig in hurricane. Grabbing it from the stove, he wrapped his arthritic hands around the red copper pan (as seen on TV) and gave the old coot what she deserved. Ladies and gentlemen, this is all speculation. While my degree in criminal psychology is not WORTHLESS, the University of Fargo has yet to be accredited. This hinders me from receiving any meaningful indulgences from the local patrolman I converse with at the gas station every morning. Let us summarize. Is Ben a killer? Probably. Is Nellie dead? Absolutely. Is the tombstone in their front yard too gaudy for the neighborhood? Likely. Does Ben always mow over the property line and into our yard? Inexcusably. It is certainly safe to say that under that polygrip and Blue Emu spray (also seen on TV), lies the soul of a villainous mastermind. I will not rest until Nellie’s case has been solved and I can mow my yard in it’s entirety.

Fire

Fire. It’s frightened tribes. It causes scars. It promotes destruction. It’s an arson’s weapon. It takes everything you have. Ranches, homes, and businesses have been lost at its vengeance. Its smoke is suffocating. Its heat is relentless. It once annihilated Chicago, so I suppose there is good in everything. And you thought I was waxing profound and stoic… Since I was knee high to a grasshopper, fire has been a thorn in my side. Too many metaphors? I think fire stinks. The first memory I have of fire involves a gopher. Why a gopher, you ask? For the city folk who are unaware, a gopher is a tiny rodent who burrows in the ground. Anyone who has cattle knows the annoyance of a gopher. Their holes are just large enough to brake a young calf’s leg if stepped in. At the age of 6 or 7, we faced an invasion of the ground vermin. Dad was constantly breaking out the old 12 gauge to even the score. Many mornings I woke up to a blast and an enthusiastic squall of victory. Yes, it was like bunking in Normandy. One morning, I decided to try my hand at gopher warfare. I was painting the wood fence out in the hay field when a furry little guy peaked up from a nearby hole. I felt mocked. He knew I wasn’t old enough to grab Dad’s cannon and serve him his just dessert, so he teased me by making funny faces at me while I painted. I began making funny faces back, but Mom told me to stop. Apparently, I was scaring the neighbors. Then, as in the cartoons, a lightbulb appeared over my head. Curious, I yanked on the string. It popped on, and also like the cartoons, a plan began hatching. I hopped on my bike and raced home. Inside the shed was the gas can we used for the mower, chainsaw, and other small-engine tools. Grabbing that, and a book of matches from Dad’s pickup, I raced back to the scene of the crime. Dumping all five gallons of gasoline down the hole, I felt the sweet feelings of

success boil up from within. No longer would this gopher be causing problems. Now came time for the match. Having never struck one before, this caused a temporary delay in action. John Wayne always used his boot. Clark Gable used his pants. Sherlock Holmes used his pipe. Naturally, I was dressed in shorts, sneakers, and possessed only a licorice pipe. Then I saw the “Strike Here,” on the flap of the match book. I was a genius. As I struck the match with a snap and a crackle, I burnt my thumb on the blue and pink burst of flame. This was the first and only casualty in the Gopher Wars. An instant after the match was dropped down the hole, I felt the heat and heard the “Whoosh,” of gophers being sent to a fiery grave. I stood back to bask in my brilliance. Flames licked up at the sky! Smoke billowed! I had won. The gopher’s morale would be crushed. The war was over-or so I thought. Like a bullet train, a family of gophers swarmed from the hole. I was devastated. How did they evade such an inferno? Dumbfounded and crushed, I watched as they scurried through the hay field and barnyard. It was at that moment I made a very astute observation. The enemy combatants tail’s were all on fire. Horror of horrors. As they raced at the speed of sound through the hayfield, all the while using their tails to ignite the entire 20 acres of drying alfalfa. Cut to evening. Covered in soot and dragging miles of hose, my dad stumbled to the house. I lay under my bed trembling. He explained that lighting enemy combatants aflame was against the Geneva Convention, as was child abuse, thankfully. After the smoke cleared (literally), the gopher’s sent their general to negotiate a truce with Dad. He accepted and we have lived in strained co-existence ever since. This was my earliest memory of fire. The most recent involved a fishing trip to central Iowa.

For many years, I had wanted to try my hand at catching perch. Naturally, by friend Greg knew this. Once winter evening, he called and asked if I wanted to drive north of Des Moine to an old quarry. He had heard of an abandoned quarry ripe with perch longer than the football field. Of course, I agreed without hesitation. We arrived at the quarry before the sun rose. Within two hours we reached our limit and began packing up. As we burnt up the interstate on the way home, a winter storm began brewing. Greg’s HHR began to drift and slide between both lanes of the interstate. Once, we came within an inch of hitting a plow truck. After changing his Depends, Greg recommended we find a spot to wait out the storm. This was an Einstein-worthy idea. Greg guided his HHR off at the next exit. We saw a sign informing us of a town a mere mile and a half away. After pulling into the little burg, we parked under an abandoned Casey’s gas station. This was the spot the gas gauge gave up its foul habit of lying. Immediately it sank below E and the vehicle died without so much as a sputter. Not to worry, two guys in their mid-twenties dressed like eskimos could certainly out-last a little snow. Wrongo. Eleven hours into our adventure we were no longer able to shuffle the deck of cards, as our fingers had frozen. Without the game of Gin to keep of occupied, we began to think of our last meal. It had been seventeen hours since Greg had opened the box of Milk Duds. It had been sixteen hours and fifty-eight minutes since I socked him in the jaw for refusing to share. All at once, I was reminded of my days as a Gopher War soldier. Greg had a cartoon lightbulb over his head, just as I did. I begged him not to pull the string, but he gave in to the persistent temptation. “We got a whole bucket of cleaned perch,” he screamed. “Now all we have to do is stick them on the windshield wipers and roast them over a fire!” This sounded like the perfect solution until I reminded him of our lack of matches or fuel for the fire.

He gave me a coy grin ask asked if I was packing my concealed carry pistol. After nodding an affirmative, he began again. “All we have to do is pop the bullet out of a round, then pour the gunpowder onto those pallets over there.” He began talking faster as the idea became more obvious to me. “Then we use the spark plugs from my car to ignite the powder and BAM! Enough roasted perch to feed the Royal Army.” I’m not sure how a reference to Britain’s military was relevant, but I leaned back and thought, “Not bad, for a fellow homeschooler.” Once we were finished playing MacGyver, Greg hopped in the HHR. He cranked it once, I saw a spark, then a majestic mushroom cloud lifted over the pallets. With a little coaxing, we had a crackling fire going. After our meal of perch, we huddled around the dwindling blaze to stay warm. It was very peaceful. The snow had all but stopped. The wind had stilled, and before long we would be bound for Illinois once again. Within an hour we had both fallen asleep next to the nearly extinct fire. Then we awoke to a quiet hissing. Apparently, the heat from our backwoods oven was beginning to burn through one of the rubber hoses connecting the gas pumps to the underground tanks. “Woah! Just think, if this gas station was still bing used, We’d be in lots of ittybitty pieces!” Greg’s parent’s didn’t place much emphasis on vocabulary. I made a mental note to give him a Thesaurus for Christmas. As Greg was wiping the cold sweat off his brow, my eyes wandered to the empty Casey’s building. For the first time, I noticed a sign to the door. In large, red letters it informed the would-be customer that it was only temporarily out of service due to remodeling, but the customers could still pay for any fuel at the pump with a credit card. Both of our memories are still blurry as to what happened next. What we both is jumping, head-first, into a nearby snow drift with only our feet sticking out.

As luck would have it, we escaped the explosion and fire that preceded our meal. The doctors say we will soon be able to walk without the use of canes and the reconstruction process has been going well. Unfortunately, the ATF has forbidden the both of us from traveling to Iowa ever again. As for my new lease on life, I have signed a statement acknowledging my hatred of fire. It also says I may be shot in the neck if I’m within 15 yards of an open flame. All things considered, there’s no way I’d rather have it.

Mein Kampf (Sort Of)

I don’t want to draw too many comparisons to Nazi’s and Alchuwitz. On the other hand, this chapter shares the same name as Hitler’s memoir, My Struggle. As a disclaimer, this chapter will be discussing certain manly things the lady folk find disturbing and unintelligent. Things along the lines of belching and scratching. Now that the women have scooted past this chapter, we can indulge in “guy talk.” A certain question has plagued me since being married. How to answer certain questions always leaves me feeling mystified. Questions like: “Is that REALLY what you’re wearing? Have you thought this through? Why did you buy another gun? Are you sure you need more fishing stuff?” The final two questions cause the largest concern. I never know how to answer those questions. I’ve traveled different avenues, hoping to evade such queries, but just like the KGB, sweet little Jessica is always watching. “This isn’t MY gun. I’m just cleaning it for Ricky.” “I thought you said you had to borrow Ricky’s cleaning supplies a few weeks ago. Why would you borrow Ricky’s cleaning stuff just to clean his gun?” Foiled again. “I didn’t BUY these lures. We own stock in Googan Baits. They send them to all the shareholders instead of dividends.” Coyly, “Googan is a privately held company.” I didn’t feel right about telling these untruths. That wasn’t a Christian thing to

do. Furthermore, it wasn’t working. Mein Kampf was in full swing. I couldn’t live with the guilt of lying about these acquisitions, but you just can’t use the same shotgun for pheasants and skeet. That would be madness. And furthermore, sometimes the bass won’t bite on green pumpkin, but they find pond scum chartreuse delectable. You simply must have both. I created a new tactic. It occurred when reading the biography of Adolf Tolkachev, a Russian citizen-turned spy surfing the Cold War. He would smuggle documents out of weapons factories by hiding them under his coat. That would work for lures, ammo, and reels. I would conduct surveillance runs. Meandering into the house, I would see if I was free from prying eyes. If the coast was clear, I could conduct ammo, tackle, and firearm transfers from truck to house without detection. It worked well. Then came the issue of where to store these items. The smuggling operation was working, but when inventory increased from three guns to thirteen, or toastersized tackle box to one similar to a suitcase, the jig would be up. Going with another Wold War II story, I began reading Corrie Ten Boom’s, “The Hiding Place.” As Dutch watchmaker, she hid Jews in an undisclosed room in her house for months on end. I had to build a secret room. The issue was my lack of any marketable skills. Electrical, plumbing, and carpentry must be farmed-out. Putting pencil to paper, I began budgeting. After pricing a walk in vault, I decided it would be more economical to buy a second house. I was out of ideas. Then I reached the chapter which described ten Boom’s secret room. It was essentially a closet with household items strewn in front of the door. It was filled with clutter, which made the SS abandon any hope of finding something of value behind the door. Oh baby, I could do that. I turned my office into a yet another scene from the nineteen forties. My office was transformed into London after the Nazi Blitz bombings. Filthy over-all’s were hung over the door, shoes were strategically placed on the floor. One had to navigate greasy rags and the odd piece of wire. For good measure, scattered nails between the entryway and my stash of goodies. In a matter of time, Jessica refused to even open the office

door. I could stash items in the far corner, and they would never be found. My interpretation of “The Hiding Place,” worked well to camouflage smaller items. The real trick would be hiding larger items; a boat, a tractor, perhaps the occasional cow. No amount of clutter would hide the sputter of a sixty year old Farmall H, or the climate-changing flatulence of a mamma cow. (The publisher wouldn’t allow an eye-roll emoji after that sentence, so you’ll have to close your eyes and pretend.) A possibility would be to dust off the old, “It’s an investment in our future,” bit. That seemed to work on occasion. “This tractor was sold new for two thousand dollars in nineteen forty eight. Now, with a seized motor, two flat tires, and a protective coating of rust, it’s listed at fifty-seven hundred. Just think of what it will be worth in two thousand fortyseven! You’ll be able to retire, Jess.” She would then playfully toss the checkbook in the fire. I’ve never understood the underlying enjoyment of that game, but I trust it’s there, somewhere. Stephen King has enjoyed an extremely successful career as a fiction writer. His pen has created horrors involving monsters, ghosts, the IRS, and other fearsome entities. Once, a reporter asked King about his success, and the secret to achieving it with such consistently. “It’s very simple,” he replied, “I show my readers the bear. No horror novel is complete without a monster. Great antagonists are essential to great stories.” The thing is, some bears are just little yapper-dogs, nipping at your ankles. They distract you while the real bear hides in the foliage sharpening his knife and preheating his oven. One particular anecdote will exemplify my point. Last spring, at our area’s annual gun show, I salivated at every booth. Nearing the end of the exhibits, I spotted half a dozen shotguns. They were all lesser bands, lesser conditions, and less than useful. Firing pins were missing, triggers were non-existent. As I peered into the action of one Sears and Robuck twelve gauge, I noticed the entire slide was welded open. These firearms, no doubt, were most recently used as clubs and batons. The older gentleman, who am I kidding, the prehistoric fossil of a former human being, noted my interest and sprung into a heightened pitch of salesmanship.

Each shotgun had its own story. One belonged to the world record trap and skeet competitor. The individual must have seized that record after pawning off the gun resting in my hands now. One belonged to General Robert E. Lee. Upon being reminded that the South had lost the war, the old fossil corrected, mid-lie and informed me that the relic had been owned by Ulysses S. Grant. The archaic vendor kept spewing his stories. Through five guns he sputtered and exclaimed. He never skipped a beat. “This is your chance to own pieces of real, living history!” With each gun, I had taken a step to the backwards. Yet, from a football field away, I saw him pick up the sixth and final shotgun. There was no brand on the barrel. The stock seemed to vaguely glow green. “I really shouldn’t be selling this gun. It’s a one-of-a-kind. Do you Swanny Kern from up north?” “Oh sure,” I replied. I’d never heard of the man. “Then you know about how he was abducted by aliens last fall?” I hastily procured another six feet backwards, “Oh yeah. It was big news.” I had definitely never heard of Swanny. “Yeah, well, when he got beamed-up, he took out three of those little green guys with this gun. That’s why it glows, see?” I took one step forward, eyes widening. “How much for Swanny’s old gun?” It never hurts to ask, right? The man, who was old enough to when the Sphinx was a kitten, revealed his wooden teeth with a smile. “I couldn’t just sell you Swanny’s. That would be like selling the Wells Fargo stage coach and keeping the horses.” Did I mention how old this guy was? “I’ll let all the guns go for three hundred dollars.” He paused and scratched his head, “And maybe I’d throw in a charcoal illustration Swanny made of the little green men.”

At only fifty dollars apiece, the antique scatter-guns were a buy, but noting the age of the seller, and his tendency to blend the realm of reality with the world of fiction, I employed the tradition of negotiation. After forty-five minutes of back and forth battle, I walked out of the show with all six shotguns for only three hundred dollars. The guy was old and insane, but he wasn’t stupid. Wheeling into the driveway, giddy with excitement, I conducted my surveillance run. The only one around was my neighbor, Ben. He was mowing my yard again. I really needed to build a fence. With sweet little Jessica away, I took the guns in, one by one. Tenderly, I stepped over each obstacle, and nestled my precious treasures in the corner. I saved my last trip for the alien killer. As I slid it out of the truck, Ben looked up. Seeing the glowing green firearm caused him such astonishment and fear, that he dropped the cigar from his mouth into a stack of mouldering leaves. Not caring about the flames licking at his mower, he scampered into the house. This, apparently, is when he called the authorities. Twenty minutes after the incident, the ATF, FBI, CIA, and NSA were corralling me. They began drilling me with questions concerning nuclear warheads and nerve gas. Ben was the bear. Before I could finish shoo-ing the federal agents from our abode, Jessica returned. I broke into a cold sweat. She noted each of the agencies represented, walked out to the mailbox, and found a seat between two agents at the kitchen table. “So what did you blow up, hold up, or mess up today?” Jessica is such a kidder. “Nothing. Just a mix-up in Washington. Apparently, they thought we were harboring Swedish terrorists in our basement, or something.” I chuckled nervously. An agent stood up, “Actually ma’am, when an individual owns as many firearms as your husband, it creates a viable threat when your neighbor reports an oddity.” Jessica crossed her arms, “Exactly how many guns does my husband own?” We will end our story here. Suffice it to say, the bear got me. At the time of writing, I am fixed with inexplicable dilemma. The fall feeder calf specials will be starting up in two weeks, and I know some cross-bred dairy

calves are going to be cheap. If I can just figure out a way to get them on campus without alerting sweet little Jessica, all will be well. A plan is all I need. Perhaps I’ll turn on my favorite Wold War II documentary, and draw inspiration from that. Now what did I do with those Hogan’s Hero’s cassettes…

Words and Horses

“I do.” “It’s cancer.” “We’re broke.” “That’s delicious.” “You’re beautiful.” “Congratulations.” “You’re hired.” Words are, perhaps, the most overlooked marvel of the human race. A solitary group of letters can elicit such an array of emotions, it’s dizzying. The joy of hearing, “I love you.” The finality of saying, “Goodbye.” The terror of hearing, “The cows are out.” As I peck at the keyboard, I can see Nathanial Hawthorne’s “Twice Told Tales,” sitting on the bookshelf. Written in 1837, it gives you a new appreciation for words. In the 17th century, conversation was an art. Vocabulary was a necessity. Choosing the correct verbiage was an act of talent and precision. Fast-forward nearly two hundred years. “TTYL, LOL, Swanky, Lit, like, fleek.” These are the words that are the foundation of society’s repertoire. Gone are the days of “A melancholy eventide,” “A homely visage,” and, “Replete despondence.” They are replaced by, “a ‘blah’ night,” “An ugly mug,” and, “bummer.” Words are important. The difference between, “You make me mad,” and “I hate you,” are cataclysmic. “You’re great,” and “I love you,” can mean the difference between another date, and matrimony. Among items stemming from words are: emotion, integrity, honesty, trust, and conflict. Words can change your life, and other’s around you. An example of life-

changing words will be the summation of this chapter. The example began last spring. At almost midnight, I walked in the door. For five hours, I had been wrestling a calf from the cow’s begrudging womb. After the little bull hopped on all four feet, I noticed signs of scour from a different calf. Dragging gates, cutting wire, driving posts, pulling posts, and using round bales as a squeeze chute had been exhausting. The next morning, over coffee, I decided to ask sweet little Jessica about buying a working system. Cobbling gates and moving round bales to treat cattle took too much work and wasted far too much time. “Jess, I think it’s time we made an investment. Once we sell the calves this fall, we need to use that money to buy a working chute and an alley. If we skip our vacation this year, we could use that money to buy a crowding tub also!” My dear, sweet wife, didn’t look up from her coffee mug. “No way. Your dad never needed that stuff, neither do we.” My heart sank. Jess was extremely frugal, and very smart with money. How could I make her understand that she was stepping over dollars to pick up pennies? “Just think of the money we’ll save on vet expense! I can work the calves by myself. We can implant more often. Worming the cows will be cheaper. We can even start AI-ing a couple cows. It will pay for itself, no question!” As she looked up from her coffee, I grew excited. Victory was mine! “What, exactly, is this going to cost us?” I leapt from my chair, “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back!” I raced out to the truck and grabbed the stack of pamphlets from the Beef Expo. Finding the desired model, I plopped the book down next to Jessica’s bagel. Shrieking. “Do you understand that we can have the vet work cattle from now until the Apocalypse before we recoup an expense like that?”

She had a point. “Well, if we bought more cattle, it would be worth it.” I was really reaching. She must have thought it was a joke, because the laughing was uncontrollable. As she wiped tears from her eyes and took a few deep breaths, I made one final attempt. “Is there any way I can convince you that this working system is something we need?” I was pleading. Unashamed. Unabashed. Unbridled. “There is one thing that will change my mind,” She said, all together too sweetly. “If I can get a horse, you can get a chute.” I’m not ashamed to it to shaking knees when confronted with death, taxes, and other fearful topics. This was entirely different. My entire body convulsed from head to foot. The thought of owning a hay-burning nag was enough to call divorce lawyers, marital therapists, and psychologists. The easy play was a brush-off. I told Jessica that I would consider the proposition, but to table it for now. Over the next two weeks, I had to pull three more calves, and treat everything for scours. After getting kicked, stepped on, shoved against the barn, and chased by an overly-protective cow, my resolve collapsed. It wasn’t exactly my finest hour, but we shook hands on Jessica’s proposition. Immediately, Jess leapt into action. She figured out where to put Seabiscut’s paddock. She researched how much hay to feed Trigger. She even priced saddles and other tack for Silver. All she needed was a horse. My mother’s father, Grandpa Carl, is the horseman in the family. He has a long history of showing, breeding, riding, and training the abominable equine species. Again, over coffee, Jess and I explained to him the purpose of obtaining a horse. To this day, I’m still fuzzy on that logic. Grandpa Carl just shook his head and muttered, “Why…Oh why?’’ He made a few calls to his horse-trading buddies. Most were in debtor’s prison or mental institutions.

Finally, he threw out a name. “George Wendell says he has something. I’d hate to buy a stick of gum from the old swindler, but it won’t cost anything to look at what he’s got.” Now George Wendell lived a mile outside the county seat. At the appointed time, we pulled into the drive. Beneath the walnut tree in the barn yard lay two stacks of gates. I recognized the first stack. Bright green and brand new. Herman Brown had brought a truckload back from his trip to Kentucky. He had visited every ranchette in the state pawning them to anyone that needed extra fencing. George must have taken the remainder of Herman’s inventory at a discounted rate. The other set looked identical in every way, save the color. Bright silver, they glistened under the tree like stars in the sky. As we drove past, I saw no less than fifty empty cans of spray paint lying between the two piles. “This Wendell is pretty sharp. Painting the gates to look like steel when they’re nothing but aluminum pipe. We better check this gelding out carefully.” No sooner had we gotten out of the truck, then a tiny man on a beautiful, majestic horse came galloping through the trees. John Wayne would have been proud. The little man, who was approaching eighty, sprung off the horse. Showing us a charming grin, he swept off his hat, bowed at the waist, and reached for Jessica’s hand. “You must be Carl’s grandson and wife! I’m George Wendell, but my friends call me GW. Sort of like George Washington. It’s my privilege to meet you. Carl and I have had a lot of great times. Anyway, this is the gelding you came to see. Sixteen hands tall, eight years old, puppy-dog tame, and sound as a pound. You won’t have any problems sorting calves, going on trail rides, or trotting down the road with this guy. He’ll do it all, and eat less than any other horse in the country. Not only will he cost less to feed, but I’ll also sell him cheaper than any other horse in the country! Yes sir, I hate to see him go, but at least I know you two will take great care of him. I can tell you’re good people. Any relation of Carl has to be top notch. Enough about that, though, I suppose I can even throw a saddle pad and bridle in on the deal. I’ll grab one in the barn. Is purple an ok color for the pad, Miss Jessica?”

Dumbfounded. Plain and simple. We watched in silence as the curious little man sped off to his tack room. With pad and bridle in hand, George raced past us and directly to the back of the trailer. Throwing the trailer door open, he began another tirade of what can only be described as salesmanship. “What a setup you have here! The trailer looks brand new, and that truck! I’ll bet it can really burn up the interstate. Where did you find those tires? They are terrific. Well, I’ll get the horse loaded up. Do you want him tied to the front? I guess that would be best. I’ll tie him in the front and you won’t even know he’s back there.” I had been trying to break into the one-sided conversation for several minutes, but to no avail. GW must have noticed our look of dismay, because he tapered part of his pitch and changed course. “Now I know you haven’t ridden the horse. I know we haven’t talked money. We haven’t even talked about names, but I think, ‘Brownie,’ suits this little guy just fine. He’s such a sweet fella and you won’t be sorry. Maybe you don’t trust me, but let me just say this,” George paused. it was seemingly the first time he had taken a breath since we met. “I’ve sold a lot of horses, I like horses. I know horses. I’m telling you that this is a good horse. I wouldn’t say anything I don’t mean. When I tell you something, you better believe it. If GW tell’s you a mouse can pull a freight train, you might as well get the little guy a harness. I run an honest business here. If you don’t believe me, just hop in your truck and leave. There won’t be any hard feelings. If you trust me, you can scrawl out a check and enjoy many years of happiness with old Brownie, here. Miss Jessica, just rub his nose once. Look at that, he really likes you!” As George patted the neck of…Brownie…I looked at Jessica. She was grinning from ear to ear, and with pleading eyes, she motioned for the checkbook in my shirt pocket. “Ok. Ok. Fine. Load up the hay burner.” The entire way home, Jess was talking about where she was going to take Brownie. She called the feed mill for oats and mineral. She also began making out a list of friends that needed introducing to the four-legged horror.

I was fully expecting for the horse to become lame directly. Maybe it would grow mule ears. Maybe it would turn mean, or wild. To my amazement, none of the terrors came true. Brownie, to this day, has stayed sound, gentle, and friendly. The power of GW’s words not only sold us a horse, but it also provided us with a wonderful memory and a new friendship. Today, Jess and Brownie are out walking through a hay field enjoying a fall breeze. Meanwhile, I’m about to leave for GW’s. He’s got a silver cattle chute I can’t wait to see.

The “Can Do,” Attitudes

Being raised in a rural environment is synonymous with being raised in “can do,” environment. I can sitting around the Thanksgiving table with both pairs of grandparents listening to them pontificate on the days when anything could be tightened with duct tape and anything could be loosened with WD40. Don’t misunderstand. This “can do,” attitude wasn’t limited to carpentry, mechanics, plumbing, and electricity. This was a philosophy that slimed its way into every facet of your life. Firmly embedded into the Greatest Generation, the “can do,” mentality has grown all but extinct in today’s buy it; break it; toss it; society. Of course, that may not be a bad thing. Every dark cloud has its silver lining, but every taco stand has it’s salmonella. What I’m trying to say is: Nothing is perfect, or easy. I would certainly like to think that the “can do,” attitude has been instilled in myself. This is thanks to my Grandparents, and parents, mostly. Proof of this can be shown in the way I fixed a leaky faucet. Tube cement! Of course, now you can’t turn the faucet on, but it certainly doesn’t leak. See? Why call a plumber when you can fix it yourself? Not only have you saved an impressive number of Franklin’s, but you have the ooey-gooey feeling of selfworth. That’s the taco stand. Now for the salmonella… For the past several months I had been paying Rich, the neighboring farmer, to spread fertilizer collected from the past winter. This usually only cost $200, or so. Rich was glad to help a young kid and I was glad to get the cattle manure out of the way. The only negative point in this equation was the sense of regret I felt knowing that I could easily do something like that myself. Que the “can do,”

attitude. First idea…take the loader, dump a bucket of manure into the truck bed, and drive through the corn field while Ricky stays in the back with a pitch fork. The faster he flails, the faster I can drive. It seemed simple enough. I couldn’t have been more wrong. The first step was to dump the bucket of wet, sloppy, heavy manure into the truck. It was a piece of cake in my mind. I backed the truck near the pile, put the end gate down, dumped the bucket. This was the plan; this was not reality. As I tilted the bucket forward, I failed to realize how heavy the manure actually was. That is, until the cables and hinges snapped off the end gate causing a great thud and about $1000 in damages to the pickup. No fear. Ricky was all warmed up and ready to be put to work. He crawled up the bedside, hopped in, and grabbed the fork. No sooner had I gotten past the end rows, I could hear Ricky wheezing. Maybe I shouldn’t have driven so fast. Then again, maybe he shouldn’t have tried to show off by throwing each fork-full the distance of an Olympic discus toss. There has been mild contention over the sequence of events following the wheezing. What I believe to be true is the following: After the end rows, I began to hear wheezing. Then the wheezing all at once turned into a screech that would make even the fiercest mother in law cringe. The terror coursing through my veins following the screech caused me to twitch, thereby pulling the steering wheel to the right in a rapid motion. This is what cause Ricky to stab his own foot with the pitch fork. Ricky’s is vastly different.

HE claims as I bent down to grab a fresh bag of jerky, I accidentally pulled the steering wheel to the right. This caused Ricky’s aim to waiver. That’s when he stabbed his foot with the pitchfork, causing the Hades-originating screech. Regardless of sequence, the consequence was the same. Ricky got rushed to the ER where he received a tetanus booster and the infected area was removed.

Ricky is now known as “Stubby.” The “can do,” attitude also forbids the little phrase, “I need help.” Circumventing the phrase can be done in a myriad of ways. One formula would be to use words that have the same meaning, but sound inordinately different. “Don’t just stand there, grab this.” “I don’t need any help, just another set of eyes.” “I understand, just explain it once more.” While all of these imply that you need help, you aren’t giving up the coveted self-sufficient high-ground. Another formula for avoiding the “I need help,” trap is a lovely game called blame. The clearest example of this can be found by, once again, asking Ricky. Eager to break in our new rods and reel combos, we made arrangements to fish at a sportsmen’s club in Missouri. Five hour trips and a four o’clock alarms were mere inconveniences when a record busting bass could be caught. Four A.M. found me groggy, hungry, crabby, and all-around homicidal. Ricky, on the other hand, danced from his vehicle to mine like Fred Astaire, and bounced into the enger seat. The entire way down we chatted about chatter baits, jawed on jerk baits, and considered the crank baits. The depth of our discussion was so great, I missed the sign in Hannibal warning of a speed zone ahead. This, naturally, was followed with lights and demand to produce a driver’s license and proof on insurance. In turn, a citation was given and I was back to manic depression. Those bass had better be big. Once we got to the lodge, everything was as it should be. Big Dan, the guide, was eager to send us to the best lake with the largest fish. Unfortunately, with 30 bodies of water scattered throughout 6000 acres, we quickly became turned around and hopelessly lost. This cost us the entire morning bite, half of our day of fishing, and the remainder of gas in our tank. Those bass better be huge. Instead of calling Big Dan and asking for help, I blamed him for the poor

directions he bestowed. I did this silently as we walked to the nearest lake and jumped in a boat. Once a fisherman gets to the middle of a lake, the fire and brimstone magically dissipate and all seems well with the world. Birds chirp and the grass becomes greener. The miracle of casting and retrieving calms every nerve. Sure, there was a bit of water in the bottom of the old John boat, but we didn’t care. Maybe the battery was a little weak, but we were in no hurry. Picturesque was not an exaggeration when used to describe the lake, and euphoria was accurate when describing our emotions. Only 7 minutes in and we had caught one fish a piece. This was going to be a good day after all. As I released the first catch, I noticed how high the John boat sat in the water. It was quite a difference from the old row boat we used on the farm ponds. At the fifteen minute mark we had made it at least one hundred yards from shore and the action was spectacular. Every cast produced a decent largemouth, then the worm turned. Releasing the fish became easier, not because I changed from treble hooks to offsets and soft plastics. It was because I was closer to the water. Uh oh. I suppose when you climb into an old boat, you should take roll-call of certain devices paramount to survival, such as a drain plug. We didn’t, and soon, we regretted it. I cranked the trolling motor to the max and we turned starboard back to shore. That’s when the battery decided to call in sick. Hopelessly stranded in the middle of the lake, I began to imagine Dicaprio in “Titanic.” The band started playing. The wind blew. I stood at the front of the boat, preparing to swim. The only thing missing was a beautiful girl to wrap my arms around. I turned back and looked at Ricky. I get nauseous at the most random times. It took at least half an hour to dog-paddle to shore. This wasn’t a minute too soon. I was cold, wet, and once again, homicidal. Thankfully, we still had time to prepare for the evening bite. Those fish had better be big. Really big. Finally, I took what was left of my “can do,” attitude and threw it in the lake. It sank, along with the John boat.

Ricky implored me to call Big Dan. I relented. He brought a gas can, a new battery, and a map guiding us to the original lake. Refusing to think positive, I sat at the front of a different, sea worthy John boat. I was fighting the temptation to tie the anchor around my foot and leap. Inversely, Ricky was having the time of his life pulling in fish hand over fist. Nearing the end of the day, we vowed to each make a final cast. We each tied on chatter baits. Wanting to experience at least one perfect event that day, I chose a spot. Aiming for it, I reared back and let the lure fly. It soared through the air gracefully, majestically. Then it wrapped seventeen times around a tree limb forty feet above the boat. I cut the line, threw the pole in the water, and wept. Choosing to ignore my emotional crisis, Ricky cast his lure, let it sink for a count of three, and began retrieving. He let out a grunt that sounded like a gutpunch. His rod tip was bent towards the equator, and his face was getting red. He hooked a big ‘un. Finally! The “can do,” attitude was paying off. Ricky’s drag was whining, which reminded me of my tone earlier in the day when I was casting blame on an absent boat plug, the police officer, and the ridiculous excuse for directions. The fish cleared the water 15 feet from the boat. That brought my attention back to the matter at hand. He had a big fish. Slowly, deliberately, Ricky brought him closer. I knelt in the bottom of the boat near the edge, ready with the assist. The fish surfaced, and I reached down to grab the line to bring him in. Then the day’s horrors came to a crescendo. kids, when you help your friend reel in a big fish, do not, I repeat, do NOT change the direction of line tension. If the rod tip is at 2 o’clock, the worst possible thing you can do, is begin pulling at 10 o’clock. Of course, this is what I did. The fish happily shook the slack line, and like a cork from a bottle, the hook popped out of his mouth. Ricky sat in stunned silence. After nearly ten minutes, he glared at me and almost whispered, “Where’s the net?” “Dude, I’m so sorry. I-”

He continued, “You were supposed to bring the net. Where’s the net?” His voice became slightly louder. “Did you see the size of that thing? I’ll never catch another fish like that. Where is the net?” “Look man, it was early. I meant to bring it. Really I-” Smoke was now pumping from his ears. Whispering had morphed into yelling. He took a step towards me. “Uh, careful buddy. We’re still in the water, you know.” “Oh, I know.” Suddenly, it was the Willie’s Water Wold Incident of ott seven. Splash!

This is what happens when you substitute blame for a “can do” attitude. I didn’t hold a grudge against Ricky. I forgot to bring the net. I didn’t pay attention to the speed limit signs. I didn’t check for a drain plug. I didn’t listen carefully to the directions. All in all, the trip was filled with memories we laugh about now. The “can do,” attitude is still alive and well. I think we would live in a better world if people employ this philosophy. I would go so far as to say that the world would be a better place with more “can do,” attitudes, and of course, mandatory fishing nets in every John boat.

The Feedlot Newsletter

To Ricky, Dillon, Tim, and The Other Tim (aka TOT), If you have received this newsletter, it is because you have either invested in a pen of calves, or you are a mail thief. If you are the latter, shame on you. Put it back. Assuming you are the former, I trust you will find this letter informative. As a refresher, let’s recap the major themes from the investor’s meeting. It resembled a hillbilly version of Shark Tank. Tim sat on a haybale. Dillon on a bucket. Ricky leaned on a fence post. TOT wandered in and out of the corn field like Uncle Billy in Bedford Falls. Seeing that you were comfortable, I leapt into my presentation. The following is the summation: Feeding five weight cattle two percent of their body weight by means of high energy TMR will provide enough TDN to create a ADG equal to that of a feed conversion ratio of 5:1. This will create a lower cost of gain per CWT than the amount of appreciation on the cattle. This is when you gave me a glazed look, collectively. Then I put it in simpler . You give me money. I buy cattle. I feed cattle. I sell the cattle. I give you back more money then you gave me. Then, you all agreed, which is when this fairytale began. This article of literature contains only two parts. The first part contains good news; the second part contains bad news. Dillon, please disregard the first part. The good news: your investments aren’t dead. Yet. The bad news: The purpose of buying this pen of steers was to utilize the excess silage I had after winter. The silage is now moldy and unusable. An invoice for purchased feed will be following this newsletter directly. Please pay by the fifteenth of each

month to avoid repossession of your steers. The weather has been less than conducive to rate of gain. Extreme heat creates lack of appetite, excessive stress, and discomfort. Also, steers #4 and #7 wear speedos. Perhaps the investors can speak to their charges about proper attire at the feed bunk. Another factor diminishing rate of gain is the condition of the pen. Due to steer #6 kicking a hole in the tractor’s radiator, I am unable to clean manure out of the pen and re-bed the area with cornstalks. TOT, expect a repair bill from the machinery dealership by the fifteenth. Currently the pen resembles San Fransisco. Ricky and Tim, steers #1 and #2 are your’s, respectively. They have begun a feud which has flooded the pen with negative energy. The feud began when #1 declared himself the leader, and forced the others to pledge allegiance to him. #2 took exception and began forming what can only be described as The Resistance. As in a bad George Lucas film (which most are) violence ensued with little conclusion. If the situation isn’t rectified, one steer will be forced into a lifetime of community service at the nearest food pantry. Pun intended. The afore-mentioned circumstances have resulted in less-than-respectable profit potential for this investment. At the time of writing, projections show a thirty five percent loss per steer. The only rectification would be to purchase more cattle. Please sign the enclosed letter authorizing me to transfer funds, as needed, from your bank s, to mine. Not that you four concrete cowboys would understand this, but the cattle business isn’t for the faint of heart. You are getting off easy. Machinery breaks, cattle die, fences fall down. Keep your chin up. I look forward to selling these cattle and buying another, larger set of steers with you soon. In the meantime, please inform your friends and family of another investment opportunity. Two words: Circus Goats.

I’m Getting On My Soap Box

What good is writing a book if you can’t leap on your soap box at least once? I always envied the political pundits that use their work to look down their noses at the very people that lined their pockets. I want to do that. I want that self-righteous opportunity. I want a chance to layout what was really wrong with this country! This is my golden moment, but I’d settle for a stainless steel moment. I truly believe society is suffering from the sickness of modernism. Technology has made this world smaller. The internet has made it faster. Money has made it greedier. Politics have made it angrier. Welfare has made it lazier. College has made it dumber. Social media has made it lonelier. Then there’s country music. Inner cities, both coasts, and most of suburbia will not understand what I am about to say. The great majority of country songs glorify only a handful of salacious-at-worst, and unhelpful-at-best, behavior. “Country girls,” are treated like trash. They are too stupid to know what they want or when they want it. Sure, you get the doors for them and call them “ma’am,” but that’s the extent of respect given. They are nothing but hood ornaments for over-sized pickup trucks, or prizes for Billy Bob and his redneck posse to win. They usually win them after doing too many shots, getting into a fist fight, and spitting their dip further than the rest of the dudes. Speaking of “redneck possess,” when did the “redneck,” characterization become complimentary? The country music zombies will claim that “redneck,” is synonymous with hard work, fun, and all around coolness.

Bologna. If redneck means running a moonshine still in the back forty, talking like an illiterate loon, or wearing holey jeans to church, I want nothing to do with it. It redneck is defined as not being able to have a conversation without mentioning the buck you shot or the hay you baled, then please, make sure my neck is a different color. No one describes George Strait as a “redneck.” No one thinks of “Whispering Bill,” Anderson as a hillbilly. I suppose country music’s popularity could be contributed to the wonder of a rural lifestyle. It most certainly is peaceful, relaxing, and rewarding. One of my favorite examples of a country-to-the-bone individual is the owner and operator of a ranch in central Illinois. It is, perhaps, the state’s largest purebred Red Angus operation. Dad is instrumental in marketing their cattle every year, and I am blessed to be a small part of that. The father and son have become rather lofty role models for myself. The father is never without his cowboy hat, wrangler jeans, and boots. That’s country. When you ask him a question, he answers in slow, measured tones with hints of a Missouri accent. That’s country. When they bought a new UTV that d a top speed of forty-four miles per hour, he tore through the pasture with his friend clocking his speed by driving a truck alongside. That’s country. At exactly seventy years old, he gets up before the sun and works like a slave. He doesn’t have to, but that’s his way of life. He’s full of common-sense advise and down-home sayings. “Behind every successful cowboy, there’s a wife with a job in town.” That’s country. His son is the same way. Thirty-five, with two kids, and a wonderful wife. He probably has more livestock knowledge than anyone I know. Several times,

I’ve picked his brain on feed rations and pedigrees. Even for a small-time guy like me, he will take all the time in the world. That’s country. He sits on a tractor for hours, and manages crops and cattle for a living. That’s country. Wouldn’t it surprise you to learn both families live in town? Wouldn’t it also surprise you that drinking, smoking, and spitting are strangely absent in their lives? Wouldn’t it surprise you that they don’t say, “ain’t,” or “yee-yee?” Wouldn’t it surprise you to learn that they don’t drive lifted trucks? The two other examples of country-to-the-bone individuals are purposefully meant to round-out this book. I have too spectacular gradfathers. Sometimes I feel a twinge of guilt knowing that I have been afforded such an immense gift. I’d like to start with my mother’s father, Grandpa Carl. He’s best described as a southern boy, stuck in the midwest. Born and raised here, he’s never left, with the exception of a stint in the Army. Grandpa Carl got off to a shaky start beginning with his first day alive. Being born in the nineteen thirties sounds great until you realize it was a home birth. Since he was born on a frigid day in a drafty house, he was placed inside an oven to keep him from getting cold. This may be why he has such a warm personality. He’s the kind of person that will plan a trip with a thirty mile detour just so he can fill up the gas tank for seven cents less than his home town. While he is completely retired, he still wakes up at five o’clock so he can meet, “the guys,” at a local restaurant for coffee. He brews a pot, drinks one cup, does the dishes, and leaves a dollar on the counter for the owner to collect a few hours later. When he mentioned his new smoker, he began telling me all about the things he had cooked, and wanted to cook in the future. I now have an identical smoker, and cook my ribs using his recipe. When we talk, he’s always quick to ask about the cattle or the crops. When I tell

him about the latest mishap or adventure, his infectious laugh echos through the phone. Again I’ll say it. That’s country. I’d like to now say a few words about my dad’s father, Grandpa Russ. Like Grandpa Carl, he makes a habit of drinking lemonade several times a week with, “the guys,” in town. While he is also retired, he maintains a massive yard, which you will see him working in all summer long. Once he turned eighty, his family insisted he slow down. He promptly ignored those pleas. Since I keep my handful of cattle in his barns, he regularly drives by and leaps into action. “We should put a new post there. Don’t you think that gate needs to be set at more of an angle? When you have a free day, let’s cut some of those trees down.” He’s the best organist I’ve heard, and he’s never met anyone that doesn’t immediately like him. Not many people can live in the same county for over eighty years and not make a single enemy. Somehow he managed. The most iconic thing about Grandpa Russ is the twinkle in his eye. It really flairs when he’s about to pull a stunt. There was the time he shot out a poacher’s tires. Then there was the time he threatened to write a letter to the governor. My personal favorite was the time he informed a little league umpire that the, “ten dumbest farmers in the county could officiate a game better than you guys.” This was after one of his grandsons got called out on strikes for the millionth time that season. I can’t which grandson that was. Both of my grandfathers were career farmers. Both raised thousands of cattle, pigs, and horses. Both loved livestock and farm auctions. Both lived in the country their entire lives. Both have an amazing talent for conversation. Both

have been married to the same woman for over fifty years. Their lives are quickly becoming stuff of legen. The mentality and drive that made them who they are is dissipating. Yes, they are country. There is a great deal to be said for the “country,” way of living. A great deal that has nothing to do with the sewage of a “redneck,” persona. To be a good person, you don’t have to leave your city home, and move to a house in the middle of nowhere. You don’t have to love livestock, hunting, fishing, or trucks. Star filled skies aren’t for everyone. It’s hard for me to believe, but I accept it. Living a “country,” life will not make you a better person. Living an “oldfashioned,” life might. Read your Bible. Do your best. Get back up. Love your family. Pay your due. Think of others. Be polite. Work Hard. Practice honesty. Stay humble. Practice scruples. Earn. Save. Care. Love. Share. Help. Don’t you agree that this would be a far better place with these old fashioned principles included in our modern world? I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the only true Cure for our society, my Savior Jesus Christ. He practiced hard work by laboring as a carpenter. He helped others by healing them. He was a friend to the friendless and a comfort to the discouraged. He provided what we needed, but what we could never obtain. By dying on a cross, He preformed the most selfless act by repaying our sin debt. This book, in a way, is devoted to Him. It’s a measly penance. It doesn’t begin to show His attributes of holiness, selflessness, honor, and glory. It’s simply the best an old-fashioned millennial can do.