My Birthday

Sent Thursday, June 4, 2009 – on my birthday.  It sounds like I might be a lot like Dad when it comes to celebrating.

Dear Justin, GLAD BIRTHDAY TIDINGS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Back in ‘77, after celebrating your birth with Uncle Charlie O, Uncle Charlie R, and Uncle Barry, I remarked that “I am not responsible for anything that I say or do”.

Charlie O. said, “that’s obvious to the most casual observer”.

Not sure why I remember that, or how I remember it, for that matter.

Much Love and Always, Dad.

Cow magnets

Sent Friday, July 11, 2008 in response to my aunt’s query about anybody having any thoughts on cow magnets.  I think she was secretly just trying to spark a story out of Dad.

This is me.  Cow magnets were great things to play with, especially if you had 2 or more of them.  They made excellent “space battle fighters”, able to attract or repel enemy ships at will.  I hardly ever get to do that anymore.

Other than that, they saved several of our cows from “hardware disease”.  For the city types, hardware disease was when a cow would ingest a piece of metal, which would puncture one of her stomachs, usually the first one.  The cow magnet was induced into the cows stomach by inserting a special tool down her throat.  The business end of the device held the magnet. The device being about 30 inches long, with a plunger mechanism which when pushed, dislodged the magnet into the cows stomach.  The tool being made of brass or aluminum, of course.  The magnet was approximately 3 inches long, and about 5/8 inch in diameter.  The theory being that the magnet would stick to the metal and pull it out of the stomach lining.  What happened to it after that, I do not know, as I never attempted to locate one after the fact.  If the “hardware” was ferrous metal, you had roughly a 50/50 chance of saving the cow.  When a cow was sick from this, or any other ailment, they tended not to eat.  Thats bad for a cow.

One way to get the ailing cow to eat was to get her to chew her cud.  However, being that she hasn’t eaten, she has no cud to chew.  Therein comes the “donor” cow.  You would pick a cow, any contended cow, and wait for her to bring up a cud.  Just as she did so, you reached into her mouth and grabbed the cud, hopefully before she started to chew. Those big molars can mess hell out of your manicure.  The “donor cud” a stinking mass of fermented stuff , would then be placed into the sick cows mouth.  More often than not, the sick cow would start to chew, and then having no new cud to bring up, would start to eat.  Now the sick cow never seemed surprised that a cud suddenly appeared, but the poor “donor” cow would get the most perplexed look on her face as she attempted to chew a cud that just wasn’t there.  Sometimes I would steal a cud just to confuse the cow.

You just got to love cows.  They are great big friendly things, but they just don’t have a clue.  God bless ‘em.

Hickory Sticks

Sent: Friday, December 7, 2001

This is me. Old Peg Leg Anderson. That’s what everyone called him. And a more apt description could not be made. He was old. Ancient one might say, if one happened to be in his mid-teens. On reflection, he must have been in his late seventies. His right leg was cut off at the knee, or a wee bit above the knee. He had gray shaggy hair and beard, his clothes patched and faded, and as much in need of cleaning as he was. He lived in a one room tar paper shack perched on the bank between the dirt road and the creek. He had neither electric nor running water, and the only source of heat was a small tin wood stove. How he got his food I will never know, as Alford had no store, and Old Peg Leg had no car. And yes, it was a peg leg, just like you have seen in the pirate movies. How it was attached to his stump I do not know. He would cut off the pant leg and tie it with a piece of twine. Protruding from his abbreviated pant leg was a hickory stick about 3 inches in diameter, and encircled at the bottom with a band of steel.

I will never forget the last time that I saw Old Peg Leg. It was around Halloween time. I was 15 at the time, and was out “halloweening” with my friends, Ray and Jerry Klim. Where we were going to or from I can’t remember, but as we drove past Old Peg Leg’s shack, an irresistible project presented itself. There along side the road, right above his shack stood an old refrigerator. We parked the car at the bottom of the hill, about 200 yards away. Like commandos we silently crept back up the road. We then gave the frig a shove and sent it tumbling over the bank. It crashed into the wall, and for a moment I thought it might take the shack right along with it. Through the window, and in the light of his kerosene lamp, we saw Old Peg Leg grab a shotgun. I was amazed at how fast an old man on a hickory stick could move. I was then amazed at how fast I could move. Now Ray and Jerry could always out run me, for I was not built for speed, but that night I was with them step for step all the way back to the car. I think Old Peg Leg must have been young once, and knew what it was like to have a bit of the mischief, for although we presented a target, he did us no harm.

Yes, I know, I should be ashamed of myself, and I am. I seldom do that sort of thing anymore.

As a side note, years ago when I related this story to Annie, she said, “He was my uncle, you know”. No, I didn’t know, but then I didn’t know Annie then either. Perhaps if I had, I would not been up to such mischief.

Potatos and paint cans

Sent: Thursday, July 19, 2001

This is me. This past Independence day put me to mind of a hot summer evening back in the late seventies. My old friend Tom called on a late Saturday afternoon. He had two questions. “Do you have any black powder?” “Well, yes, a couple of pounds. Why?” “Never mind”, he said. Second question, “Do you have any beer?” “Well, yes, a 12 pack or so.” “Good” he said. “Grab the powder, the beer, Annie and the kids and come on over, we’re making a party.”

Now I knew why the beer, but not why the black powder. Tom didn’t own any muzzle loading guns. But a friend in need, you know. On arriving at Tom’s house I soon learned the “why for” of the black powder. In the yard was an iron pipe of 2 1/2 inch diameter and a couple of feet long stuck in the ground at a slight angle from vertical. Also a good supply of 1 inch copper pipe cut to about 6 inches in length, and crimped over on one end, and a long string of fuse cord. A ten pound bag of potatoes rounded out the collection. It became instantly obvious. Now, who can tell me what Tom wanted the black powder for? Yes, you in the back row. Very good!!! Pipe bombs, exactly.

The waiting copper tubes were filled with powder, a short length of fuse cord cut and inserted into the powder,
and then the open end crimped over. The fuse was lit, the bomb dropped into the “mortar”, a potato was set on the end of the mortar and slapped with a board to drive it down into the pipe. The bomb exploded inside the pipe, driving the potato skyward and in the direction of a small pond some one hundred yards away. After several shots for range, we began to hit the pond with regularity. And of course, it became boring after a while.

But the evening’s excitement was not yet over. From out of the basement came Tom with a pipe of a bit over 4 inches in diameter, and about 3 feet long. This was set in the ground, but alas, there was nary a potato of size sufficient to fill the tube. Again, Tom to the rescue. From the basement he emerged yet again. This time with a quart can of paint. This can of paint was about the same age as we were, and no doubt possessed more common sense than the lot of us. With a few wraps of duct tape, the can of paint was the perfect size. The 1 inch copper pipe tubes were obviously not big enough for this job, and so again, Tom emerged from the basement. This time with a length of 2 1/2 inch exhaust pipe about 14 inches long. This accepted our remaining powder, which amounted to about 3/4 of a pound. The bomb and can of paint were dropped down the mortar. We ran some 50 feet away. There followed a tremendous roar. Flame shot out of the pipe some 15 feet in the air with a shower of sparks. The large cloud of smoke completely obscured our view of the paint can sailing into the sky.

I firmly believe that God will sometimes smile on a fool. Just as we finished congratulating ourselves on a fine show of pyrotechnics, we heard a loud “kaaa-puuunk”, followed by a slight tremor in the ground. Someone was heard to say, “wazzahellwazzat?” Wazzahellwazzat was the can of paint hitting the ground about 2 feet in front of me. It hit with such force that it was completely buried in the dry summer ground.

We will never know how high in the sky it flew. If it has traveled another 2 feet in lateral distance, this story would be different. The widow Annie would probably have married a rich and handsome bachelor. While he traversed the globe making his millions, she would be alone in her mansion. Every so often, she would wonder what might have been, if only……. A silent tear would run down her cheek. The boys would not have been old enough to remember their father. They would only know that he died a heroic death, pushing someone out of the way of mortal danger, only to be struck down in his prime. Or, if the can of paint had traveled the same lateral distance, but to the north instead of to the west, Tom would have had the unhappy task of explaining to his landlord how a can of paint just fell out of the sky onto the house, breaking through the roof, and through the ceiling, and through the floor, and splattering paint all over the basement as it exploded on the concrete floor.

“Those were the days my friends, we thought they’d never end, we’d sing and dance forever and a day. We’d live the life we’d choose, we’d fight and never lose. Those were the days, oh yes, those were the days.”