Clanking Chains, Reving Engines, and Screams of Joy

The Old Man has heard that one of his old friends isn't doing so well these days. I hate that because I would love to have the opportunity to rehash some snow stories with her. It snowed here last night and into today. There are about 7-8 inches on the ground and the temperature is hovering around 19-20 degrees. Tonight should bring bitter cold, demanding that people of good sense draw closer to the fire.....just the kind of night the Park Street Battalion lived for.

Adults really seemed to miss out on the fun. Snow always brought clanking tire chains, engines roaring with "stuck" vehicles, and curses and general "bitchiness" all round. But to the Battalion, snow meant one thing....sledding. There were several hills in our neighborhood that could provide a pretty fair ride with little real danger. We usually stuck to these in the daytime to appease our parents who could watch from their kitchen windows. But then came nightfall.

Nighttime sledding happened at my friend's house. Her family had a small farm out past the cemetery, complete with a couple of killer hills. There would be 8-10 of us there from just after supper until either 11:00 PM or the onset of wet, cold, and miserable; whichever came first.

Now, keep in mind, this was Bedford.....not Squaw Valley. Fleece and GoreTex were not yet invented. We had long johns, blue jeans, and what seemed like 23 layers of shirts and sweaters, topped off with a (usually) plaid thigh length coat we called a Mackinaw. Top this off with a leather cap with these fake fur ear flaps and we were ready Teddy.

So....off we went. We trudged out through the cemetery, shortcutting over a few of the dearly departed, past the farmhouse and the barn until we came to the crest of the slope. First things first; we would build a fire. Then some repeated trips up and down the 'run' to prepare the track. No straight shot for us.....nosir. We had a couple of curves, a ramp, and a 90 degree turn at the bottom.........just before the creek.

It was usually on the second or third run when Kenny would go in the creek. You see, Kenny was sort of the unofficial daredevil of the group. The rest of us were wannabees. He would test himself each time he went down by waiting until the last minute before his hard right turn to avoid Armageddon. Most of the time he failed. Now you can see the importance of the fire.

Kenny wasn't the only one who needed to avail himself of the fire. Sometimes there would be three or four of us standing around the blaze, generating enough fog from our wet jeans (creek water seldom penetrated the other 23 layers) to present a hazard to air travel.

Somehow, we managed to pass many a winter evening without major calamity other than a few bumps and bruises, minor cuts, and sides sore from laughing. There was a simple and basic joy in that time that we adults seem very good at slipping under the rug for fear of looking foolish. I understand that my friend is now in a darker place, but I hope that at some level she can remember us all, standing by the fire, generating fog, and laughing hysterically, worrying about nothing other than whether or not we could get just one more run.

A Horse is A Horse of Course of Course

The Old Man hasn't been on a horse in a long, long, long time. Such wasn't always the case. Robbie's family owned a couple of horses. I recall one summer............

Let me set the stage for you a bit. In and around Bedford, quite a number of folks owned horses and ponys. Some were for show, some for work (for many years our garden was plowed by a horse), and some for the sheer joy of riding. My parents grew up around horses and both knew how to ride. We had friends who had horses and ponys. I would relish times when I could "spend the day" with them and indulge my Gene Autry fantasies. Loaded up with cap guns and ropes, we would ramble all over the farm, robbing stagecoaches or battling "redskins". The world was a safer place when we guarded from our 4 ft. tall Shetlands.

Once I outgrew the "pony stage", things morphed from "trot" to "gallop". Back to Robbie. His family owned a couple of horses. I don't remember their names, but it was something almost bucolic like, 'Sam' or 'Gus'. Let's go with those. One summer, Robbie and I rode every non-rainy day. We'd saddle up in the morning and ride around the town and through the surrounding fields until lunch. After lunch we'd be back at it again. In my 12 year old hubris, I was quite confident that I cut an imposing figure.....tall in the saddle.....move over Randolph Scott.

Sam was a bit spirited, so Robbie always rode him. I became the monkey on Gus's back. Gus had a somewhat temperamental digestive system. Some days it was "trot, plop, trot, plop". I'm sure people thought, "Oh hell, here comes that idiot with the four legged fertilizer factory." Gus left his share of "biscuits".

Old Gus was like an equine Basset Hound. He had a lovable face and disposition. He just sort of moped along, occasionally snorting and then plopping. Once in a while, I could get him up to a little better than a trot. He'd move up to canter with a good bit of urging, but I never remember "gallop" entering his vocabulary.

Enter 'Janie'. Janie lived near me and even at 12 was beginning to move over from the "Our Gang" stage to the "Hummmmmmmmmm" stage. So Janie garnered attention. One day, I suggested that Janie go for a ride. She readily agreed and climbed up on Gus behind me. Randolph Scott....you ain't nothin. All went well for about an hour. We trotted and plopped all over town. People took notice.....how did the idiot manage that?

While old Gus was meandering through one of the fields over behind the cemetery, Janie and I were feeling pretty competent. Then something clicked in Gus's mind. Maybe it was the realization that he had extra weight, or perhaps it was some sort of neurological short circuit, but Gus decided that he was going home. He abruptly spun around and reversed course. I flew off one way and Janie the other. Two memories stay with me clearly to this day; Gus hauling ass in a cloud of dust toward his beloved barn, and Janie sitting in the dirt, spinning like a gyroscope.

Fortunately, we were both fine with no major damage. Pretty much from that point on, however, Robbie rode alone. 'Janie' remained a good friend, and even though we were never an "item", our families shared many good times together and I remember her fondly. I think of Gus too....every time I lick an envelope.

How's It Goin', Miss Alma?

The Old Man is thinking about his Mom today. Were she still operating in this dimension, this would be her 105th birthday. We'd probably take her out for pizza. She loved "pizza pie". Shocked us one year when she ordered a beer to go with her "pie". I always thought Mom was a strict tee-totaller up until then. So we joined her......after all, no one should drink alone. I was about half way through my glass when she poured herself a second from the small pitcher. For a predictable, habit-driven, organization freak (this said with greatest respect and admiration) she always had a surprise up her often mended sleeve.

Mother was frugal. A child of rural "gettin' by" culture and a first hand witness to the Great Depression, she could squeeze more usefulness out of an object than anyone I've known....ever.
She would collect old neckties that friends wanted to throw away and make throw pillows out of them. She could get more use out of a chicken than the chicken could. She dealt in home remedies for most of the common ailments (she pronounced them 'ail-i-ments') and we were much the better for it. She would buy a canned ham in July because it was on special and save it until she could cook my birthday dinner in November. She kept some "smokes" in the kitchen cabinet and would fire one up after supper when she and Dad rested on the front porch.

She was a crack shot. Before I came along and redirected her focus, she and Dad would hunt rabbits and squirrels together, shoot skeet, and take Old Jake the bird dog to field trials. I still have her shotgun. It hadn't been fired for at least 30 years so a while back I took it to a turkey shoot. The old single shot 20 gauge belched and boomed and I couldn't help but feel a connection to her. Mom loved to fish. We would go fishing almost every weekend during the summer. Always on Saturday; after all, no decent person would defile the Sabbath by such pursuits. Every time her bobber would dive, she'd squeal with delight. Dad would say, "Bring 'em in, Babe."

She was one to confront a problem head-on. I recall one Saturday morning, she decided that our old car needed a face lift. So...out came the brushes. That's right, she painted the car top to bottom with black enamel; all of it brushed carefully on. As I remember, it didn't look too bad. Of course that was before Candy Apple Red was even thought of.

But beyond the frugality, the sportsmanship, and the proactive approach to life, I think my favorite part of Miss Alma was her sense of humor. I'm eternally in her debt for passing that gene on to me. There were 3 jokes that were her all-time favorites, and she would repeat them to anyone whom she thought hadn't heard them before. So as her tribute on this her 105th, here they are:

"Do you know the 3 parts of a cook stove? Lifter, leg, and poker"

"Have you ever been bedridden? No but I have twice in a buggy."

"Did you hear about the 3 moles going through their tunnel? The first mole said, 'I smell biscuits". The 2nd mole said, 'I smell butter'. And the 3rd mole said, 'I smell molasses."

I hope you and Dad enjoy your day, Mom. We miss you.