Veni, Vidi, . . .

      We came, we saw, but we didn’t conquer.

     The summer raced by without a minute to stop and take a breath.  We finished harvest.  We returned to Atwood, once or twice to clean up and finish emptying the house.  What looked like this:

now looks like this: 

 

     What should have been one pickup load turned into two.

      Where to put everything?

        Without time to unload, off we went to Fort Collins to resume a search for a house.  I think Grandma would have said, "rarer than hen’s teeth."  We did make an offer on one we liked.  Someone else made a better offer, apparently.

     Soon, I think, Fort Collins will have a drawing for folks to get a house-hunting license.  You will pay a big fee if you are a lucky winner.  There will be no guarantee of getting a bag limit, let alone finding that trophy.  Sour grapes.

     Up the hill we went to visit the grandson.

  

     Another afternoon of house-hunting didn’t uncover anything worth shooting.  Back to the farm and the summer fallow.  Some of it resembled a jungle, but no houses hiding in it.

     Three days later, it’s all better.  Nearly an inch of rain pretty well guarantees a good seed bed for the soon-to-be-planted wheat.  Not all is unwell.

     We came and saw many houses, but no victory yet.  To quote the three stooges, “If at first you don’t succeed, keep on suckin’ till you DO suck a seed.”  Nyuck, nyuck, nyuck!

    

Addendum:  We may have found a house.  

  

A Trip to Hugo

    “Our Kansas license plates expire in August,” said the Goodwife. 

    So they do, and since, as of Tuesday August 12, 2014, we no longer have a Kansas address, I decided we had better do something about it. 

     A sure sign of old age is the thought that you should make as much of a trip (such as up the stairs) as you can and do everything you can while you are there.  I think the aim is to save the ever-ebbing energy. 

     The desire to make good use of a trip is one reason why a person is so easily distracted.  Trying to grasp two or three things mentally proves as difficult as it does physically.  Once I get upstairs and take care of the one or two add-ons, I forget the original purpose of the journey.  I usually end up making two trips. 

     What did I come up here for?  Mom always said when you forget something, go back to where you were when you were thinking of it.  One trip just turned into two.     

     My Synthroid supply is running low.  I need a prescription for that.  I need a new doctor.  The Goodwife needs a new doctor, especially after a Sunday visit to the ER in Kansas revealed a higher-than-healthy blood pressure.

     We did our homework.  A call to the County Clerk informed us that to license vehicles in Colorado, we needed our Kansas vehicle titles, proof of insurance, a valid driver’s license, and a verification of vehicle identification number.  The first three items on the list are to be found in the wallet, the glove compartment of each car, and the file cabinet, now conveniently accessible in the north bay of the farm garage.

      The clerk suggested either the city police or the county sheriff to get the VIN verification.  Living twelve miles from the nearest municipality, I chose to call the sheriff’s office.  I gave the dispatcher my address and cell phone number.  A deputy would be in contact with me to make an appointment to come to the farm and check the VIN numbers.

      “I had an interesting visit with the lawman,” the Goodwife said as I washed the dust from my hands and that caked onto the sunscreen covering the hairless parts of my head.

     “On the phone?” I asked.

     “No.  He was here.”

     “Already?”  I had just called in the late forenoon.  He hadn’t called me.  A look at the cell phone revealed he had called.  No chance of hearing, or feeling, the phone ring while operating the old John Deere tractor.  I began working the summer fallow that afternoon.

      “I just about missed him.  I didn’t hear him at the door.  I saw him driving out of the yard, so I called the dispatcher, and he radioed the officer, and he came back.”           

    “So did he find the VIN numbers ok?”

   “Oh yes.  He was really interested in the old cars, especially the old 4X4 and Dwighty’s car.”

    “So did you take him to the red barn?”

    “Of course.  We looked at all of them.  He likes to buy old junk cars and restore them partially.  Then he sells them to someone else who does the fancy work.”

     All of this while I was parading back and forth in the dusty summer fallow slaying weeds.

     We made appointments with the “doctor”, the PA really, for Thursday when the field work would be done.  We could get the blood pressure checked, renew a prescription, get new license plates all in one fell swoop.

     We made appointments for 9:30 Thursday.  "Come a little early to fill out the paperwork," we were advised.  We got there about 9:15.  We should have been there before 9.  Insurance information, medical history, allergies, surgeries—type and dates, releases for this and that.

      It was nearly 10 before the PA got to me.  She was very thorough, going over all the problems, family history, listening to this, to that, tapping here and there.  The Goodwife got similar treatment.  Apparently the tapping didn’t go so well as she ended up having both knees X-rayed.  Step one to the blood pressure problem: record salt usage.

      It was nearly noon when we walked out of the clinic.  I needed a haircut in the worst way.  We could go to Limon, get my haircut and eat lunch.  Which we did.

      The Goodwife visited the library while the barber uncovered my ears.  I stepped out of the barbershop and spied the front end of the car, where there was no license plate.

     Dang!  Why had we gone to Hugo in the first place?

     I reported to the library where the Goodwife was in conversation with the librarian ladies who were trying to eat their lunch.  “Do you remember why we went to Hugo?” I asked.

     “What?”  Puzzled.  “To visit the doctor.”

     “Any other reason?”  She couldn’t remember.  “License plates,”  I said.

     “Oh!”  she laughed.  What else can you do?

     During lunch at the local deli, a guy in a red shirt and a baseball cap asked how we were.  He was from Gem, Kanas, was there working for a Colby fire extinguisher company.  He recognized us from Lions Club activities.

     The story should end with our return to Hugo, purchasing license plates, installing new plates, filing papers in appropriate glove compartments, awaiting new titles arrival in the mail.

     Two miles out of Limon, I pulled to the side of the road.  “What’s wrong?” asked the Goodwife.

     “I think I forgot to bring the VIN verifications. “  After my contortions failed to retrieve the manila envelope in the back seat, the Goodwife released her seat belt and grabbed the packet.  Sure enough, titles, proofs of insurance, but no VIN forms.

     Time to call it a day.  Back to the farm we went.  I found the VIN forms buried under the junk mail on the table.  Into the manila envelope it goes.  Now where to put the envelope so I don’t lose it?

     I spent the rest of the afternoon hoeing up bowls and watering dusty dry spruce saplings.  It doesn’t take much mental alertness other than avoiding the tree stem with the hoe blade.

     A trip to Hugo is in order.  This time, I think we will try to do only one thing.  But wait!  I need to get new skylights to replace the hail-damaged ones on the big shed. .  . .   

August 1, 1965 Part II

     1965 was a flood year in Colorado.  Roads and bridges were washed out.  Deer was Trail flooded.   Cabin Creek didn’t exactly wash down the stream, but never recovered from the damage from the flood waters.  High waters washed away huge concrete pylons erected in place to support bridges and overpasses on unfinished portions of I-70 east of Denver.

      Lincoln County had its share of destroyed bridges and roads.  Every road ditch and low spot held water.  Larry and I found one of those road ditches filled with water.

     I had managed to make it about seven miles on what is now County Road 3N.  At that point, the road makes a very slight correction.  I awoke with a start when the sunflowers on the road shoulder started hitting the bumper and right fender.  My attempts to swerve left to get back on the road were futile.  The next thing was a splash and we came to a halt.  The wheels spun when I stepped on the accelerator.  Same result  when I tried reverse.

     I could have spent the rest of the night in the car.  But somehow that never occurred to me.  So, I opened the door, and the water began to creep in.  I closed the door but I already had a little water on the floor mat.  

     I had on a brand new pair of black pants, double knit with pipe stem legs like the Beatles wore.  Carefully I rolled the pants up to my knees hoping that would be high enough to be above the water.  It was.  So I stepped out of the car into the cold water—in my brand new leather shoes.  Funny I never thought about them.

      When I opened the rear door to extract Larry, he saw the water and refused to step out.  He went to the right door, so I waded around and got him out of the right door.  The water was only about six inches deep on that side.

      I don’t remember much about the trek home, except that after a couple of miles, I decided a short cut across the pasture was a better option than following the county road which would have taken us a half mile west and then a half mile back east.  I had a hard time convincing Larry to leave the road and cross the barb wire fence.  It was strange territory for him, but I knew where we were, and I prevailed.

     Arriving home, my oldest brother, who happened to be visiting, was up waiting for me.  It was past 3 a.m.  He had had enough close calls of his own to know what the possibilities were.

      I made Larry call home to inform his parents he would spend the rest of the night with us.  Later, I found out his mother wasn’t too happy having to get up to answer the phone between 3 and 4 a.m.  She was a believer in the “no news is good news” philosophy.  She thought the phone call was bad news.

      I put Larry in an empty bed where he stayed until the folks left for church Sunday morning.  He got up, refused breakfast, said goodbye and headed for home in his car.     

     There remained the problem of getting the car out of the mud puddle.  I don’t remember for sure if we tried and failed to dislodge it with our tractor, or if we decided early on it wasn’t up to the task.  The ultimate solution was to borrow the neighbor’s bigger tractor, a 500 Case.  We should have borrowed another log chain, too.

      I don’t remember how we hooked the chain to the car.  Whoever did that (did ?I) had to get down into the water to hook the chain to the frame beneath the bumper.  What I do remember is that the chain wasn’t long enough so the tractor could have both wheels on the road bed.  To make the connection, one tractor wheel was just off the shoulder of the road.  When the tractor started to pull the car, the right wheel spun, the left wheel continued forward causing an abrupt uncontrollable right turn, and the tractor was in the ditch with the car.

    I was in the car watching all this and I thought, “Oh boy.  Now we’ve got the neighbor’s tractor stuck, too.”  As I remember it, Uncle Ricky never paused or hesitated.  He kept the tractor going forward and the car began to move.  I’m sure the tractor wheels were churning up water and mud, but what I remember most was the radiator fan drawing the muddy water through the radiator and throwing it back onto the tractor.  I was glad the 500 was a diesel without spark plugs to get shorted out with the water, stalling the engine.

    We were moving and the car’s rear wheels found solid ground and then we were back up on the road.

    I think this was all done before the folks got home from church, which would have been around 1 o’clock or so.  The car was on the road with no apparent damage other than what a good cleaning would fix.  The tractor was back in its place and everybody was safe and sound.

     What else happened on August 1, 1965, I don’t recall.  Some time later when Larry and I got together, he laughed in his characteristic manner as he recalled (all that he could) about his 21^st birthday.  Then he asked me what I was doing almost three miles beyond the home place where our journey ended.

    I told him I was trying to take him home.  He paled a little then.  “Gord, you know that bridge on the road just west of our place?  That washed out.  The county never put up much of a barricade.  You never would have got me home.”

      When I recall quite a few other incidents in my young life, I think my Guardian Angel put in a lot of overtime, especially on weekends. I hope he (she?) got time-and-a-half.

August 1, 1965

   

       When I opened the car door, the water lapped at the threshold and offered to cover the floor mats.  When I pulled the door closed, the bottom edge of the door did indeed paddle a small wave into the car’s interior.

      It was sometime between one and two a.m. Sunday August 1, 1965.  In May of that year, I graduated from high school.  In June, I turned 18.  Most Saturday nights since June, I had exercised my rights of majority by drinking a beer or two at the local pool hall.

     On this particular Saturday evening, Larry drove over to our place and we took my recently purchased black with white top four door 1955 Chevy with a newly overhauled V-8 engine to town.  After 49 years, some of the details have escaped me, but at some point during that evening, I became aware that we were in for a late night.  Larry’s birthday was August 1, 1944. 

      It was his plan to celebrate his 21^st birthday by having his first legal drink of spirits exceeding 3.2% alcohol.  We would have to wait for the midnight hour to strike before he could realize his intentions. 

     The chosen venue was the Merchants Café, a very popular night spot in those days which catered to the night crowd with a bar and live entertainment—a band, no dancers.  We whiled away the time at the pool hall, quaffing a beer or two, maybe even indulging in a game of pool.

    The pool hall closed sometime before midnight, so we drove around a little, but like the sirens singing, the Merchants beckoned to us with the sound of the music and the crowd noise, and the cars lining the streets adjacent to the Café.  So we parked and entered the din. 

     I’m not sure how I got in, maybe because they were a café and served food, minors were allowed.  But I was by Larry’s side when he approached the bar shortly after midnight and ordered a drink.  The lady barkeeper asked to see his ID. 

     She held it up to see it better, looked at it carefully, looked at Larry, looked at the clock, maybe the calendar and let her jaw drop.  She laughed and showed the driver’s license to her fellow barkeep who shrugged, sniggered briefly, and went on about his business.

     “Well, since it’s your birthday, you get one free drink!” she said.  I don’t remember what Larry ordered.  As I was not going to be a paying customer and there was a press of thirsty patrons at the bar, I retreated to make way and thus failed to witness Larry’s first legal drink.  It was apparent he would be served and the triumph was complete from my point of view.

      There were quite a few locals I recognized in the place, two in particular.  One was Fred, a local mechanic and farmer who did triple duty as our school bus driver in the struggle to support his wife and six kids. 

     I met Fred in the line waiting for the restroom.  Fred recognized in me a fellow indulger and suggested that I show up to my job working for a strict tea-totaling neighbor in my present condition.  We laughed at that, but then Fred had a sobering thought.  I might lose my job for that trick.  I would not be able to afford to go to college. 

      “Don’t do it, John,” Fred said, confusing me with my brother.  Every time he saw me the rest of that night he repeated, “Don’t do it, John, don’t do it.”  He probably lost track of what I wasn’t to be doing, but he knew I shouldn’t be doing it.  I promised each time he admonished me not to do it.

     Somewhere along the line, I grew weary of the noise and smoke and acknowledged to myself that I would receive no more liquid refreshment this day.  I retired to my car, parked across the street from the Merchants to wait for Larry.  Exactly how long I waited, I don’t recall.

     The next thing I remember was Larry exiting the bar.  He wasn’t walking.  Nor was he being dragged out.  He was in the company of the second local I recognized in the bar that night, Clayton.

     Clay, like Fred, had a big family to support.  Clay had had a heart attack in his forties.  His doctor advised him not to indulge and to find a job less physically demanding than farming.  His presence at the Merchants this night exemplified his adherence to the doctor’s advice.  One of the less strenuous jobs he held after giving up farming was moving houses.

     The story was that on one of his house-moving jobs, Clay grew tired of waiting for a power company crew to show up to lift electric lines so he could get the house he was moving safely under the wires.  Clay took matters into his own hands.  That is, he took a 2 X 4 in his hands, crawled up onto the roof of the house.  When he contacted the wires with his 2 X 4, the jolt blew him off the roof to the pavement far below.

     The story says when the doctor examined him, the doctor was pretty sure the electrical shock, powerful as it was, had stopped Clay’s heart.  He was still alive, and apparently well, because the collision with the earth when Clay fell restarted his heart. 

     Clay was a short, stalky, powerful man.  He carried Larry out to the street gutter as easily as a kid carries a Raggedy Andy doll.  Larry looked like Raggedy Andy.  Except I have never seen Raggedy Andy in the throes of the “dry heaves”.

     When folks found out it was Larry’s birthday, they wanted to buy him a drink.  Apparently, he had accepted everyone’s generosity.

    “Let it go, Larry,” Clay kept saying.  Larry’s knees were on the curb, the rest of him hanging over the gutter.  Clay stooped over Larry, holding on to his left arm, reaching underneath Larry to pat his belly with his right hand as he encouraged Larry to empty the contents of his stomach.

     How that all ended I don’t recall.  Larry ended up in the back seat of my car.  Even though his car was parked in our yard, I felt duty bound to take Larry to his home.

      Off we went into the country.  We made it about 14 miles before I dozed off and the mobilized portion of our trip came to an end.

     We had three more miles in front of us.  They would be accomplished by two-footed locomotion, in the early morning darkness.  Happy birthday, Larry!

     to be continued