The Badger

     The day had been hot, the third of three consecutive days topping out in the upper 90’s or even 100 degrees.  I had had my supper.  It was just at sundown.

     I stepped outside for something, what, I don’t remember.  It was really pleasant, cool, no wind, too dry to have any mosquitoes.  On the spur of the moment, I decided to take a walk.  I would stroll out and get the mail.

      I didn’t get far.  Down the steps, through the gate, turn right, get on the road leading to the county road and the mailbox.  In a matter of a dozen steps, I stopped short, uttered an involuntary “expletive deleted” (remember Richard Nixon?), and took two quick steps back.

The day’s fatigue was momentarily suspended by what I saw. 

     Just off the south wheel track lay a badger.  It was hunkered down as flat as it could be in the dried out not-very-tall grass.  As I stepped back, we locked eyes for a brief moment.  “What the . . .?” I uttered, again out loud.

     A few questions ran through the old, suddenly very active brain.  How had he (she?) got there without me seeing it?  It couldn’t have been there that long.  Why was it there?  Was something wrong with it?  Was it rabid?

      Lying flat on top of the ground was not ordinary badger behavior.  In the few other encounters I have had with badgers, they always turned and fled as fast as they can, which is not very fast.  You can’t really see their legs, just the bump bump bump of the fur ball of their departing rear.

     Hunkering down in open space didn’t seem normal.  The only other badger I remember seeing hunker down was a young one that strayed into the old barn and got caught in the milk cow manger.  Dad dispatched it with a .22 slug between the eyes.  The current farm dog of the time, Ruff, then tore into the dead badger.  We laughed at her bravery.

      But this one wasn’t cornered.  It had to see me coming, just as I should have seen her before I did.  I knew there was a badger in the area.  They dig holes everywhere, including under the south side of the garage. 

     I think they hunt for the pocket gophers and ground squirrels that live in underground burrows.  Whether they operate by smell or hearing, they find the burrows and tear into them with their curved front claws.  It doesn’t take them long to excavate a good size hole.  Ground squirrels inhabited the hole under the garage. 

     What had been a hole the size of a bratwurst became a hole that could have swallowed a watermelon, with the resulting pile of dirt  adjacent.  They are true miners who never bother to return the slag to the mine tunnel.

     He didn’t get all the ground squirrels, as every now and then, one scolds me when I walk around the garage.  The scourge of pocket gophers have largely disappeared around the farmyard, due to an owl who has taken up residence in the old elm trees north of the house.  At least I give the owl credit.  When he disappeared, I began to have mice problems, too.  I’m glad to have Mr. Owl back.

      Not so much the badger, even though he may help eradicate pests. Badger holes are large enough to rattle teeth when pickup, tractor, or mower wheel hit one.

      Rabies became my dominant thought.  I had been one-step away before I saw her.  She could have easily taken a good chunk of my left leg before I could have reacted.  I continued to back away as I kept an eye on her.  A few steps and I turned to walk normally back to the porch, still watching over my shoulder.   

      She hadn’t moved.  Three .22 rifles stood in the porch closet.  I opted for the shotgun, thinking my vision-impaired aim wouldn’t be good enough.  I had to go upstairs for the heavy artillery.  I glanced out the bedroom window.  Gone.  No badger, nothing.

      Nevertheless, I chambered a shell and put two in the magazine and returned to the scene.  I was a bit relieved.  Getting the heck out of Dodge was more normal behavior.  It probably wasn’t rabid after all.

      I took a walk around the place, keeping the gun at the ready.  Nothing.

     By now, it was getting dark.  Cool evening stroll cancelled.  I didn’t wish to proceed unarmed and the old Winchester is pretty heavy now (it didn’t used to weigh that much).

     The next morning, I kept an eye out for any new excavations as I went about my chores.  I saw nothing.  Perhaps the badger had been as startled by our encounter as was I.  With any luck at all, he may search out other hunting grounds.

     I may not have to kill a fellow creature who is just trying to get along.  That wouldn’t be how Dad would see it.  Badgers were evil creatures that made life difficult, that raided the chicken house, raised havoc and killed hens.

        I no longer have chickens, or even a chicken house.  Still, it would be fine with me if Mr. or Ms. Badger would find a new place to call home.

       

    

Microcosm II

      This time it began a couple of weeks ago.  I needed to fill ruts inside the combine shed with gravel.  I had a few other places that could use some gravel.  The GMC truck was sitting empty.  The G (John Deere tractor) hadn’t been moved for over a year.  I needed to mow where it sat in its aura of grass.

     I set out to knock over the first domino in a long line of dominoes that would eventually lead to me hauling some gravel from the pasture creek.  Step one, get the tractor started.  The battery came off the now-shedded combine and into the G. 

      It started right up.  Well, maybe my luck had changed.  It had a low rear tire, so I pulled it over and parked in front of the shop close to the air compressor.  I shut it off.    I dragged the air hose out and crawled under the tractor to access the tire valve.  I half expected to have to dodge some calcium chloride, but the inner tube was dry.

       (Calcium chloride is a water-based mixture used for ballast in tractor tires.  It probably weighs more than water and it stays low to the ground, gravitating to the bottom of the tire and inner tube, reducing chances of tractor rollover.  The solution is somewhat caustic to skin and especially eyes.  It is corrosive to metal.)

      A few minutes of air brought the left side of the tractor up to match the right side.  I crawled out from under the tractor.  Then I saw it.  A rip in the tire where the inner tube was starting to bulge through.

      That string of dominoes was going nowhere.  The rip was in the tread portion of the tire.  It wouldn’t take much at all to puncture that tube and I would be dead in the water.  Or more appropriately in the middle of the pasture or somewhere between pasture and farmyard.

      A new string of dominoes had to be erected.  I would have to get the farmhand off the tractor in order to get to the tire that has to be replaced. 

       There is a place in the south yard where I usually park the farmhand when I remove it.  Heavy cement blocks serve to hold up the farmhand when it is not on the tractor.  The site too was well endowed with tall grass. 

     I had to abandon the project for the time being.  I needed to get the ruts filled so I could park trucks in the shed.  One truck had seed wheat on it.

      I cleared off the bed of the 4X4, threw on a shovel and headed for the ditch just west of the mailbox where heavy rains deposit gravel when the water runs out of the field and across the road.  A couple of hours later, I had the ruts filled with some first rate gravel.  It was a hot day and I was tired after twice shoveling the gravel, onto the 4X4, and off the 4X4 into the ruts.  The G would have to wait.

      We move now to a couple of weeks later.  The G still sat in front of the shop.  I needed to get a few other things close to the shop.  The G would be out of service until further notice.  But I did need to move it.  And I should get that farmhand off of it.          

     Back to that string of dominoes.  In the intervening two weeks since I started the ill-fated project, the left side of the tractor slowly sank.  The tire was flat.  Oh well, air compressor is close at hand.

       I moved the heavy cement blocks that support the farmhand.  I took the Ford tractor and mower to the site and soon it looked all nice and neat.  With the golf cart, I hauled toolbox, bar, and jack, all things I would need to get the fork off the front of the farmhand and the farmhand off the tractor.

      Once again I drug air hose underneath the tractor and fastened the handy-dandy air chuck to the tractor tire.  After a minute or two, the tractor rose to near-normal level.  Then it was I heard an ominous hissing.  I crawled out from under the tractor.  The sound was easily located.  Through the afore-mentioned rip in the tire, I could see a pin holed, well, more like a nail hole in the inner tube.

      By widening the rip a little, I thought I could get a tire patch onto the tube, enough to hold while I got the farmhand off and the tractor parked where I could get to it to change the tire, if ever I could find a tire for it.  I would need to let the air out of the tire to get the patch to stick.

     Back under the tractor, I placed a jack to hold the tractor up while I repaired the tube.  I pulled the valve core out of the tube and let the air escape.  A little jerk with pliers opened the tire rip up enough to get glue onto the nail hole and then, after the glued dried appropriately, the patch.

     All went well.  But now the rip was even bigger and the tube might not take more than a revolution or two before it was punctured again.  I devised a boot, something like the mesh used to correct a hernia, used to plug a fissure in a tire.  I used an old inner tube folded over about five or six inches square.

     It wasn’t exactly laparoscopy, but it was similar.  With pliers and screwdriver, I force the folded inner tube through the rip into the tire between the tire and the tube.  For good measure, I cut a smaller chunk out of a plastic antifreeze jug and forced it in there, too.

     The slick plastic piece didn’t want to stay in place, so I finished off with . . . you guessed it, duct tape to stabilize the plastic patch.  Back under the tractor, I replace the valve core and once again hooked the air hose to the tire. 

      All was well.  No hissing.  I cleared away tools and jack and mounted the tractor.  It would not start.  I pulled spark plugs and cleaned them.  Fouled plugs are the usual reason the old thing won’t fire.  Plugs replace, I tried again.  Nothing!

     It was growing late.  I was tired.  Sometimes, if I let it set for a while, it will forget its abstinence and start right up.  Tomorrow.

      Tomorrow got here.  A look out the window showed the left side of the tractor much lower than the right side.  Oh well.  Maybe the tire would hold air long enough for me to complete my project.   After two hours of removing, cleaning, installing spark plugs, I had to give it up again.  The thing just would not start.

     A batch of expletives and hand gestures hurled at the G left it unmoved.  I pulled the spark plugs and left them out to give the cylinders a chance to dry out while I took a lunch break.  In my mind, I was writing the want ad:  “For sale, John Deere G with bad rear tire.  John Deere collector’s must-have.  With or without Farmhand.”

     I made one more try after the nooning.  I was interrupted by Jerrod and his son.  They came out to finish up some details of last January’s siding job.  Two lightning rod cables need to be fastened to the corners.  The big project was the roof flashings over back porch and west addition to the house. 

     They had installed them over the siding.  They should be behind the siding so that water running down the wall had nowhere to go but onto and off of the roof, no chance to get into the joint between roof and wall.  That took a couple of hours. It's all better now.  It looks much nicer with the flashing installed properly.

     After they left and I cleaned up, it was too late to try the G again.  If it started, it would be dark before I could get everything done.

      I gave it one more try the next day.  I got nothing, not one pop, no smoke, nothing.  Somewhere out of the fog of ancient memory, I remembered that when this happened in the past, new spark plugs made a difference. 

     It has a new magneto.  The spark plug wires check out ok.  It was getting fuel.  New plugs will be the next domino to try.  The new plugs won't say "Champion" on them if I can help it.

     Meanwhile, the G sits in front of the shop blocking the way for other equipment needing attention.  Blocks hold the left rear up so the weight of the tractor won’t cause other problems with the ancient tube and tire.

     And so it goes.   

         

Summer Microcosm

     That jar has to go downstairs.

      I had my morning chores all lined out.  The dirty work clothes were in the washing machine, now my clean work shirts and jeans, waiting to be hung online to dry.

      There wasn’t much rush since rain showers the past two evenings meant it would be afternoon at the earliest before I could go stir the dirt with tractor and plow.  Hanging out the clothes was first on my mental list.

     But wait, that jar needs to go downstairs.  Jar in hand, down I went.  Then I saw it.  Or rather, I didn’t see it.  Mouse bait was gone.  A check of other sites in the trap line revealed two of them had been visited overnight.

     Now I had to rebait the two traps.  That meant a trip to the garage to get bait.  On the way to the garage, I decided I might as well check out the cellar door, one of the most frequent rodent entrance points. 

     There were some places where the dirty rodents could be getting in.  First things first.  I grabbed the bait and returned to the basement to freshen the traps.  Back to the cellar door. 

     Some caulking had loosened its grip on the decaying wood.  A mouse could easily squeeze itself through between the sagging caulk and the old wood.  Back to the porch for caulk. 

     The open tube in the caulking gun had dried caulk in the spout.  Attempts to force the caulk out failed.  I grabbed a knife and sliced off the tapered part of the spout.  Then the dried caulk shot out like a cannonball and the fresh stuff threatened to splat on the floor.

     The old caulk in the cellar door joint was soon removed and replaced by fresh stuff.  There were a couple of holes that would need steel wool to fill the gap.  Back to the garage.  When I grabbed the doorknob, the same one I had just used to access the mouse bait, it didn’t exactly come off in my hand.  It did flop around loosely in the door.  It didn’t retract the bolt from the latch.

     I thought of garage door opener remotes near me, but I managed to get the knob to engage the bolt well enough to open the door.  No need to open the big door.  But, one more chore lined itself up in front of project number one, hanging up the laundry to dry. 

      Having crammed steel wool into possible moue ingresses, I returned to the caulking gun, which soon ran out of caulk before I had completed my task.  Another partially used tube of caulk proved more difficult when it came to dislodging the dried goop from the spout. 

     Eventually, I succeeded with the caulking gun and had closed several possible leaks in the doorway.  Now for the garage doorknob.  It shouldn’t be malfunctioning.  I removed it only a few months ago when I painted the door.  I lubricated and adjusted it when I replaced it.   It should be in good shape.

     Straining to see anything in the dark interior, I recalled that I needed a straight blade screwdriver to release the catch on the knob.  Back in the porch to get the screwdriver, I glanced at the washing machine.  Oh yes, I was going to hang out the laundry first thing.

      When I removed the knob, the escutcheon dangled loosely and the entire lock mechanism flopped around, held in place only by the bolt.  A couple more trips for a Philips screwdriver and a flashlight and I was able to see and reposition the escutcheon and tighten the screws to hold it in place.

      Now all I had to do before getting to my first chore, the laundry, was put away tools, steel wool, and caulking gun.  As I finished at the clothesline, I glanced at my watch—after nine o’clock.  No need to worry about getting an early start on the day’s work.

      And that is pretty much the way my summer has gone.

    

Harvest 2019

      “Nineteen percent?”  The girl affirmed, but she probed the load again.  The results were the same.

      I was a bit incredulous.  There was 150 bushels of too-wet wheat, I knew.  But there was 360 bushels of very dry wheat from last year, too.

      I inched into the elevator and went around to the back of the truck to watch as the manager periodically dipped a one-gallon bucket into the grain flowing from the tailgate.  His test of that sampling brought the moisture down to about 14%, but it was still too wet.  I got docked.

      The wet wheat had been cut Sunday.  I cut another 75 bushels on Tuesday.  This time, we took a peanut butter jar full of wheat to the tester.  The girl said 15% moisture.  Still too wet. 

      Twenty-four hours later, the peanut butter jar held wheat that tested 11% moisture.  Really?  “What a difference a day makes, twenty-four little hours.”

      I still had 75 bushels of the 15% moisture wheat on the truck, so I dumped three combine bins full onto the wetter wheat.  We started hauling to the bin.  I forgot I had dumped the 15% load on the truck.  I put three more dumps on the truck, plus a little more, because the truck didn’t look full.  So harvest began on Wednesday, July 17.

      On Thursday morning, we took the truck to town.  The moisture content was quite acceptable.  The surprise came when I looked at the weight results.  I had 580 bushels on, about an 80-bushel overload.

       In addition to the miscalculation I made when loading the truck, the wheat weighed 62 pounds per bushel, which means the same volume of wheat weighed more than the standard of 60 pounds per bushel.  So far the truck has survived the overload.  I vowed to do better.

      Meanwhile, the old GMC made many trips to the bin carrying 150-bushel loads.  The wheat flowed, but the acres reluctantly disappeared.  Ground speed was slow.  Every 20-25 minutes, the combine would dump a 75-bushel load.

      On Saturday, the bin was full.  Decision time:  haul to town and accept a lower price, or rent a neighbor’s bin and hope for a higher organic price.  The negatives:  I don’t have the equipment to empty Jack’s bin.  Jack’s bin is in rather tight quarters, hard to maneuver trucks, especially the semis that will probably haul it out of there.

           Jack’s bin has a pit with a 16-foot tube leading down into the bottom of the pit.  My bin-unloading auger is 15 feet.  I opted to use Jack’s bin.  So Saturday afternoon, we moved the tractor and auger down there.  The weather was threatening, so I decided to cut wheat while I could and dump it on the big truck, which had stood idle the whole time we were dumping into our bin.

      On Sunday morning, Brother John and I took the GMC on its first trip approximately six miles to Jack’s bin.  We sat up the auger and the first grain landed in the pit.  It would take a while to fill that pit with the 150-bushel loads. 

      While we were filling our bin, John could take the two combine dumps to the bin and be back in time to take the combine’s load without me having to wait.  But making the 12-mile round trip took time.  I dumped one and sometimes two bin loads on the big truck while he was making the trip.

       The GMC gas gauge no longer works.  John ran out of gas twice.  The first time, the Goodwife came to his rescue.  He called her using cell phones.  That would not have worked in 1947, when the truck was new.  The gas gauge worked then.

      John came to his own rescue the second time he ran out of gas, using the 2-gallon can of gas he carried in the cab with him, along with his tools.  Fortunately, there was little need for the tools.

      On Tuesday morning and Wednesday morning, we dumped 500-bushel loads into Jack’s bin.  The pit filled up and the wheat climbed up the wall of the bin.

      On Wednesday afternoon, John hauled 35 bushels to the bin, and the organic portion of the crop was harvested.  We finished up Wednesday afternoon, July 27, by cutting the “buffer zones”, that 35-foot strip bordering land not under my control, where forbidden chemicals could be used and might drift or leach onto my field.  There are two zones on this field, the border with the neighbors to the north, and around wind generator number 119 standing in that field plus the road leading to it. 

      What was left of the buffer zones (the 19% moisture load had come from the buffer zones, too) netted 150 bushels.  John hauled that to town Thursday morning, and the wheat is all in the bin plus the 150 bushels on the big truck to be used for seed this fall.

      The header went back to its resting place in the barn on Friday afternoon.  The combine proper sits in the shed, partially cleaned, where it can’t get wet if it should decide to rain, and I can finish the job soon.

In the bdginning

Almost done 

One of many trips up the dusty trail

Can't see the ground between rows 

All done!

      We had only one mechanical breakdown that required much time to fix.  The new part, asickle-drive ball joint, took a day to be delivered from Denver to Flagler.  A part salvaged from a neighbor's derelict combine took a couple of hours to change out and got us through the rest of harvest.  

      All-in-all, it was a very successful and trouble-free harvest.  We should have Thanksgiving in July!

     

The Duck That Didn’t

      It’s a backyard mystery.  It all began one warm afternoon when I dug out the lawn mower and began sprucing up the back yard.

      I didn’t startle when a bird flew up.  I saw no bird at all, but when I mowed an inch or two into the mint, I saw the gap.  Then I saw the nest full of eggs, right up against the foundation in the thick of the mint patch.

      I summoned the Goodwife to take a gander.  What senseless bird would build a nest in a fenced  backyard?  It about had to be a duck, judging from the egg size.  There are no chickens running around.  Too small for turkey eggs, even if we had turkeys in the area.

     Tradition has it that ducklings have to be led to water not too long after they are hatched.  How did the egg-layer plan on doing that?  Scenes of neighbors trying to herd a mama duck with a train of ducklings across the cul-de-sac through the neighbor’s gate to the lake in their backyard began to from in my head.

     I finished mowing the backyard and moved to the front yard.  When I finished with it, I took the mower back and checked on the nest on my way to the shed.  Eggs there, but nobody tending them.  Probably been abandoned, I thought.

       I didn’t spend much time worrying about it.  I took off for the farm and pretty much forgot about the nest in the mint.  But back from the farm some days later, when I walked into the house towards the back door, I was greeted with a sign:

       The Goodwife had kept an eye on the nest, and found it indeed had an incubator in full attendance.  

      I tiptoed through the backyard so as not to disturb the expectant mother.  I even carefully placed a ladder where I could get some elevation and get a camera shot.  Later, we found we could get right up next to her without frightening her off her eggs.  You have to look carefully.  She is camouflaged well.  The blank spot on the foundation without any mint growing is the marker.

     Things went along for three weeks.  The duck would leave the eggs along towards evening.  The eggs were no longer visible.  Instead, you saw a circle of down.  It could have been baby ducklings, except it never moved.  There were still eggs under the down.

      I was gone to the farm again when the Goodwife reported that the duck was gone and so were the eggs.  What happened to them?  We speculated.

     Did the eggs hatch and the mama duck led the babies off?  No, because we would have heard them.  Youth cannot keep still.  Besides, how would they get out of the yard?

      Did the duck move her eggs to a place of safety?  Ducks can’t haul eggs.  She would have had to hire two men with a truck, or something similar.

       The Goodwife spotted four feathers in the  yard near the nest.  Had something devoured the mama duck and the nest contents?  Well, maybe, and there is a nasty raccoon in the area who haunts the backyard at night.  It uses the roof of our smaller shed for a latrine.

     The raccoon theory is the most believable.  Except, if a raccoon raided the nest and had a breakfast of duck eggs, where are the shells and the mess that should attend such a raid?  The mint around the nest remains undisturbed.  Could the raccoon have committed kidnapping and murder without crushing down some mint around the scene?

     It’s a cold case now.  I think CSI-Loveland won’t have the time to devote to the case.  I think it will have to remain a mystery forever.

      The sign near the back door is gone, gone with the duck.  Our visions of being foster parents to a family of quackers have disappeared as well.  On the flip side, I can do my backyard chores now without the worry of disturbing a wild creature.  Well, not too wild.

      I did disturb my domestic partner, by planting two tomatoes in the middle of the backyard, not too far from the mint and its mysterious and abandoned nest.  “Right in the middle?” she asked.  But there was nothing growing there but weeds, my response.

      In the first two or three shovelsful of dirt as I prepared to transplant the tomato plant, I struck a sprinkler head.  No big deal because that circuit had been abandoned before we moved  in.  Had I been trying to find that sprinkler head, however, I would have dug holes all over the backyard and never hit it.  There it is, right next to the tomato.

     On a sadder note, Hemi the Cat returned to his ancestors this past week.  Attempts to relieve him of his pain and restore some life to him were unsuccessful.  He was 14.        

    

Memorial Weekend, 2019

Genoa Alumni Meeting

      Genoa has its alumni gathering on Memorial Day weekend every other year.  It's a collection of old folks who gathered.  We aren't adding any new ones.

     Laurel arranged for alumni to tour the old Tower west of Genoa.  We were among the first to arrive at the Tower.  There were all kinds of signs, "No Trespassing,"  "Keep Out", etc.  I was a bit nervous about entering, but who should walk out the door but Patty Calhoun.  

      If you have ever watched Colorado Public Television, you may have seen Patty.  She is the editor (or is publisher?) of Westword.   She is on Colorado Inside Out on Friday nights.  I relaxed.  Patty and two others bought the Tower and are trying to preserve and restore it.  

     They thought they could give it to the historical society, but the society declined, unless an endowment came with it, which it didn't.  Now, they are looking for financing to help with the expensive and labor-intensive project.  

      Many of the attendees had worked for Jerry Chubbuck.  Our two hostesses were eager to hear stories the former employees had to tell.  I was able to add my bit.  Somebody said something about holding dances there.  I said that Uncle Walter said you had to be careful or you would slide off the slanty stage.

       Patty wanted to know when that was.  I said it was probably in the thirties, but I wasn't sure.  She said that they would have to revisit one of their theories about what caused the stage to slant.  Apparently, it was built that way.

  

      Probably not six states (See Six States!), but the view is impressive.

     

     Those folks have their work cut out for them.
     We finished the day at the cemetery, doing our duty for past generations.  We had to hurry as the weather threatened.

      I'm sorry to report that the flowers were all artificial this year.  The pre-storm gale against which  we strove managed to de-blossom some of the plastic flowers.  I think the real things would not have stood much of a chance.  We will do better next year.

Gordon Leadfoot

    His name was Gordon right enough.  But not Leadfoot.  That was a moniker I bestowed upon him.  It had nothing to do with his musical abilities.

     He had one good eye, and one not so good, as in legally blind in that eye.  He wore pop bottle lenses for glasses, for both eyes, the good one included.

     He was from Oklahoma.  He eschewed being called an “Okie”.  I never saw him get angry.  But if you called him an Okie, he would hasten to correct you.  He was an Oklahoman.    

     He stood about 5’6”. He probably weighed 200 pounds.  On roller skates, he was anything but lead-footed.  Backwards, forwards, tight circles, he could do nearly anything on roller skates.

      At the local swimming pool, he could put on an exhibition on the diving board.  He had played college football.  He was that good of an athlete.

     He once ran a foot race against one of his eighth grade students, for maybe forty or fifty yards.  He won handily.  There had been a bet.  The student had to stop wearing colored glasses in the school building as a result of losing the race to a ”short, fat, old man.”

     I got to know him the summer of 1972.  I signed on to help him move alfalfa bales one June day.  We were on a county road in his pickup.  He was taking me somewhere to get a tractor with a loader.  He was driving.

     We were doing sixty miles an hour on the gravel.  Gordon decided his glasses needed cleaning.  He took them of and started in on them with his handkerchief.  We were headed north, still doing 60 mph.   In an instant, we were in the west ditch, still going 60 mph.

      “What’s goin’ on here?” Gordon asked.  He put his glasses back on.  “Oh.”  He pulled the pickup out of the ditch and back on the road.  He never let up on the gas pedal.  I had made an instantaneous grab for whatever I could get a hold of to survive the inevitable rollover.

      He looked at me and I looked at him.  He went on with our conversation, as though nothing had happened.  I made a mental note:  don’t ever get into a vehicle this guy is driving.

     The lead-foot moniker didn’t come about then.  It would be many years later when Tisha and I rode to an out-of-town football game with Uncle Bill in his hot Red Dodge.  On the way home, somewhere east of Colby, Bill managed to overtake Gordon driving his big old Ford.

      The race was on.  Bill knew a shortcut through Colby.  When we pulled up to the stop sign at the highway that would be the final 30-mile stretch home, Gordon’s Ford blew past us.  We tailed him for several miles, both cars doing 80 to 90 miles per hour.

     Finally, we reached a flat stretch with no traffic coming our way.  Bill floor boarded the Dodge, the turbo kicked in, and we soared past the 100 mile per hour mark.  As we went past Gordon, I could hear the Ford’s exhaust pipe shrieking and I knew Gordon had his foot “in the carburetor” as thy used to say in those olden days.  The big old Ford just didn’t have any more to give. 

     (Someday there will be a Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Old Automobiles and Bill and Gordon will both be enshrined in the Hall of Infamy.)

     The Dodge won the race, but we all won in that nobody got killed that night on the way home from a football game.  Then it was I named Gordon, Gordon Leadfoot.

      Gordon was always a farmer at heart.  He quit teaching to try farming full time.   But the 1980’s were a huge disaster for farmers, many who had mortgaged heavily to buy land after the explosion of grain prices following Nixon’s grain deal with the Russians in the 1970’s.  Gordon had to return to teaching.

      He returned to, or took up, school bus driving when he went back to teaching.  I advised my girls, “Don’t get on any bus Mr. C. is driving, if you can help it.”   Of course, they couldn’t help it.  They were on a bus or two that lost a little paint as a result of Gordon’s driving.  Gordon’s driving was a bit of a joke among the students riding his bus. 

     But I am happy to report that nobody ever suffered an injury as a result of Gordon’s driving.  I am sorry to report that Gordon is gone now.  Oklahoma’s loss was Kansas’s gain.  I am glad I got to know Gordon, leadfoot and all.  Adieu, friend.