(This is the second and final installment of this story. The first part was published last week.)
The following contains words that may be offensive. These were used sparingly and in context with the time and place this story occurs. In no way were they intended to abuse or offend any reader.
"Alex, stop! Stop, Alex! You're gonna kill us all." .
“Red, we’re not gonna die. We gotta’ baseball game to play," said Alex. Red dust clouded the interior of the Model A. Nostrils were lined with the stuff, leaving a gritty taste in the mouth
He reached for the ignition button with this foot as he glanced across the road.
"Shoot we're at the Sacred Heart already." Alex spied the Sacred Heart Academy baseball diamond. He hit the ignition and moved the car slowly.
"But if we take this little road here,” he pointed to his right, “we can sit by the creek and smoke cigarettes." Alex parked next to a tree that shielded the car from the road and had a view of the creek.
"Fred, pull out the Luckies"
Lucky Strikes were the cigarettes of choice. They lit up and puffed up. Red in the back seat was feeling left out.
"Cum own. Let me have a cig," said Red.
Alex, looking sly, "Gib 'im the cigarette, why don't ya," he said to Fred.
"We got a special one for ya, Red," said Fred. "Ah rolled it myself."
It was special alright. It could have been called a Montclair “Meadow Muffin”, or maybe a Newport “Number Two.” A Dunhill “Dung” would have been an accurate appraisal. The brothers just called it a shit cigarette. They laced the inner part of a cigarette paper with cow poop, then sprinkled tobacco at either end and rolled it to conceal their skulduggery. Fred handed over the Panatela “Peek a Poo” to Red.
"Ah, thanks, Fred. Ya'll boys are alright." Red lit up and took a drag. "Man, ah ain't never tasted anythin’ like this before."
Alex and L.B. were giggling in the front seat. Fred smiled, sitting next to Red. But there was more mischief presenting itself. L.B. spied three nuns with fishing poles walking from the direction of the schoolyard toward the creek.
"I'm gonna bless them nuns with my ‘nigger-shooter’," said L.B.
His uncle Pete, Stella's brother, made a sling shot out of a small "y" shaped branch of a eucalyptus tree. He cut strips from an old inner tube to complete the sling. It was just big enough to fit in L.B.'s hand. He was getting pretty good with it.
"What ya gon'na shoot 'em with, L.B.," Fred was wondering.
"I got china berries. I will not fail." L.B. crept out of the Model A, stalking the nuns.
"Hey, Red, why don't you cum with us to watch L.B. shoot at the nuns," said Alex. He wanted to make sure he didn't miss Red turn green from the loaded cigarette
"Man this shore is mighty strange cig you got me." Red held the Marlboro "Manure" between his thumb and index finger. "I'm cum'n"
"Red, ya cain't tell me you ain't got shit to smoke any more, cuz ya been smokn' it for the last 10 minutes." Alex doubled over laughing when Fred said that to Red.
"Shh, Shh, there're the nuns. We got to be quiet," said L.B.
L.B., sidled up behind an oak tree a few feet away from the nuns who stood at the bank of the creek. He looked back at his entourage and smiled as they arrived next to him.
Alex said, "Hey that big nun used to be at our school. 'Member her Fred?"
"Yeah what was her name."
"Oh, we called her Sister Poot Juice," said Red. "She would fart and smell up the whole room."
The boys were holding their breath trying not to laugh out loud, air escaping in bursts as they laughed.
"She hit me over the head with her bible. Man I'm startn' to feel wierd," Red confessed.
"Stop smokin' that shit cigarette," said Fred
"You really put shit in this cigarette?"
"Yah," all the boys whispered at once.
L.B. stretched back his sling shot, the china berry zipped into the air and hit the big nun in the back of the head.
"Did something fall from the tree," Sister Immaculata was speculating about the sudden impact on her head. The other two nuns looked up at the tree. They resumed fishing.
L.B. was maneuvering for another shot at his quarry when a loud boom echoed from the road. It was a backfire.
"Oh shit, that's coach Nowicki's truck, here comes the team! We better get over to the field and get things ready."
The boys abandoned their immediate mischief, jumping into the Model A that lurched forward and sputtered when Alex engaged the clutch too fast.
It had been a typical afternoon in the lives of country boys.
21.1.11
THE ROAD TO SACRED HEART
The following story contains words that may be offensive. These were used sparingly and in context with the time and place this story occurs. In no way were they intended to abuse or offend any reader.
Alex (said El' -ick) Lesnik was 10 years old growing up in the Texas Hill Country during the Great Depression. Living on a farm with his brothers Fred (9 years old) and L.B. (eight), the boys didn't have much to restrict them in whatever adventure came to them by chance or circumstance. Their mother, Stella, was busy making ends meet and courting eligible men in the town of Brenham. Her husband had died mysteriously not even a year prior. She had growing sons and a farm and she needed a man.
The Lesnik boys were on their own much of the time. Alex, Fred and L.B. walked a mile or so to St. Joseph's school most days, unless fishing or wandering the hills or some chore on the farm prevented their attendance. Without much outward guidance to shape their daily activities they looked to themselves for support.
Mischief and adventure, that is, adventure brought on by mischief was alluring. They followed its lead wherever it took them. Since mischief required the involvement of unwitting people, the boys found a population of such gullible souls in the school yard. So, most days Alex, Fred and L.B. were in school looking for prey to play a joke upon. They liked to laugh. The more outrageous the joke the bigger the reaction - the longer they laughed.
But there was even a better reason for the brothers to go to school this time of year. It was baseball season, and the Lesnik boys liked putting on the uniform and playing baseball for the school team. There was travel involved, to neighboring schools and their ball teams. This day the St. Joseph’s Road Runners were going to travel down the road to play the Sacred Heart Academy Eagles. However, there was a problem - not enough drivers to transport all the players. St. Joseph's didn't have a bus.
"Do any of you boys know how to drive," asked coach Nowicki.
Alex couldn't believe what he was hearing. A chance to drive!
"I do, sir," said Alex.
“Alex,” said coach. “Take the equipment and set everything up on the ball field at Sacred Heart. Drive the Model A out there. Now it belongs to the nuns so be careful."
“Shore thing, coach.”
A ten-year-old at the wheel of an automobile sounds frightening today, but in 1937 the adventure was on. Coach tossed the keys to Alex and three boys, Fred, L.B. and Red (their buddy) followed him to the car.
It was a 1931 Ford Model A Deluxe Tudor. The boys jumped in. Alex pressed the starter button with his foot and slammed the accelerator pedal to the floor. The road to Sacred Heart Academy was made of red dirt. Recent rains had transformed it into a quagmire that dried into deep ruts from car wheels rolling over it like feet in wet cement. There was no ignoring or escaping the ruts.
Now, a ten-year-old’s judgment on the road is “spotty”. Alex was speeding down the dirt road bouncing in and out of deep ruts and scraping the bottom of the car loudly. A long cloud of red dust streamed from the bumper trailing yards and yards behind.
Red shouted, "Slow down, Alex! Slow Down!" L.B. and Fred were yelling, “Faster, faster.”
The ruts finally threw the car violently to the side and into the ditch. The Model A kept rolling and Alex kept driving, in the ditch, dodging mail boxes and armadillos.
“Alex there’s a bridge up ahead. Get back on the road,” roared Red.
“Oh, yeah,” said Alex. He turned the car back onto the rutty road and sallied on. The wooden slats of the small country bridge rattled and vibrated when the Model A pounced on its surface.
“Alex! Please! Slow down,” Red’s mournful supplications were pitiful and ignored.
The louder Red shouted the harder Alex drove through the ruts. He could barely see over the car’s dash, but he felt in charge. Settling in the ruts briefly, the tires shimmied against the deep walls of the ruts. Again, the car lurched hard to the right and bounced high, landing in soft sand which sent the car into fish tails. Alex fought the steering wheel, pulling it left then right then left again. The Model A hurtled into a powerful spin and a slide that sent boys and machinery again into the ditch. The engine stalled.
"Alex, stop! Stop, Alex! You're gonna kill us all." .
“Red, we’re not gonna die. We gotta’ baseball game to play," said Alex. Red dust clouded the interior of the Model A. Nostrils were lined with the stuff, leaving a gritty taste in the mouth.
(To be continued next week)
Alex (said El' -ick) Lesnik was 10 years old growing up in the Texas Hill Country during the Great Depression. Living on a farm with his brothers Fred (9 years old) and L.B. (eight), the boys didn't have much to restrict them in whatever adventure came to them by chance or circumstance. Their mother, Stella, was busy making ends meet and courting eligible men in the town of Brenham. Her husband had died mysteriously not even a year prior. She had growing sons and a farm and she needed a man.
The Lesnik boys were on their own much of the time. Alex, Fred and L.B. walked a mile or so to St. Joseph's school most days, unless fishing or wandering the hills or some chore on the farm prevented their attendance. Without much outward guidance to shape their daily activities they looked to themselves for support.
Mischief and adventure, that is, adventure brought on by mischief was alluring. They followed its lead wherever it took them. Since mischief required the involvement of unwitting people, the boys found a population of such gullible souls in the school yard. So, most days Alex, Fred and L.B. were in school looking for prey to play a joke upon. They liked to laugh. The more outrageous the joke the bigger the reaction - the longer they laughed.
But there was even a better reason for the brothers to go to school this time of year. It was baseball season, and the Lesnik boys liked putting on the uniform and playing baseball for the school team. There was travel involved, to neighboring schools and their ball teams. This day the St. Joseph’s Road Runners were going to travel down the road to play the Sacred Heart Academy Eagles. However, there was a problem - not enough drivers to transport all the players. St. Joseph's didn't have a bus.
"Do any of you boys know how to drive," asked coach Nowicki.
Alex couldn't believe what he was hearing. A chance to drive!
"I do, sir," said Alex.
“Alex,” said coach. “Take the equipment and set everything up on the ball field at Sacred Heart. Drive the Model A out there. Now it belongs to the nuns so be careful."
“Shore thing, coach.”
A ten-year-old at the wheel of an automobile sounds frightening today, but in 1937 the adventure was on. Coach tossed the keys to Alex and three boys, Fred, L.B. and Red (their buddy) followed him to the car.
It was a 1931 Ford Model A Deluxe Tudor. The boys jumped in. Alex pressed the starter button with his foot and slammed the accelerator pedal to the floor. The road to Sacred Heart Academy was made of red dirt. Recent rains had transformed it into a quagmire that dried into deep ruts from car wheels rolling over it like feet in wet cement. There was no ignoring or escaping the ruts.
Now, a ten-year-old’s judgment on the road is “spotty”. Alex was speeding down the dirt road bouncing in and out of deep ruts and scraping the bottom of the car loudly. A long cloud of red dust streamed from the bumper trailing yards and yards behind.
Red shouted, "Slow down, Alex! Slow Down!" L.B. and Fred were yelling, “Faster, faster.”
The ruts finally threw the car violently to the side and into the ditch. The Model A kept rolling and Alex kept driving, in the ditch, dodging mail boxes and armadillos.
“Alex there’s a bridge up ahead. Get back on the road,” roared Red.
“Oh, yeah,” said Alex. He turned the car back onto the rutty road and sallied on. The wooden slats of the small country bridge rattled and vibrated when the Model A pounced on its surface.
“Alex! Please! Slow down,” Red’s mournful supplications were pitiful and ignored.
The louder Red shouted the harder Alex drove through the ruts. He could barely see over the car’s dash, but he felt in charge. Settling in the ruts briefly, the tires shimmied against the deep walls of the ruts. Again, the car lurched hard to the right and bounced high, landing in soft sand which sent the car into fish tails. Alex fought the steering wheel, pulling it left then right then left again. The Model A hurtled into a powerful spin and a slide that sent boys and machinery again into the ditch. The engine stalled.
"Alex, stop! Stop, Alex! You're gonna kill us all." .
“Red, we’re not gonna die. We gotta’ baseball game to play," said Alex. Red dust clouded the interior of the Model A. Nostrils were lined with the stuff, leaving a gritty taste in the mouth.
(To be continued next week)
14.1.11
Yep, Another Dog Story!
It was the day after Thanksgiving, cold and snowy. I walked out the front door of our rented duplex with a bag of garbage destined for the trash can that leaned against the side of the building. But, the gods had other plans in mind for me.
"Look at that!" said I. The bag fell from my hand onto the cement porch as I stepped into the snow to scoop up something small and fury that was whining and running toward me. What else, a puppy. Not just any puppy, a four weak old, pure blood, golden lab. He was shivering from the cold and fear and from hunger. Trudging through the door, I pressed him in front of Karin's face and said, "Look what I found."
Her eyes grew large. "OH!!"
What we had here was another Marley. Only this was a few years before that movie came out.
Karin placed the puppy on the dining room table and I slid a small bowl of milk under the little guy's chin.
Three children discovered the new arrival. Yep, another dog. Joy! Giddy wonder! What the hell were we getting into?
So, of course, we would give him the run of the house. Beau, our five dollar farm dog, was skeptical. He barked a couple times before retreating to the couch for a snooze.
The furry ball lapped up the milk and squirmed in Karin’s hands when she lifted him from the table. He hadn’t forgotten Beau and when little feet touched the ground he ran to the couch. Peering up at the cushions with his front paws pressed against the fabric of the couch, he was whining and yapping. The farm dog sniffed down at the fluffy thing and their noses touched. The little intruder’s petite tail wagged into a blur. Time to play. For Beau, it was time to growl.
Beau jumped off his comfort spot and ran to the kitchen looking at me with eyes that demanded an explanation. About that time the little lab was right behind Beau nipping at his back leg. Another sharp growl and Beau trotted away with the lab in pursuit. Beau moved from the kitchen through the dining room into the hall and through the other entrance to the kitchen, completing a circle. The big dog was shadowed by the very little dog as both canines ran around and around, through dining room and kitchen and hallway. Over and over and over.
“Hmmm, Beau’s digg’n this,” said Abby the daughter and middle child.
The humans of the house lined the perimeter of the run way where Beau and the Ball of Fur were charging. We were fans, spectators - witnessing barks and squeals and whines. When the little one got tired and expressed his distress in being left behind Beau would stop to let him catch up. Both started barking, running round and round and barking. Beau barked so much he lost his bark, like a human can lose her voice when shouting at a football game.
Well, it had been an eventful day. New dog, old dog laying on the couch together snoozing. They were crowded around the humans who were watching a movie - a large bowl of popcorn wedged between Joey the youngest son and Jeremiah the elder. Lucky (he really was), the new dog, sniffed a becoming smell. Climbing over a fallen forest of human legs, he found the bowl as he struggled to scale the final leg. Liking what he saw, he slid then rolled end-over-end into the bowl of popcorn. Success! He ate his way to the bottom of the bowl then fell asleep, in the bowl.
"Look at that!" said I. The bag fell from my hand onto the cement porch as I stepped into the snow to scoop up something small and fury that was whining and running toward me. What else, a puppy. Not just any puppy, a four weak old, pure blood, golden lab. He was shivering from the cold and fear and from hunger. Trudging through the door, I pressed him in front of Karin's face and said, "Look what I found."
Her eyes grew large. "OH!!"
What we had here was another Marley. Only this was a few years before that movie came out.
Karin placed the puppy on the dining room table and I slid a small bowl of milk under the little guy's chin.
Three children discovered the new arrival. Yep, another dog. Joy! Giddy wonder! What the hell were we getting into?
So, of course, we would give him the run of the house. Beau, our five dollar farm dog, was skeptical. He barked a couple times before retreating to the couch for a snooze.
The furry ball lapped up the milk and squirmed in Karin’s hands when she lifted him from the table. He hadn’t forgotten Beau and when little feet touched the ground he ran to the couch. Peering up at the cushions with his front paws pressed against the fabric of the couch, he was whining and yapping. The farm dog sniffed down at the fluffy thing and their noses touched. The little intruder’s petite tail wagged into a blur. Time to play. For Beau, it was time to growl.
Beau jumped off his comfort spot and ran to the kitchen looking at me with eyes that demanded an explanation. About that time the little lab was right behind Beau nipping at his back leg. Another sharp growl and Beau trotted away with the lab in pursuit. Beau moved from the kitchen through the dining room into the hall and through the other entrance to the kitchen, completing a circle. The big dog was shadowed by the very little dog as both canines ran around and around, through dining room and kitchen and hallway. Over and over and over.
“Hmmm, Beau’s digg’n this,” said Abby the daughter and middle child.
The humans of the house lined the perimeter of the run way where Beau and the Ball of Fur were charging. We were fans, spectators - witnessing barks and squeals and whines. When the little one got tired and expressed his distress in being left behind Beau would stop to let him catch up. Both started barking, running round and round and barking. Beau barked so much he lost his bark, like a human can lose her voice when shouting at a football game.
Well, it had been an eventful day. New dog, old dog laying on the couch together snoozing. They were crowded around the humans who were watching a movie - a large bowl of popcorn wedged between Joey the youngest son and Jeremiah the elder. Lucky (he really was), the new dog, sniffed a becoming smell. Climbing over a fallen forest of human legs, he found the bowl as he struggled to scale the final leg. Liking what he saw, he slid then rolled end-over-end into the bowl of popcorn. Success! He ate his way to the bottom of the bowl then fell asleep, in the bowl.
7.1.11
Late Night Visitor
It was eleven p.m. I heard the sliding door open as an attractive dark haired woman in jeans and a denim jacket walked into the hotel lobby. She was eying the canisters of coffee.
"Can I have a cup," she asked with a sidelong glance at me.
I said, "sure." I was beginning to regret that she got into the lobby before it was locked. She might be one of the night wanderers that populate West Sedona streets. Most of them are well groomed but seem to have no place to sleep or they can't sleep. So they wonder on a quest for a coffee shop or an all night diner or a handout. But she made herself comfortable on the couch and began sipping the cup.
"It's not very hot, is it?," she stirred the clouds of cream in her coffee
"No, it's late. It will be morning before any fresh is brewed."
"This is nice," her eyes darted from ceiling to floor then from the glass wall to the front desk. "I like the fireplace and the couches. What are all the tables and chairs for?"
"Breakfast."
"Can I stay for breakfast?"
"Are you going to buy a room for the night?"
"If you lend me forty dollars I will," she smiled and moved toward the sliding door and walked out into the night.
"There are no forty dollar rooms here," I thought.
"Can I have a cup," she asked with a sidelong glance at me.
I said, "sure." I was beginning to regret that she got into the lobby before it was locked. She might be one of the night wanderers that populate West Sedona streets. Most of them are well groomed but seem to have no place to sleep or they can't sleep. So they wonder on a quest for a coffee shop or an all night diner or a handout. But she made herself comfortable on the couch and began sipping the cup.
"It's not very hot, is it?," she stirred the clouds of cream in her coffee
"No, it's late. It will be morning before any fresh is brewed."
"This is nice," her eyes darted from ceiling to floor then from the glass wall to the front desk. "I like the fireplace and the couches. What are all the tables and chairs for?"
"Breakfast."
"Can I stay for breakfast?"
"Are you going to buy a room for the night?"
"If you lend me forty dollars I will," she smiled and moved toward the sliding door and walked out into the night.
"There are no forty dollar rooms here," I thought.
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