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Story Time -- Let's Swap 'em
bustedknee
Member Posts: 2,002 ✭✭✭✭
I recently told Dav1965, the only thing I like better than telling a story is hearing a story.
Pick a topic
Borrow a story (steal it) or make up a story (lie) or just relate an experience.
It can be interesting :shock: , funny
or emotional 
, lets hear them.
Don't worry about grammar, punctuation, or spelling.
Pick a topic
Borrow a story (steal it) or make up a story (lie) or just relate an experience.
It can be interesting :shock: , funny
or emotional , lets hear them.Don't worry about grammar, punctuation, or spelling.
I can't believe they misspelled "Pork and Beans!"
Comments
Near the end of a extraordinary day of fishing on Chandler Lake I decided to drive a few miles further east to a Bar-B-Que Buffet restaurant for dinner before heading back to my place in Oklahoma City. This Davenport eatery was so good that I had heard about it from ex-Okie oilfield workers in Alaska!
At the little restaurant I promptly stuffed myself with ribs, chicken, catfish, slaw and cornbread. With a well-padded tummy between me and the steering wheel, I decided to enjoy the panoramic sunset and dawdle the 90-or-so miles to Oklahoma City on old Route-66 rather than zooming along the super toll road that links Oklahoma City and Tulsa,
Somewhere between Warick and Arcadia, a rabbit darted in front of my rental car. I * the steering wheel but I was a bit too slow. A ?thump? indicated I hit the unfortunate bunny. Having been a hunter since early childhood I understand hunting for food and eating what I kill. It is a sad fact that automobiles on our nation?s kill more animals in one year than hunters take in a lifetime. I do my very best to avoid collisions with all of nature?s creatures but that night, it was unavoidable.
I don?t know why I stopped, but I did. Maybe it was the faint hope that the animal was perhaps only stunned and I could revive it and send it on its way...or maybe it was to halt the rabbit?s suffering if he was still alive. Whatever the case, I backed the car up the road until I could see the lump of fur in the glow from the backup lights. After parking on the grass shoulder, I clambered out of the car with a flashlight.
As I stood over the dead bunny in the middle of the deserted roadway a car careened around a nearby curve and probing headlights fell across me. I snatched up the body of the rabbit and took long quick steps to the side of the macadam. I did not want the luckless bunny to be squished as well as killed.
The car slowed as the driver stared through the window at me and the rabbit in my hand. He parked ahead of my rental car.
?What?s happening, friend?? the driver asked as he scurried in my direction.
?Everything?s OK.? I answered, feeling more than a little embarrassed. I gently placed the dead rabbit in the grass. There was blood on his face and his whiskers were matted down.
?I just hit this little bunny and thought I would move it out of the road so someone doesn?t mash it.?
?Yeah, Poor thing.? the man replied. He had a genuine look of concern on his round red face.
?I?m a salesman.? He volunteered, ?Cosmetics -- lady?s cosmetics, of course.?
Continuing without a breath he said, ?This happens to me a lot, I drive all over Oklahoma, Texas and Louisiana. You ought to the see the rabbits down along the Louisiana-Texas border in the springtime!? Still, without pausing to inhale, he droned on, ?Just like you, I hate to hit ?em. But hey! Wait here, I?ll be right back.? He ran back to his car and popped the trunk.
?Oh no.? I thought, ?He?s going for a bag. He?s going to take this rabbit home and eat it!? I felt that little bunny deserved more respect than what he was getting. I wanted to be left alone and I wanted the rabbit to be left alone. I planned to place the dead bunny out of sight in the roadside bushes so Mother Nature could take care of her own. ?But,? I thought, ?Maybe this guy has a hungry family at home and needs the food.? I was trying to justify what I thought was about to happen.
The talkative fellow returned to where I was standing over the rabbit and in his hand was not a plastic sack, as I expected, but an aerosol can. Pointing the spray nozzle at the stiffening bunny, he gave it a long squirt. I stood there in simple disbelief, looking at the cloud of aerosol, as it slowly settled over the motionless hare!
After a few moments of silence, except for the rumbling of trucks on the nearby tollway, the bunny stirred. He rolled over then groggily regained his feet. Awestruck, I stepped back. The rabbit took a few hops toward the hardtop. I looked at the stranger -- he was intently watching the hare and displaying a broad smile. I looked back to the rabbit--he seemed to be regaining his strength. Rapidly picking up speed, he was skittering along the faded center line of the highway.
To my further astonishment, the rabbit stopped, sit up on his hind feet, and appeared to wave at us with his furry little front paws! He would take 10 or 12 more hops then repeat the maneuver. If I had false teeth they would have fallen out. That rabbit would hop a ways, stop, rear up on his hind legs and wave at us! He repeated this scenario over and over until out of sight.
?I don?t believe this!? I told the stranger. ?What was in that can??
?Here, have a free sample.? he said, as he pressed the cool can in my palm.
I couldn?t read the label in the dull dusk so I moved toward the car. When I opened the door, the interior light clicked on, so I held out the can and focused on the large print on the label.
?Hair Restorer and Permanent Wave?
I promised to meet Grover last Friday for lunch since it was my regular day off that occurs every other week. When I called the City Maintenance Shop the secretary told me I would find Grover at the sewage plant. I stopped at the Subway shop in the mall and picked up a steak and cheese sandwich and Pepsi for myself. Grov always brings a sandwich from home.
I parked at the gate and wandered between the buildings looking for signs of work underway. I spotted Old Grover down by one of the sewage ponds. He had a long pole in his hands and was trying to fish something out of the sewage.
?What?s your job for today?? I asked, taking the steps two at a time.
?They got me stirrin the sewage.? Grove replied, without stopping what he was doing.
I could see what appeared to be an article of clothing on the end of his pole but it was just too slippery for him to bring it up on the walkway.
?The big pump that draws the sewage out of this pond is runnin real slow so I got to walk around the pond and keep the sewage stirred up so there won?t be any big chunks to plug the line. They got a new part on the way down from Anchorage and we?ll have it fixed by quittin time.?
?Great job.? I replied, holding my nose. What are you doing right now??
?Well.? He said with a huff. ?I was walkin round this pond, stirrin and stirrin and got warm. So I took my jacket off and laid it down and forgot about it. The next time I came around on this side I accidentally kicked my jacket in the pond.
?Well, why are you trying to fish it out?? I shouted. ?You can?t wear it now!?
?You don?t understand.? Grover implored. ?My lunch is in the pocket
Sorta in the sticks around here not too long ago. Neighbor still had a functioning out house.
I was out side doing something and I heard him holler for some help. Naturally being the good neighbor I am I went to see if I could help.
He was standing in the out house just looking down the hole. What do you need I asked. He replied, "you got a couple bucks I can borrow", sure what do you need 2 bucks for? Well he said it is like this, when I went to pull my pants up I dropped 50 cents and you know where they landed. I handed him the money and he tossed in the hole. Why did you do that I asked. He replied if I am going after the 50 cents and get all nasty I just as well make it worth the effort.
(And for the uninitiated "42" is kinda like "Bridge" with dominoes)
Livestock Weekly, Jan 10, 1985
A True story About Cats:
How Not To Get Rich Quick
By Curt Brummet
Maljamar, N.M. ? One opening day as Terry, Larry and I, three schoolkids, were hanging around the pool hall on our lunch hour, we were discussing our financial crisis.
We had just spent our allowance for the next 200 years replacing an outhouse that had disintegrated due to careless handling of four stolen sticks of dynamite, three blasting caps, one can of black powder and five gallons of kerosene. We didn?t blow it up on purpose. But no one seemed to believe us.
After we got beat dang near to death we had to make arrangements to pay for it. It didn?t matter that it hadn?t been used in 15 years. It had to be replaced.
It wasn?t our fault that lightning hit our storehouse. And we never did figure out how they knew it was us that got the explosives. But the situation was we were dead broke and everyone in town was watching us like we had the plague.
We had decided there was no way to get ahead moneywise, so we planned to learn how to play 42 for fun and profit.
We were watchin? ever so close when Elmo Carstead casually mentioned there were just too damn many cats around the store, the garage and the pool hall. He also stated that if he killed ?em off the mice and the rats would soon take over. So there he was, he just didn?t know what he was gonna do.
Buel Addleman came up with the perfect solution:
?Elmo, that ain?t no problem, all you got to do is castrate the Toms and that way you don?t lose any cats but you don?t gain any cats either.? Buel never missed a play.
Elmo came back by stating he didn?t have time to catch and castrate those Toms ?cause when he wasn?t waiting for an important phone call he had to be at the poolhall defending his championship. ?But the idea sure was worth thinking on.?
Buel bid 84 and mentioned that since everyone at the pool hall would benefit from such good animal control they could all chip in some money and pay 50 cents per Tom. That is if the job was done right. You know, no excessive bleeding and things like that.
Terry and I had done started figuring. We figured there must be 60-65 Toms out of that whole town full of cats.
Larry, being the only one showing any sense, started slipping towards the door. Terry got him stopped and started convincing him about how easy it would be. After all, we had all helped castrate calves, colts, pig and sheep. And besides how could three schoolkids get rich quicker?
Terry was busy with Larry while I was busy trying to get us hired on as custom cat cutters. It took quite a bit of talking. Buel wasn?t real sure we had the experience to handle a job as important as this and Elmo wanted it done right. After some pretty hard talking on my part, Elmo and Buel finally gave in and we sealed the deal.
Elmo said he would but out some scraps in an old cement silo of his. Since it only had one door, he could trap maybe 35 or 40 cats. The next day we could skip lunch and come right on over and make $10 or $15 right quick. He winked at Buel and the deal was set.
We went on back to school and never said a word about our new money making business. That night we all got our pocket knives sharpened to perfection. We knew that the sharper the knife the quicker the cut, and the quicker the cut, the more money we could make.
The next morning at recess we got together and decided that business of this importance deserved our full time attention. So we skipped out and headed for the pool hall.
We found Elmo and Buel hard at work, keeping their championship, and convinced them that we wouldn?t get in trouble for skipping class. After all, school was for kids too dumb to make any money. And besides, we already had our own business. We decided that after we cut all the local cats we might just go from town to town, as professionals.
Well, we followed Elmo and Buel out to that old silo and when they opened that door, I never saw so many cats in my life. It looked like there were a hundred in that room, and we guessed there must be at least half of ?em Toms. Elmo and Buel were grinning. We thought they were happy ?cause they had found someone to do the job. Not so.
Elmo said that part of the silo top was gone, and when he shut us in there would be plenty of light to see by. And when we got done cutting all those Toms just holler and they would come let us out.
When we stepped into that silo and they closed the door, it dawned on all three of us that we didn?t know beans about cuttin? cats.
Now these cats were a long ways from being gentle housecats, and there probably weren?t two in the place that had ever been touched by a human. But we didn?t think about it ?cause we were too busy listening to all that hissing and growling. You will never know what stark cold fear is ?till you are locked in a silo with a bunch of cats as scared as you are.
We seriously discussed going back to school but we changed our minds on that, because if we went back failures were sure to get in trouble. So we would just go ahead and get started.
Since I had the sharpest knife, it was decided that Terry and Larry would do the flanking. We started by Terry grabbing a big yellow Tom. And from there things just went to hell.
We figured holding cats was probably like holding calves; once you get him pinned don?t turn him loose. But we also discovered that turning a mad, scared cat loose wasn?t all that easy. I didn?t realize a cat could wreck so much stuff with two stout kids holding him.
They got him stretched out and I cut him. Did you know when you cut a scared cat that it changes their voice immediately and at the same time their kidneys go crazy? The sound from that cat made our hair stand on end, but all that water flying around made it lay back down. I announced that I was through with the surgery and they could turn ?im loose. I?ll guarantee you one thing. Turning that cat loose took a lot longer than it did to catch him. Seem like he was holding a grudge. Did you know a fresh castrated can scratch three kids (each one tryin? to escape) 96 times apiece while screaming and never draw a breath?
Now three kids tryin? to get away from a cat in a silo is a pretty fair wreck, but trying to run form one cat and stay away from 99 more (which by this time had gone as crazy as the one I had just cut) is disastrous. I don?t know if it was Terry or Larry that ran through the door, but I?ll love him forever. Relief comes in strange forms!
When it was all said and done we gathered ourselves up and took stock. There wasn?t a place on any of us that didn?t have a cat track of some kind on it. Neither one of us had a shirt left, they were just threads hanging around our necks and off our shoulders. When we finally calmed down a little we looked back at the silo and there were still cats coming out that door.
We decided to call our folks instead of going back to school. The way we were hurting from those cat tracks, it wasn?t gonna make any difference who whipped us ?cause there was no way we were gonna hurt any more than we already were.
We had to do a ton of explaining to our folks about the scratches and why we didn?t have any shirts left and why we skipped school. Elmo and Buel not only had to explain to three mad moms, but they had to give up their chairs in the pool hall for awhile. Seems a couple of mothers threatened to kill ?em if they were seen around town for a while.
Terry. Larry and I didn?t get a whipping. Our dads figured the cat tracks would be punishment enough.
But they did offer to beat us to death if we ever skipped school again.
The next time Larry and Terry and I got together we decided that we would store our next batch of explosives beneath the pool hall and hope for another electrical storm.
Come to think of it we never got our 50 cents for cuttin? that cat.
me and my friend were cruising around one night, and we pulled up next to these 2 chicks in a car. he rolls down the window and starts talking to them. they mention something about beer. he asks them if they want to party. they say where? he says we can get a motel room. they say ok. he says follow us. he rolled up the window and and I asked him who were those chicks? he said never saw them before in his life! I said goody goody and rubbed my hands in glee.
so we get some beer and a motel room, one of the chicks got a little deck of cards from her purse and we're playing poker, spades, etc drinking beer for a while. then my friend up and says well it's time to go to bed! nighty night! and turns out the light. him and a chick go to sleep on the floor. me and the other chick are on the bed. it's dark. all I hear coming from over there is no! <slap> stop it! <smack> quit it! over here on the bed, this chick asks me if I want to see her clam. normally I'm kinda scared of those things in the dark, cuz they can pinch your finger, but I saw a Jacque Cousteau video the other day and got some ideas about how to handle it. I started tickling it, it opened up just a little bit, but like in the video with the pet clam I started tickling it and licking it on top. I guess they like that. once in a while I had to stop and get a drink of my beer cuz as you can guess I got quite a nasty seafood taste in my mouth. the chick must have been really surprised at the reaction from her clam because she kept saying "oh! ohhhh!!" it wasn't long before it totally came out to play. I never played with a clam like this before so I thought what the hell, what do clams eat? I got it something and stuffed it right in there and the damn thing wouldn't let go. I didn't think I'd be able to pull it back out. by now the chick was almost hollering. maybe I was hurting her clam. I was kind of drunk so I gave it one last shove and left it alone. I rolled over to go to sleep, but her friend sat up and being as it was around 5am and the sun was coming up she said "let's go" so they got up and left.
never saw those chicks again. I hope her clam was ok.
I ain't postin' the link 'cause it'll just get kicked. Put the above in youtube search.
Its common knowledge that Grov dislikes work and spends most of his free evenings at various bars in and around town. Recently however, he went to work for the City of Soldotna as a laborer and has started attending services with his wife at the Church of God in Clam Cove. Grover calls it the ?Church of Cod? because on the sign the ?G? looks more like a ?C? than a ?G?. ?It makes more sense that way.? Grover explained. ?Nearly everyone that goes to that church are commercial fishermen!?
The pastor invited Grove to sing in the choir. I think it was more to make him feel included -- it certainty wasn?t for his angelic voice.
Grove invited my wife and me to attend service last Sunday so we could hear him sing in the choir.
After a few opening words from the minister the members of the choir marched in and took their places on the rostrum. Proudly, they stood four rows deep in silky blue gowns. It was evident that Old Grove had gotten one of his rare haircuts and even polished his raggedy cowboy boots! Grover had been placed in the back row because of his height and in the row directly in front of him was an immense woman with a red hairstyle gone awry. Even with his height, only the top half of Grove?s face could be seen by the congregation.
Luckily for us, the volume of the choir mostly drowned out Grover?s tumultuous and gravely voice and surprisingly they sounded quite good.
I was really starting to enjoy the old hymns when the huge woman in front of Grover spun around and delivered a smack to the side of his head, the sound of which woke up old Man Throckmorton in the last pew. No doubt, he was dreaming about his youth and his role in winning World-War-One because he sat straight-up and yelled, ?INNNNCCOMMMIIINNG!?
The choir kept singing.
About a chorus and a half later the large woman once again spun around and gave Grove another POP with the flat of her palm. Old Mr. Throckmorton responded by snapping forward and smacking his nose on the back of the pew in from of him. He yelled, I?m Hit, I?m Hit.?
Still in a sleepy daze and his nose squirting blood he stumbled into the isle and yelling, ?Medic, medic!? His wife jumped up to take him home. Several babies began to cry so their mothers hurried to a Sunday School Room with their kids in tow.
The choir dropped several levels in volume ...but when no other fisticuffs or soir?es were forthcoming they picked-up their enthusiasm and gleefully belted out several more hymns
After the service, Betty and I waited outside with Grover?s wife while he put away his robe. A small crowd gathered, pretending to be lolling about, being sociable, but like me they were anxious to hear Grov?s explanation.
In his characteristic long gawky steps Grove approached the group ? the left side of his face was still glowing red.
?What was that all about?? I asked, pointing at his rosy cheek and ear.
?Well.? He said, lowering his voice. ?I noticed that nice lady?s gown was bunched up in her?you know?? He lowered his voice even more. ?Bunched up in her?her...crack, so I retched up and pulled it out. That was when she cuffed me the first time!?
?What about the second time?? I asked, as a group of about thirty people leaned in, straining to hear.
?Well, I got to thinkin' 'bout it and if she didn?t want me to pull it out, then she probably wanted it bunched in there so I stuffed it back in. That?s when she punched me the second time.
Grover hasn?t been back to church since and I'm nursing a cracked a rib on my right side from laughing so hard.
the obnoxious one, she was a stripper in a tt bar outside of town. that place got closed down when it was discovered there were underage girls dancing there. she was one of them.
the nice one, she was chasing this indian guy. I'd drive her to go see him, or sometimes we'd all go to the park for a while. she really wanted him but he was shy. one time she was over there on a bench, me and him were sitting on a split rail fence talking about it. I picked a flower and told him to go give it to her. he got this silly grin on his face and turned away.
another time me and a friend was driving him to go see her. he was in the back of the truck drinking beers. shouldn't have been a problem, we were driving through the neighborhoods, but I looked back and he was standing up like the statue of liberty holding a beer into the wind. wouldn't you know it, a cop came out of nowhere and we got pulled over. he got some kind of ticket for public intoxication or whatever. later on, from how I understood it, he had been on probation for something and because of the ticket, he could either go to jail or go live with his grandma on the reservation. he decided to go to the reservation.
so this chick still wants her almost-boyfriend. she wanted to go see him on the reservation. it was way up north, the Winnebago reservation. I figured a road trip is always fun. so me, her and her sister got loaded up with munchies and hit the road. it took a few hours to find out that place is waaaay out in the middle of nowhere.
we stopped at a kwik shop, it was funny watching those two. the obnoxious one shoplifted some stuff, the nice one found out and tried to make her give it back. then we got on the wrong road, it turned to gravel, then to dirt, then to mud, right when we turned back it started raining. we got stuck a ditch and I got these two voluptuous mexican girls in soaking wet t-shirts trying to push the truck out of a muddy ditch while I steered. oh what fun.
we got to the reservation, we went to the grocery store. they had figured being mexican they would pass for indian but I might be a problem. that was indeed the case. they fit right in, I stuck out like a sore thumb. by the front they had a glass counter with some very nice, and very expensive, indian stuff. everything from jewelry to those bone things you wear on your chest and other stuff I didn't know what it was. some of it was in the hundreds of dollars. I don't know if it was for themselves or for tourists, because I didn't get the impression white folks were a common sight.
we were supposed to meet him at a park. he wasn't there but a reservation cop showed up and asked us what we were doing. he had such an indian accent I could barely understand him at first. he was pretty cool, but after talking to us he stuck around to keep an eye on us. I got a slight feeling it might not have been so much to see what we were going to do, as to make sure nothing happens to some goofy white guy with two girls alone in a park.
he wasn't showing up so we went to his grandma's house. driving through the sparse neighborhood the houses were very plain and small, brick and cinder block, obviously built by the government. it was strange because it was perhaps 4 in the afternoon and there was children's stuff on people's lawns, but nobody or any children anywhere in sight. we got to the house and there was some kid on the roof smoking a cigarette. he came down and asked me if I had another cigarette. I gave him one and asked if he knew where this guy was at. he said he would go get him.
in the meantime, some old, old indian walked up from between the houses and was looking at my watch. I don't think he was drunk but I don't know what world he was in, certainly not this one. he was looking at my watch, said it was nice (it was junk) and asked me if I wanted to trade for his watch (it was even worse than mine) I said no thanks. he said his watch didn't work, he needed to know what time it was, there was a powwow starting soon. I showed him what time it was on the watch and he wandered off.
our guy shows up, we go in the house. he tells us it's kind of dangerous there, in the first week someone made him drink an entire bottle of whiskey or he would get cut with a knife. he talks about living with his grandma and stuff. he's got problems dealing with that circumstance that got him living there. he wasn't quite the same person he was before. I could tell my mexican girl friend didn't have much of a chance with him. he tells us there is a powwow that evening, he's going to it so he can't stay for long. I wasn't going to ask if we could go with. he did tell the sisters they couldn't go. me and the obnoxious one went outside while they had their arguments about where he was living and that she wanted to see him.
so that was done, she came out of the house and he didn't. we left. there still wasn't anybody in sight all the way out of that place.
after that it turns out me and my friends didn't go to the sisters' house much. they must have had other things to do. last time I saw the nice one she was at a tt bar. she was there with a bunch of cholos and obviously she was after one particular guy but none of them were paying any attention to her. she was pouting. I know she saw me but she didn't say anything. it was ironic because I know what she wanted from a boyfriend. she could have got it all from me, but she didn't want a white guy.
I suppose, that's the way it goes sometimes.
at work we get shipments of items that are 11' long, 3' wide and 8' tall. weigh 8,000 lb. they come about 5 in a semi trailer. we get them out of the trailer by putting straps under it, hook those to a huge forklift, which picks it up and takes it out.
before you set it on the ground you have to knock off the runner boards under it. they are 12' long. you take a 5 lb sledge hammer and hit down on one end, knock it off and it hits the ground. then do the other end.
new guy at work was trying to knock it off by hitting it in the middle.
we don't do that because it doesn't work. only makes the board bounce.
so he's bouncing the sledge hammer off the board, and I'm going "yaah dummy" he says "you can't do it"
well you can't, but I took that as a challenge. I said "okay" and walked over and took the sledge. got a good swing and hit it hard as I could.
bounced off.
tried again.
bounced off.
not surprised, but... I still wanted to do it. so I went and got the 10 lb sledge.
took a wide stance, swung it past my feet, over my head, brought it down as hard as I could on the middle of the board.
it bounced off. sledge hammer flew back about a foot.
dammit!
so I spit on my hands and rubbed them together to get a grip (new guy says "really??") took a wide stance, swung it down past my feet and over my head three times to pick up speed, it was going WHOOSH-WHOOSH-WHOOSH I turned to face the board at the last instant and brought it down with all my might. it hit that board like a frikkin' meteor from orbit, went BAM! and bounced back 3" from my forehead as I stepped back.
if I didn't step back, it would have hit me square on the forehead. it's a 10 lb sledgehammer. might have killed me.
It was summer, and we had gone to the store to do our weekly shopping. Nobody had air conditioning back then, but we had a big window fan to pull hot air outa the house. We had left it running on low when we went out.
While we were at the store, we had a storm blow in off the York. One of those violent summer storms that blows up from nowhere, and runs right up to hurricane force gusts. What we called a small craft and little dog advisory weather. And of course, we had left the winders open, and the fan running.
When we got back to the house, we had a bit of a mess. Rain had blown in the open windows, the venetian blinds were messed up, and the winder fan was still there, but was smoking up a storm. It still ran though.
It wasn't until the end of the month that we learned what happened. Seems that a 90 mph gust off that river caught that fan while it was running, and blew so hard it made the running fan go into reverse, and spin backwards. Being as it was plugged in and running, it started generating electricity, feeding back into the power lines.
At the end of the month, we learned that had made the electric meter spin backwards. And the power company had sent US a check.
The ?yard goat? military funeral
I am the guy that gets the phone calls from the funeral homes wanting to schedule military services. After I receive the call I contact the rest of the squad with specific information about the services. A couple of days later we show up and perform the service.
I received a phone call from a lady that wanted to schedule a service. Somehow she had found out I was that ?guy?. I thought it odd that she called me directly and asked her what funeral home she was using. She told me it was a cremation and would be a family service. There would be no funeral home involved.
I asked her which cemetery it would be at. She told me it would be on the ?farm?. I asked her where the farm was located and she gave me a ?911 address?. When I asked her where that was with reference to local landmarks (that is the way we old rural folks navigate), she told me she had just moved out from the city and had not learned to speak ?farmer? yet. She did tell me it was a big white house on the hill with horses in the front pasture. I thought it best to recon the area before I notified the rest of the squad. I drove to the location and found the house. I sent an email to the squad. The plan was for everyone to meet at the house on the hill with the horses in the front pasture.
I am the guy that transports the weapons, bugle, prayer, etc to the funeral ? so I had to stop and put them in my van. Of course, I was wearing my suit and tie. We all wear suits and ties to the funerals.
When I arrived at the location, the driveway was full ? and I heard shooting out by the barn. For a brief second, I thought I was late and the service had already begun and then I realized the weapons were on the floor behind me. I parked my van. Everybody else in the squad had already arrived. I noticed one of the members of our squad (suit and tie remember?) was going into the barn with who I assumed was a member of the family. I went to the barn. The rest of the squad went to my van to get the rifles and other items.
The lady in the barn was the widow. She was giving a tour of the ?operation?. She showed us the milking stand that her husband had built for her to milk the goats. She showed us the goats in the pens. She told us about one goat that was sick and was not in the pens because the other goats would abuse her because she was sick. This goat ? the ?yard goat? ? was allowed to freely roam the area since she could not be put in the pen with the other goats. I heard something entering the barn behind me. I turned around. It was the yard goat.
We moved to the other end of the barn where the service would be conducted. There was a picnic table with the urn sitting on the top in the middle. We would place the Flag on the table since there was no casket to drape. I moved the urn to the seat of the table and placed the Flag on the top. I was not going to place the urn on top of the Flag and my plan was to leave it sitting on the table seat so that we would not knock it over as we were folding the Flag. While I was placing the Flag on the table the yard goat came up and expressed some interest in the Flag. I went to chase the goat away and one of the family members told me she would not hurt the Flag. She was just curious. I told them I was just protecting the Flag.
After we got everything set up, it was determined that the table would look better ?over there?, so we moved everything to the other side of the area. The yard goat went over and stood behind the table, where she remained ? watching us ? until the service was over.
When we finished with that portion of the service, we moved outside to fire the rifles and play Taps. The rest of the squad was already outside in position and waiting to do their part. I walked outside and assumed my position at the head of the rifle squad. I give the commands to the rifle squad. There was a flock of geese in the yard and I had an idea they might ?leave? once the firing started.
Anyway, when we moved out of the barn, the yard goat followed me. When I assumed my position at the head of the rifle squad, the yard goat followed me and stood right beside me ? on my left between me and the squad. I called the squad to attention and gave the commands to fire. The geese flew away. The yard goat stood right beside me. The bugler started to play Taps and we presented arms. I was watching out of the corner of my eye. The yard goat was standing right beside me and I mean about three feet from me. I was thinking of dead puppies or anything else I could ? just to keep from laughing. After Taps, we policed up the brass (which we give to the next-of-kin) and the service was over.
The family members came over to thank us. I told them it was the most unique service I had ever attended and let them know I was thrown off balance, when I pulled into the driveway and they were already shooting. They told me they were target practicing behind the barn and asked if I ?had a problem? with guns. I told them to look at my license plate (personalized plate ?GUN NUT?). One of the guys in the squad told them I even had my own cannon. (You can see photos of it in other threads on this forum.) They asked, if I could bring my cannon out and so we could shoot it later. I declined since I had to put the rifles back and change clothes. I did not take any of my guns out later, but I suspect it would have been just as memorable for them as it already was for me, if I had done so.
The ?yard goat? ? yep, never done a military funeral like that before ? or since.
Sounds like a lot of hot air blowing on the York that day.
Reminds of the time I went to improve the gas mileage of my 71 Dodge Dart. Was getting around 21 MPG, and thought the old 318 had a bit more in it than that.
Bought a low restriction air filter to increase mileage 15%.
Bought a low restriction oil filter to increase mileage 5%.
Polished the intake manifold for an additional 10%.
Bought low restriction exhaust headers and glass packs for another 15%.
Inflated the tires to maximum manufacture recommendation for another 8%
The Octane booster gave an additional 18%.
Premium gas and 5 weight oil bumped another 10%.
Removed the vinyl top, and added an air dam in front for another 12 - 16.
By the time I got done, the car was a total pain in the * to drive.
Every 150 miles or so, I had to stop and siphon fuel out of the tank.
Brad Steele
That got boring, so being the 10 yr. old Dukes of Hazard fan that I was, I quickly advanced to taking strips of cut up T-shirt doused in chainsaw gas tied around the end and was sending flaming arrows all over the place. One summer afternoon, I was shooting flaming arrows into a large rotten oak stump in our backyard. I looked over under the carport and see a shiny brand new can of starting fluid (Ether). The light bulb went off in my head.
I grabbed the can and set it on the stump. I thought that it would probably just spray out in a disappointing manner. Lets face it, to a 10 yr old mouth-breather like myself, (Ether), really doesn't "sound" flammable.
So, I went back into the house and got a 1 pound can of Pyrodex (black powder for muzzle loader rifles).
At this point, I set the can of ether on the stump and opened up the can of black powder. My intentions were to sprinkle a little bit around the (Ether) can but it all sorta dumped out on me. No biggie, a 1 lb. Pyrodex and 16 oz (Ether) should make a loud pop, kinda like a firecracker you know?
You know what? Screw that I'm going back in the house for the other can.
Yes, I got a second can of pyrodex and dumped it too. Now we're cookin'.
I stepped back about 15 ft and lit the 2 stroke arrow. I drew the nock to my cheek and took aim. As I released I heard a clunk as the arrow launched from my bow. In a slow motion time frame, I turned to see my dad getting out of the truck...OH *! He just got home from work. So help me God it took 10 minutes for that arrow to go from my bow to the can. My dad was walking towards me in slow motion with a WTF look in his eyes. I turned back towards my target just in time to see the arrow pierce the starting fluid can right at the bottom. Right through the main pile of Pyrodex and into the can.
Oh *.
When the shock wave hit it knocked me off my feet. I don't know if it was the actual compression wave that threw me back or just reflex jerk back from 235 fricking decibels of sound. I caught a half a millisecond glimpse of the violence during the initial explosion and I will tell you there was dust, grass, and bugs all hovering 1 ft above the ground as far as I could see. It was like a little low to the ground layer of dust fog full of grasshoppers, spiders, and a worm or two.
The daylight turned purple. Let me repeat this... THE FRICKING DAYLIGHT TURNED PURPLE.
There was a big sweetgum tree out by the gate going into the pasture.
Notice I said "was". That son-of-a-* got up and ran off.
So here I am, on the ground blown completely out of my shoes with my Thundercats T-Shirt shredded, my dad is on the other side of the carport having what I can only assume is a Vietnam flashback:
ECHO BRAVO CHARLIE YOU'RE BRINGIN' EM IN TOO CLOSE!! CEASE FIRE. DAMNIT CEASE FIRE!!!!!
His hat has blown off and is 30 ft. behind him in the driveway. All windows on the north side of the house are blown out and there is a slow rolling mushroom cloud about 2000 ft. over our backyard. There is a Honda 185 3 wheeler parked on the other side of the yard and the fenders are drooped down and are now touching the tires.
I wish I knew what I said to my dad at this moment. I don't know ? I know I said something. I couldn't hear. I couldn't hear inside my own head. I don't think he heard me either... not that it would really matter. I don't remember much from this point on. I said something, felt a sharp pain, and then woke up later. I felt a sharp pain, blacked out, woke later....repeat this process for an hour or so and you get the idea. I remember at one point my mom had to give me CPR. and Dad screaming "Bring Him back to life so I can kill him again". Thanks Mom.
One thing is for sure... I never had to mow around that stump again, Mom had been bitching about that thing for years and dad never did anything about it. I stepped up to the plate and handled business.
Dad sold his muzzle loader a week or so later. I still have some sort of bone growth abnormality, either from the blast or the beating, or both.
I guess what I'm trying to say is, get your kids into archery. It's good discipline and will teach them skills they can use later on in life.
~Author Unknown
Wait, I missed it.
Can you do it again?
uuuhhhh NO, I am not that senile yet........
Went to work one Saturday afternoon around 4PM. Only 4 - 5 people in the bar, back by the pool tables. Shortly thereafter a young fellow comes in, nicely dressed wearing a tie, etc. He ordered a drink and sat at the bar slowly sipping the drink.
Some 10 minutes later two other fellows come in, also dressed nice. The sat down at the bar next to the first guy and each ordered a drink.
The three chatted a bit and seemed they were cousins and had been to a wedding earlier that day. After about 2 or 3 drinks, the two that came in started verbally picking on the first fellow and wanted to fight him. Never figured out why but finally, one of them put is cigarette out in his drink and that did it.
The first fellow slid his stool back and said, "I'll meet you out back" and quickly strode to the back of the bar and out the door into the alley. The two, all smug, were telling each other they were going to clean his clock and out the back door they went.
About a minute later, the first fellow comes back in the door looking just as neat and clean as before he went out. He came up tot the bar, sat down and ordered another drink that he chugged down in a few minutes, laid a tip on the counter and walked out the front door.
Maybe 5 - 8 minutes later, the two other fellows came in the back door, one holding his face and rather bloody. The other was a bit 'ruffled' also. The came up to the bar and asked for a wet bar rag and each ordered a drink. They said " You know what that SOB did?" I said "No." They said when they walked out the back door into the alley, he stepped out from behind the opened door and smacked them with a 2x4 several times.
They finished their drinks and hobbled out the front door.
My thoughts were: "Well, you asked for it and the first guy delivered." 8-)
We have enough gun laws, what we need is IDIOT control.
Blood makes you related. Loyalty makes you family.
I thought getting old would take longer. :shock:
As my Dad, a Lifer ABN CSM, WWII, Vietnam, Korea Vet told me when we were growing up. (We were always the New Kids on the block.)
"There is no such thing as Marcus of Queensbury rules in a fight."
I guess they learned that little factoid.
I have been accused of all kind of BS, when walking away from a fight. (Not a Billy Bad *, by any means, but gave as good as I got.) No one bothers you after that, after you show, you are willing to hurt someone.
Hey, guess what AH. Who, is walking away from the fight? He asked for it, he got it.
One evening a local fellow, Dana, came in and usually went to the 3rd bartender as they were buddies. This guy was often in fights and could fight pretty darn good. I knew him "slightly" to speak but not "buds."
On this evening Dana came in around 11PM was was already pretty snookered. The 3rd bartender didn't come in that evening so Dana stopped at my pour station #2.
He sat down and I asked "What can I get you?" He glared back and snarled "You know what I drink."
I responded "No I don't, you always go to your buddy at station #3 and get your drinks. What would you like?"
He stands up, leans over the bar and says: "How about I come over this bar and beat the * out of you? "
I looked back at him, leaned close and calmly but seriously as I could stated: "Well, if you do, you best kill me because if you don't, one day you will feel a tap on your shoulder and when you turn around, the last thing you will see is the end of the barrel of my .44 Magnum."
He got a blank look, slowly sat down and said: "I'd like a Windsor and Coke."
The rest of the evening went fine, no issues and after that, he was always cordial whenever our paths crossed for many years that followed until he died about 15 years ago.
We have enough gun laws, what we need is IDIOT control.
Blood makes you related. Loyalty makes you family.
I thought getting old would take longer. :shock:
I rolled down the window and said "what's wrong?"
he said "I forgot my lighter at home!"
I said "I got a light" went digging through my glovebox. found a book of matches. gave them to him. said "here, you can have them."
he held up the book of matches and said "dammit! ...dammit! ...dammit!"
I said "what's wrong?"
he said "I only have one arm!"
I did a double take. yep, he only had one arm.
:shock:
:?
lit his cigarette for him and drove off.
Some of us were hanging out at the local sporting goods store. Discussion of shotguns, relative power and effective ranges was going around. Older gent had stopped in, and listened a bit to some of the stories about the rifled slugs guns. Finally he spoke up.
Said "I used to have the damnedest shotgun you ever seen. It were a muzzle loading double barreled 8 gauge. That thing could kill a deer so far away that the meat would be spoiled by the time you got to it. But I found a way to deal with that. I'd load one barrel with powder. wad and buckshot. Yje other I load with powder, paper, rock salt, string and razor blades."
"What good did that do?"
"Well, the first barrel with buckshot killed the deer. The second barrel dressed out the meat, salted it down, wrapped it up in a packet so it was waiting for you."
"Sounds like that was pretty smart."
"Yeah, but I messed up one day, pulled the wrong trigger. It dressed the meat out, salted and wrapped it, but it hadn't killed it. All the packages ran off, and we never could find them."
I was hunting by myself that early fall day, on a wooded ridge, that overlooked a huge cornfield when a button-buck jumped and ran straightaway down the crest of the ridge, I calmly dropped him with two shots from Dad's old pump 22. Buck fever didn?t set in until I walked up to where he fell.
I knew nothing about field dressing or how to transport a deer. The little buck was too heavy for me to pick up so I dragged him downhill and onto a stump. I sat with my back to the stump then pulled him onto my shoulders. I carried that deer the better part of three miles to our house. His blood and my sweat mixed and ran down my chest and back. When I approached our house on the hill I could carry him no further so dropped him to the ground and went for my little red wagon. When I entered the house, too winded to speak, Mom grabbed me and began looking for a bullet hole. ?Who shot you? Where you hit?? She asked.
One of the elderly ladies that lived next door helped me skin and butcher the little buck. Times were tough in those days and sometimes there wasn?t very much in the house to eat but we had canned deer that winter, and every winter thereafter, I might add.
My only regret is that my Dad wasn?t there to experience the adventure with me. I get misty eyed, even now, wishing I could take my Dad deer hunting.
Let?s move Father?s Day to Autumn