Sneakers

Sneakers
(Tales of Senior Sneak Day) 
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cast
IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE

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Dottie (Duckett) Weil
Merritt Plantz
Raleigh Emry

(everyone else sneaked off)

Misfits of '56
By Dottie (Duckett) Weil
 

Yes, we were the class from you know where. The year, 1956. There were some of us that possessed the daring spirit and didn't care who knew it and then there were others that possessed the daring spirit and did care who knew it, so they were very sneaky about it. I was one of the first described persons.

Mr. Holder was one of our class sponsors along with Mrs. Ross. Both were very great people and I liked them. We had a meeting of the class and we decided that we would skip for senior sneak day on a Monday. There was a 1 or 2 day track meet in Kearney on Friday before, so we all decided to make up the days work and we would leave for sneak day on Thursday afternoon, have the Friday for track meet (right) and then Monday would be our sneak day. Our class was very innovative. (Another word for sneaky).

 Mr. Mead, our wonderful (use it loosely) Superintendent caught wind of our plan, and because his daughter was in our class, sent a notice to our parents that there would not be a sneak day. I was livid. I was very good at presenting the facts and winning others to my way of thinking, so I went home and put those skills to work on my Mom. She is very difficult and doesn't at all fall for my schemes. But, just hearing me say how unfair the situation was just because his daughter was in our class, etc. etc., she wrote a letter to Mr. Mead with a copy to the Ainsworth paper. Oh, my goodness, what a mess she stirred up.

 Needless to say, we did the Senior Sneak Day, and our class set the record for going the farthest. I believe that Merle, Slim McAndrew, Jerry Lambley, Duane?? and others went to Colorado or Wyoming.

 The four misfits, of which I was one, went to Yankton S.D. for 2 cases of beer, which we put in the truck of the car and drove to Lincoln where one of us was in a speech contest on Friday. We drove very fast and it is a wonder we weren't picked up and with all that beer I am sure my Mom would have loved me for it.

 As we were driving to Yankton, (about 11 PM) we turned on a curve to find a cow standing in the road and we really had to think quick. Wow, when I think of what we did and all we were really gutsy.

A few parties in Lincoln, dropping water balloons from the windows and getting kicked out of the hotel, we were a wild bunch and today I would kill my kids if they ever did such a thing. But it was all in the name of the famous SENIOR SNEAK DAY.

Paradise Not Lost -- Just Hidden
By Merritt Plantz 

I graduated from Litchfield, Nebraska high school in the year 1938. There were all of 30 some in the class. It was still "hard times" in the Midwest. So we picked a low-key, low priced place to sneak to. I'm sure you old Ainsworth residents were familiar with such a place, yes, no other than Hidden Paradise at Long Pine, Nebr.

We left Litchfield early Saturday morning by way of several volunteered Ford and Chevrolet cars. We arrived in Hidden Paradise in fine spirits and all rushed out to investigate the hills and canyons. Some had more worldly ideas and headed for Ainsworth. Most of us were happy to just dance to the Juke Box music and drink good old Long Pine H20. I can't remember what we did for dinner but I'm sure it was not more than a hamburger. That evening the people running the Hidden Paradise park furnished live music for all of those who had "sneaked to Hidden Paradise.

We left the dance in a small caravan before midnight and headed back to Litchfield. It was still close to winter in Nebraska, so about half way home it started to snow, a wet, wet snow that stuck to the road and windshields. One or two of the cars slid off the gravel highway, but we all arrived home safely as the sun was coming up, tired and exhausted, but happy with our day in the Sandhills!

Now some of you think it is a great place to spend your summer vacation- and it is!!!!

 

My Memory of Sneak Day is a Bit "Rusty" 
by Raleigh Emry 
 

I am told that I was a good kid in my youth. Thinking back on it, I was. I had some good parents and grandparents who set me straight early in life. I certainly didn't want to disappoint them. A guilty conscience was a heavy burden and one deterrent to my occasional urges to act out. The other deterrent to those wild and crazy urges, and one that loomed larger in my mind, was the simple lack of confidence that I could act out in a satisfying way and not have someone lower the boom on me.

This essay is supposed to be about Senior Sneak Day so why should I lead off with that paragraph? Wait and see.

The Class of '61 went to the Black Hills for a Senior Trip but I don't believe that was our "Sneak Day". I recall a sneak day similar to the one Merritt Plantz described. At least a large percentage of our class also sneaked to Hidden Paradise in the Long Pine Canyons. In those canyons and on that day I had my first taste of demon booze. It wasn't the first time in those canyons that I had a fleeting, but missed, opportunity.

About four years earlier when I was in eighth grade our class had a similar outing to Hidden Paradise. You can hardly sneak that far at that young age. So the eighth grade trip was sponsored and chaperoned by parents. Some of us were swimming in the creek when someone came upon a can of beer that a cabin resident had left to cool in the creek and had apparently forgotten. That can of beer was like the gold strike at Sutter's mill! Eureka!!! One of the guys took off for a cabin to find a church-key while the rest of us guarded the prize. The girls were shocked that we would think of messing with that nasty can of beer and threatened to tattle. Sufficient threats were made to silence them and so they stood off in a group and scowled at us. The parents had apparently erred in their judgment to trust us and were not on the scene. By then the guy had returned with the church-key.

I'm sure you have all seen those nature films of the Serengeti Plains. The ones where the hyenas are feasting on an ugly scrap of wildebeest? One will grab the scrap and go wheeling and cackling off into the bush and then another will steal it and go loping off in a cloud of dust, laughing like a hyena, in another direction. Well, that's the way it went with the beer. It was survival of the fittest. The guy with the church-key wanted first dibs for getting the church-key. The guy holding the beer wanted dibs for guarding it so closely. Two or three other guys wanted dibs for other reasons... and so it went. The tangled mass of skinny kids in swimming trunks went wheeling down the creek cackling like hyenas. By the time the beer was opened it was all foam and not fit for human consumption. I believe one or two guys took a sip and bragged that it was really good. I had to wait four more years for Senior Sneak Day and another dangerous opportunity in the Pine Creek Canyons.

So there we were at Hidden Paradise in 1961. I had just turned seventeen. It was a fine Spring Day. We were playing pinball in the Pavilion, dancing to the jukebox and having a good time. Then two or three of my friends gathered at the soft drink machine. One tugged my arm to join them, whispered and nodded excitedly toward the parking lot. We each bought a bottle of Coke from the machine and skulked out the door. We gathered around a car. A fellow reached under the seat and pulled out a half-pint of whiskey.

We each took a sip from the top of our Cokes to make room. The owner of the whiskey directed a few precious dribbles down the neck of our bottles to spike our Cokes. Although I'd had a few underage beers by that time, I had never experienced whiskey before. My sip to make room for it was small and thus the mix of Coke to whiskey was probably 99 to 1. But I presumed it was a dangerous brew indeed and I treated it with respect. I had seen many western movies where greenhorns had gulped down shots of whiskey and then gagged from the burning effects of the firewater while John Wayne laughed and said, "Wah..hah.... Pilgrim! Listen and listen tight! Yah better learn to hold yer likker if'n yer gonna be a man!". I didn't want to embarrass myself in front of my friends, so I sipped ever so lightly but pretended they were manly gulps.

We didn't want to look suspicious around the car so we all drifted back to the Pavilion. I sipped another time or two and wasn't impressed. But unlike Bill Clinton who didn't inhale, I cannot tell a lie. I swallowed the sips and boasted to my friends that it was mighty satisfying and the best whiskey I had ever tasted... which it was. I went back to playing pinball.

A hush fell over the crowd and I turned to look toward the doorway. There, bigger than life and more impressive than Matt Dillon himself, stood the Brown County Sheriff, Rusty Davis. His son, Jon Davis, was in my class. But Rusty didn't look like just a father of a classmate that day. Standing there in his khakis and ten-gallon hat he looked awesomely "all business" and on the hunt for the likes of me! He squinted into the darkness of the Pavilion. Was that a knowing sneer below his big walrus mustache? When he shifted his gaze in another direction, I quickly set my nearly full bottle of Coke and WHISKEY on the floor against the leg of the pinball machine.

I went back to playing pinball. "Clomp... clump... clomp... shuffle... clomp." I could hear the slow saunter of Rusty's boots on the plank dance-floor as they homed in on me. One ball after another fell straight down the machine and into the hole. "Clomp... shuffle... clump...CLOMP"! The Brown County Sheriff had arrived and was now looking over my shoulder. He had a nose the size of a bloodhound's and I was certain that he must have sniffed my sotted, whiskey-soaked breath from thirty feet away. I directed my breath toward my feet as best I could without being obvious.

I pulled the plunger and sent another ball into play. I had to look sober and in command. But alas, I had had a few sips of 99 parts Coke and 1 part WHISKEY and it had done nothing to calm my nerves. As the ball dribbled down the machine I bumped the machine left and right to keep the scores ringing. I hit the sides of the machine too hard and the machine responded with "TILT" and shut down. I fished into my pocket for another dime. Rusty stood just behind my right shoulder.

Then slowly, ever so slowly, he bent over and picked up my bottle of Coke and WHISKEY!!! and passed it under his nose. By then I was so nervous that finding the coin slot was a challenge. I had yet to look at him. Rusty spoke in a quiet but ominous voice, "This your Coke?"

I turned and tried to look innocent, "What Coke?"

He smiled and slowly, ever so slowly, stooped again and set it back down at the leg of the machine. He stood and his big old paw reached out and lightly, caringly, tapped my shoulder. Nonetheless, it felt like the collective stings from a swarm of bees. He quietly said, "Be careful son." He then sauntered, "clomp... clump... shuffle... clomp...", and the sounds of his boot heels drifted off to the left.

If you are ever in the Pavilion at Hidden Paradise and see a nearly full bottle of Coke and WHISKEY!!! sitting by the leg of a pinball machine, leave it alone. It's mine. Someday the fear of Sheriff Rusty Davis might subside sufficiently that I can return home and drink to my good fortune... the good fortune to have a caring family, a caring community and a caring Sheriff to look out for the likes of me.

Ib-a-dee ib-a-dee ib-a-dee

thas all folks

Barnyard Games

Barnyard Games
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cast
IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE

Marilyn (Kern) Elrod
Betty (Hickman) Mendenhall 
Raleigh Emry

&

other good sports and poor sports

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Tag on the Stock Pens
by Marilyn Elrod

My husband mentioned Cowboys & Indians and of course vacant lot Baseball. Everyone knows the rules, but maybe others can tell their own stories of playing baseball.

You mentioned snipe hunting today. I was snipe hunting in the Black Hills of South Dakota while going to school in Rapid City and got the worse case of poison ivy I have ever had until this summer.

Another game we enjoyed, was playing tag on the stock pens. I think that is what they were called. Maybe the country kids can help me out here. I delivered the Omaha World-Herald while I was still in grade school, and remember waiting for the train to bring the newspapers to town. When the train was late, we would have a great game of tag on the loading pens that were just northeast of the train station. Then modern times came and the train stopped coming to Ainsworth.

I lived on the east side of town, and we also had stock pens east of our house (across the street from the old Catholic Church). When my "city" cousins came to town we always played tag on those pens, too. You can guess the rules, if you got caught or fell off the fences you were it! We got real good at swinging across the gates and balancing ourselves on the fences, but I can't guess how many splinters we got while playing that game.

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Snipe Hunting 
by Betty Mendenhall

I do remember when I was new bride that my husband, who was also a Sandhills kid, took me Snipe hunting when we were visiting his parents at the Fish Hatchery in Valentine. We had gone frogging and fishing, so I didn't think too much of it when he said he wanted to take me Snipe hunting.

As I recall, we drove away from the house a ways, he gave me a gunny sack to hold while he went out and scared up the Snipe, which I was to catch into the sack. It was after dark. I had a flashlight. I believe the flashlight was supposed to attract the Snipe so they would run toward the sack.(?) Now, he didn't go far or leave me there long before he doubled up in laughter because I had fallen for the "Snipe hunting, and holding the bag."

I do not remember any other particulars. I don't think I was as amused as he was though at the time. :)

I'm sure there's more to it than that, so hope you'll hear from someone with more expertise. Good luck, and hopefully somebody will remember how to play some of these games. I would love to know.

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Nearly all I Remember About

Barnyard Games
by Raleigh Emry

Here's nearly all I remember about barnyard games. I was usually the youngest in my Niobrara Canyon playgroup of siblings and cousins and thus never had full comprehension of the rules. It seemed that the rules always changed when I was gaining the slightest advantage and I soon found myself "Out", "In Jail" in "FAR Outfield" or in some other non-participatory role. The oldest, or loudest participant seemed to always have the bat, if we were playing ball, or to be the "changer of rules" in games that weren't going his/her way.

WORK UP: You need one bat, one ball, and more than one player. Everyone gathers around and a player gently tosses the bat straight up into the air ... A couple of feet will do... no sense killing someone. A second player catches the bat with one hand. Then another player grabs the bat with one hand just above the hand of the one holding the bat. The new holder allows another player to grab the bat tightly above his hand, and so on. This continues until there is no more bat to hang onto. The player who has the last hold on the bat is the batter.

I don't recall ever being batter. It seemed that no matter how close to the end of the bat I gripped it, the oldest person could sink his fingernails directly into the knob on the end of the bat, pry it out of my grasp, and thus become batter. The rest of us all went out to field the ball. The smart ones went to a position where they believed the batter would bat the ball and thus could quickly "work-up" to be "batter". They then directed the excess (me) to far right out-field calling out, "No! Don't stop yet! ... Keep going! Back farther! ... Farther! ... No! Keep going! ... There behind the barn! ... Keep going! We can still see you!" There, that's good!" By then I would be out of earshot and looking for corncobs and chicken feathers.

Players who were still conveniently in sight of the batter would ready themselves to catch the ball. The batter would toss the ball up and hit it toward the other players. I'm not sure how "work up" worked as I never "worked up", but I believe it went something like this. If you caught a fly-ball you worked up to the next position (outfield to infield, etc.) and finally replaced the batter. My only experience at an "in-field" catch was entirely accidental. I had been given my assignment to catch any wayward balls that might dribble all the way back to our fish pond. I decided if I was going to be way out there in FAR outfield communing with nature, I might as well fish while I played "Work Up". So instead of carrying a fielder's mitt, I carried my fishing pole as I walked through the infield toward the far outfield fish pond. I was about ten paces in front of the impatient batter when I heard the CRACK of his bat followed by a split-second of SIZZLE as the ball closed at near Mach one. I then felt and heard the CRACK of the ball as it found a spot directly between my shoulder blades. I suppose, with such a catch, I should have been designated "batter" on the spot. Instead, I was prone and speechless until I had enough breath to scream. If you have never been hit between the shoulder blades with a near-super-sonic baseball, then you will never know how much it hurts. I envied our livestock. They only had to suffer through a red-hot branding iron. That's my memory of "Work Up".

STEAL STICKS: Teams choose up sides. I was usually the last picked because I was never a Captain. The Captains were the oldest and/or loudest. We drew a line across the barnyard to separate each team's territory. At the end zones of each territory we drew a circle and filled it with sticks (ten I think). The object was to steal the other team's sticks (one at a time). It took strategy because some had to stay back to guard sticks while others went forward on offense. Anytime you were across the center line and in the other team's territory, you could be tagged. Those who were tagged went to jail (a circle in the corner of the barnyard - one for each team)... that's where I always went. If an older "changer of rules" player became tagged, he didn't go to jail. It was no fun in jail. So if a "changer of rules" player was tagged, he insisted on either being sprung from jail through a prisoner exchange, by someone going to jail in his stead... me... or by his team trading one of their sticks for him. Once in jail, I wasn't worth springing from jail even for a lowly stick. "Steal Sticks" then was most always a spectator sport to me. Sometimes I never went across the center line where I could become tagged and go to Jail. Instead I went the other way in search of a pointed stick and some green apples.

ANTE-I-OVER: You need a ball. A small rubber ball is best. A tennis ball would be perfect, but we didn't have any tennis balls. Teams choose up sides. I was usually the last.....etc., etc. Each team gathers on opposite sides of the house, school house, (or outbuilding) and out of view of the other team. Both teams huddle and devise a strategy that never works. The player with the ball calls out "Ante-I-Over!" and tosses the ball over the roof. If you are on the opposite side you watch for the ball and try to catch it. That's why a rubber ball works best. If you are squinting into the sun you won't get your teeth knocked out with a baseball or rock. The player who catches the ball then runs around the house with his team-mates (some to the left and some to the right). The one with the ball can tag players on the other team before they get to the opposite sides of the house. Those so "tagged" by the ball carrier are "Out". The ball is awarded to the other side and they Ante-I-Over. As "Out" is no fun, the older "changer of the rules" player can insist that if he/she is "Out", he/she can play for the team that tagged him/her. When I was "Out, I was "Out" for good. No one listened to my plea for a rule change. That's my memory of "Ante-I-Over". I often wandered off in search of a tin can lid.

SOLITARY GAMES: If you found yourself in my position during team play, you made use of games you could play by yourself. Here's a few:


(1.) A nifty dart: Scout around the barnyard and find a good clean corncob and a few wing feathers from a chicken or other large bird. Stick two or three feathers into one end of the corncob with the natural curve of the feathers arcing outward. Make it as symmetrical as possible. Throw it like a dart. It's so much fun that before long one of the big kids will swipe it and start throwing it and you can get back into the team game when he/she isn't looking.

(2.) An arm extender: Find a lath or sturdy stick about three feet long. Sharpen it on one end. Find some green apples or potatoes or other ammo that will stick onto the pointed end of your launcher. Stick the apple or potato or horse-apple or whatever on the end of the launcher and use its leverage to fling the projectile for amazingly great distances. In the best of conditions, you may be able to hit the "changer of rules" right between the eyes. In the worst of conditions... run fast! But drop the pointed stick or you might put your eye out. Better yet, throw it onto the barn where the chaser can't get it.

(3.) The original Frisbee: Find a tin-can lid. Throw it like a Frisbee. WARNING: Don't try to play catch with a tin-can lid Frisbee. Wounds, especially scalp wounds, from tin-can lid Frisbees bleed like the devil! If you do connect with flesh, plead that the wind caught it and knocked it off course... that you never intended to hit anyone... then run fast!

(4.) Running: Just use your two feet and make tracks. Running is the only barnyard, vacant lot, back alley sport that I excelled at. I could run like a rabbit. I can still run if chased.

Car-Nage!

Car-Nage! 
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cast

IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE

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Dottie (Duckett) Weil
Dick Ellis

Adele Penhollow
Ginger Axford
 Elaine (Williams) Osborn
Leroy Wacker
Anne (Gilchrist) Osborn
Don Nelson
Raleigh Emry
 &
cast of thousands

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Hollywood Muffler

By Dottie Weil

My Mom had a 1953-1/2 Bel-Air hardtop Chevy when we moved to Ainsworth in June of 1954. She was very proud of it and for good reason. A single Mom who worked hard and finally had a nice car. Of course, there was this 16 year old daughter who also liked to drive Mom's car. My brother Charles (Chuck Reinhart) was a year or two behind me in school. He liked for me to drive also so he could have a ride when he needed one. Not really knowing anything about cars myself, Chuck proceeded to install or have installed a different muffler. You know the kind. Made a lot of noise, etc. Well, when I went to start up the car one morning for church, as my Mom was coming out of the house, the car sounded really loud (in garage when started). She about died and wanted to know why her car sounded like a Mack truck. We didn't say anything and she never knew that a Hollywood Muffler had been put on her car.

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My Model A

By Dick Ellis 

Well it really wasn't "my" model A but I drove it most of my senior year in High School. It was a 1929 "A" that my Dad had remade into a pick-up by taking out the rumble seat and replacing it with a wooden box so we could haul tools, fence posts, seed corn etc.

My younger brother and I used it to fix fence. We even stretched the wire with it. Dad had also built a pulley wheel that attached to one of the rear wheels so it could be used to drive a pump jack so we could pump water when the wind didn't blow. (We lived in southwest Nebraska so it didn't blow all the time) It was a hunting car and also a method used to bring the milk cows in for milking.

During my high school years I learned to secretly turn off the gas valve with my toe so it would "run out" of gas within ten feet of a nice place to park in the dark. The ignition switch was burned out so there were two wires that were twisted together to start the car. The engine had been used so much that I think the pistons could change holes on the way to town and back. A friendly filling station owner in town would watch for any cars that he serviced that had "cleaner" oil than most and save it for me to use in the A. I had two five gallon cans, one I carried in the back of the car and the other I left with Cloyd to fill up so I could trade when my first can ran out.

All of this is leading up to the "next to my most embarrassing moment" (maybe your next topic). The Bureau of Reclamation came to Trenton to build a dam on the Republican River. The Director had an especially cute daughter. I as well as all of my male classmates were trying to be the first to date her. Guess who won? Bingo. I was the fortunate one. On the appointed night I arrived in my "A" to pick her up. We were off to the local Theater for an evening of fun. (I will not name the young lady as she would probably like to forget she even knew me) As we arrived at the "show" all my buddies were standing in front of the theater. All I could think of was "eat your hearts out".

I was parked and untwisted the wires, jumped out and ran around the car to open her door. (Just like I had seen in the movies) I escorted her in, paid for the tickets and we enjoyed the movie. I have no recollection of the movie but when we came out after the show, those guys were still standing and watching. Being the Perfect gentleman I opened the door for the lady, she entered and I closed the door, ran around and jumped into the drivers seat. But, ----when I started to wire the switch ---- the most eerie whistle started under the hood. This was followed by the loudest explosion I had ever heard. Only after the young lady slammed her door open and hit the ground running did I realize those guys had wired a car BOMB to my car. Needless to say that was my first and last date with that girl.

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Suburban, Plow and Chain

By Adele Penhollow

I will keep the secrecy of the lady who lost her sweater during a return trip from a hockey tournament up North.. you know "over the Border?" Wrong! It wasn't me! One of my unofficial duties in those years was to offer transportation to these games to moms who were afraid to drive in winter. And just you guess what vehicle I had back then ??? Yes, the '76 Chevy Suburban.**with Fisher 6 ft plow** AND my tow chain, a gift from my 'former' motorcycle riding friends. I still have that chain.

As you know, I never had a bike or a horsey, and I certainly never had my own car. After I was married, the auto was never registered to me...(gee, what a surprise). So that November, when we bought this "thing", it was put in my name and I was raring to go. I could hardly wait for the first real snow. I wasn't disappointed. The Blizzard of '77 is still discussed by many hardy souls who played and cursed in it here in western New York.

When the snow was at its craziest (Jan.'77) I was out every morning at 6 am cleaning up my driveway and my neighbors' driveways...played music and chewed gum at the same time...and later in the day, when the snow was piled up again 18 inches, I'd put baby Julie in the kid-seat, bundle a blanket around her and go looking for more snow to plow and she got a charge out of that, too. Little John was not quite 3 yrs old, and he was SO happy to play in snow....the foretelling of his subsequent hockey career.

One late afternoon, a girlfriend who live across town got stuck in a ditch. At that time we were "into" using CB radios. Yes, my handle was 'Butterfly'. Catchy, eh? I had just finished plowing my own driveway, heard the call and I drove to rescue her. (lol) She came out of the supermarket, loaded up her car and then ceremoniously slid her station wagon into the ditch at the far side of the supermarket. Did I laugh ?...No. Did I worry ? Just a little, 'cause it was now twilight. Doing rescues in the dark wasn't my cup o' tea.

I asked Linda if she trusted me. She said "Of course not !!"...So, I hooked up the chain to her frame, hooked up the other end to my rear frame end, turned up the volume on the BeeGees 8-track and pulled her out. She hugged me and went home.

I thoroughly enjoyed driving that thing. Many stinky hockey-players rode in that after winning and losing games all over creation...and the evidence of 'moving meals' were always found when I vacuumed. French fries, wrappers from cookies and crackers, and the occasional wad of gum.

Some of the best memories are from Christmas of '79. Another "friend" who spent WAY too much time in the workshop, connected a P.A. speaker in the grill for me. I played authentic bagpipe 8-tracks while plowing, and didn't even glance at the people who assumed I was disturbing the peace. No Christmas spirit, I guess. ; )

Another memory that my oldest son won't let me forget is the one which had his 5 teammates + Mom pulling in to a food stop, and getting out....leaving the keys in the ignition. And the guys had, of course, locked the doors. No wire hanger would work with the typical 'break in ' trick. Erik remembered a valuable thing, though. The tailgate handle on the vehicle had a flipback handle which cranked the window open and thereby allowed the tailgate door handle to be reached from inside.

Guess whose Mom got shoved through, climbing over odiferous hockey bags, to the driver's seat? It wasn't a pretty sight, but it was one heck of a memory.

P.S.

About the mom who lost her sweater? It wasn't *really* a naked lady thing. She didn't declare her woolen purchases (bought in Canada)...made in Scotland, and that's something the Border Inspectors discovered on that trip. She didn't want to pay the duty (she was being unreasonable), so she left it behind. Jennie wasn't the brightest bulb on her Christmas tree, but she was fun.

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L.B.C.

By Ginger Axford
 

The dastardly deed done to L.B.C. happened the night the Blizzard of '49 began on a ranch near Ainsworth, Nebraska. It was Thanksgiving Day of 1948. The family that owned the ranch had gone over the river & through the woods to their maternal grandparents in Oregon. Only a very young couple, whom we shall call V & B were left in charge.

B was the boss now. He was busily doing chores in the wild & woolly wind and rapidly descending thermometer. V wasn't much help since she was six months pregnant. LBC was in a building nearby. LBC was from Washington State and only 15 years old. He had been a problem in the previous summer until his rubber shoes had been replaced. B & V had gone to a movie twenty miles away and LBC had trouble with first one shoe and then another. Unfortunately, he didn't have a spare. Once he got new shoes, he made it fine from Washington to Nebraska. Now, he was left all alone in the cold, dark barn.

V was only three years older than LBC & like I said a little round around the middle. She was really not too good for much of anything. She really liked LBC since he was the first one she had ever owned.

B began to worry about LBC in the freezing weather. He explained to V that she would need to take a flashlight and go crawl under LBC and loosen the petcock until LBC's water flowed freely. This was not an easy task for V.

1. She hardly knew what or where the petcock on LBC was. 2. It was a little challenging to get her body down under LBC. Happily, she reported to B that she had found the petcock and that the water was flowing freely under LBC.

Unfortunately for all concerned, the temperature was much colder than anyone knew and the petcock orifice froze over before poor Little Black Chevy could release all of his water out of his block. Thus the dastardly deed had been done to LBC. Where he went from there, the author doesn't know. Maybe to Car Heaven.
 

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Garage Gouging

By Elaine Osborn

This writing is intended to be in total defense of my driving skills. Let me say first and foremost before relating my problems with the car in the garage, that I have never had an accident on the road in all my years of driving. There are those (specifically my children) who will attest to (what they feel is) the fact that other drivers are aware of my driving style and give me a wide berth. I beg to differ because of the many drivers I have had to vie for my space on Interstate 25 going to work in downtown Denver for over 12 years. When I would mention some of the experiences, hand gestures etc. that I witnessed on my drive to work, there were also those that were sure that I would end up shot by an irate driver. Since I am still accident free on the road and living to tell about it, I can continue with my garage escapades.

When a teenager, I lived in the country 5 miles west of Ainsworth. As always, I was running late for school and with books under arm, ran to the garage, jumped into the car and backed up. The thing I neglected to do was open the garage door. Totally understandable since those were the days before automatic garage door openers that allow you to open the door as you enter the garage and before getting behind the wheel. The hardest part of that event was going back into the house to tell my Dad that the garage door was "slightly" damaged. Survived to tell about that one!

The second garage debacle was while living in Loveland, CO. I had returned from the grocery store and again due to no automatic garage door opener, I stepped out into the snow, opened the garage door, got back into the car and proceeded to drive into the garage. Preparing to stop, I put my foot on the brake, but being slippery from the snow, my foot slipped from the brake pedal and landed on the accelerator. This time I entered the kitchen wall via the front bumper of the car. My husband's remark to the kids as they were relaxing in the family room was, "Sounds like Mom is home." Again I survived to tell about it!

So you see now that we have garage door openers, it is totally safe for me to get behind the wheel of a car and you need not pull off to the side of the road when you see me coming. ;-)

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Independence

By Leroy Wacker 

My first-ever car. What a thrill!!! Yes, no, maybe or all of the above! A 1937, 6 cylinder Ford. My father bought this car to transport his two twin sons (doesn't sound right but how else do you say it?) to school and back.

When two share a car you do have to have some rules. The rules were: Leon gets it one week, Leroy gets it the next week. Leon was first, as he was a half an hour older. I think that Ford made two models, in fact, I know this. One was a "hump-back trunk", an 8 cylinder job. The other was my beloved 6 cylinder with just a "straight trunk". There were two colors, black & gray (Ford was pretty 'daring'). I know all of this 'first hand info' as mom & dad bought their 1st "new" car in 1937, the 'hump-back, 8 cylinder.

So on with the story. First, Ford didn't have a clue as to what the NE winters were like, so "heaters" wasn't in their designing plans. We did end up putting in a 'gas heater' but you were in that dilemma where it was either too hot, not hot enough or didn't work at all. In addition, Ford didn't plan on NE clay roads when the frost went out, so the 6 cylinder model often had a transmission or a clutch go out. But, they were easy on gas, only 12 cents a gallon at that time, but then you also got great gas mileage.

Back to sharing. Leon is my best friend, brother, twin brother and older brother, BUT, he took advantage of me. You are saying, "oh boy" what's coming now. No, it wasn't all that bad, but Leon, being of that 'advanced age', fell in love with his present wife before Leroy became involved with the 'fairer sex'. So, on Wed. & Sat nights when Battle Creek people normally congregated, even if it was my turn, I let 'brother Leon' encroach on my turn for the car. The problem was that brother Leon would 'forget' that I was "on foot" and when the streets of Battle Creek started rolling up, Leroy was left with two choices, either stand on the darkened streets or walk home (two and a half miles 'no big deal') and many of time I chose to walk.

I did survive and will always look back on that little gray Ford with love at giving me that 1st glimpse of what we now call "independence". Thanks for letting me share this story with you.
 

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Soft Shoulders

By Anne Osborn

My worst incident was driving a guy's car into the ditch (it had rained) after he insisted on "teaching" me to drive. I was so embarrassed because we had to walk to the nearest Ainsworth filling station and have it pulled out. Only years later did I learn that my sister and her boyfriend that very same night had to be pulled out by the same garage and the guy gave them a really hard time---so she knew about "my" incident---but never let on---we were both totally embarrassed I guess.

When I was going with Kenneth, I warned him about how soft and slippery the shoulders of the road got when it rained, but he didn't listen to me, and the next thing we knew, we were tipped sideways on the shoulder looking down at Bone Creek. All I remember was him telling me to open the door---which was impossible because he had a huge old Oldsmobile and the door was really heavy tipped sideways. I think Mr. Micheel had to bring a tractor and pull us out---with every cow they owned coming over to find out what was going on. Boy do you feel stupid when the cows look more intelligent than you feel.

And that brings to mind a story told to us (years later) by the wife of a buddy of Ken's from a prominent Ainsworth family. (Since I don't think they are still making this story public so I won't name names). They had a large church wedding in Ainsworth and headed to their honeymoon destination after the reception. They were late in the evening getting away from the "Middle of Nowhere" and one of those Nebraska "gully washer" downpours came up. Anyway, they couldn't see, and they got lost somewhere in a Godforsaken part of Nebraska and got off the road and she said they had to spend the first night of their honeymoon trapped in their car in the middle of some strange cow pasture and the next morning the cows were peering into the windows. She said they were so embarrassed that they had never told anyone of their predicament and how they spent the first night of their marriage. (No, I swear it wasn't us!!!) And yes, they have lived happily ever after.

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How Purdy Dog Got His First Car

By Don Nelson

Harken Ye Back in time to circa, 1945-6 or thereabouts. I put on my hiking boots put my old billfold in my hip pocket and ambled over toward the kitchen door of 313 Oak St, Ainsworth. Me sainted Mother, (bless 'er soul) Not only did she have eyes in the back of her head, she had them all the way around, sorta like R2-D2. "And just where do you think you're going, young man?" she asked, correction, she demanded! 

"Johnstown." I said, "Gotta go see Pooch Beebout, "

"And just why are you taking ALL your money?" (Working at Harley Honaker's cream station, I had $18.00) As Harley would tell you, I use the word "working" rather loosely here, I knew very little and I'm sure I was a lousy employee. Harley was a very patient man, to me, I'm sure Sid or Chip would tell you different though. My Mom gave me the evil eye and asked, "Then why are you taking all that money!?"

"Gonna buy a car, Mom" I proudly stated.

Then she REALLY got skeptical, "OK now let me get this straight, You're going to take $18.00 bucks, hitchhike to Johnstown and BUY A CAR WITH IT ??!!

"Yup, that's just what I'm gonna do, Ma."

Even back then $18.00 wasn't much for a car, she just put on her sly look, grinned at me real knowingly and, yelled, " GOOD LUCK, BUDDY !!" As I strolled out the door. That woman could load more sarcasm into three words, than most people could get into two paragraphs!!

I walked out west on Hwy 20 by that old water tank that was still there in 1995, I know because I saw it when I was back there for the first time in 48 yrs and it was still BLUE too! I usually stood down by that little crick that went under hwy 20, and did my "thumbing" from there. Hitch hiking to Johnstown was nothing new to me, I had done it many times. I got a ride right away, got out at Johnstown and walked up to Beebouts place, I believe I had told Pooch I was coming down the week before, so he'd be home. He was home and we walked out to inspect the merchandise, He showed me a few things about it including a trick way to start it, by manipulating the spark and the shock levers and hitting the starter, yes I actually HAD a starter. However I NEVER learned to use it and always cranked it when I wanted to fire it up. You see, we were looking at a 1927 Model T Ford coupe !!

We lost no time in the transaction, I handed him the 18 dollars and he said, She's yours!! Yes that was it, no signatures, no titles, no registration, no license plates, just "She's yours!!"

I got in and VERY PROUDLY pulled away from Beebouts, with my very first car !! WHAT A FEELING ! ! I was already on my first "trip" too and not a penny in my pockets for expenses either. Hadn't gone 5 miles, around the Air Base, She started thumping. I stopped, got out and inspected the tires, found one (Left rear) that had a bulge about the size of a softball, I knew I had to re enforce that before it blew off the rim so I took my web, military belt off and WRAPPED IT AROUND THE TIRE !! and cinched it up tight and drove on home. (The belt was shot) but I got home with 'er, Come clattering up into the back yard and blowed my A o o o g a a!! horn at my Mom, just to show her I DID IT!!

She came out of the house to see what the racket was, Took one look at me and started laughing.

I said "There she is Mom, and she's got a Rexall gear in 'er too!! (Something like an overdrive today) I can still hear her laughing too!!

Did I EVER have some experiences in that old Mod, T, OR WHAT !! I could tell you some wild adventures we had, but that's the way I got my FIRST CAR, ANY WAY !! 

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Skunk in the Road!

By Raleigh Emry 

My car experiences go back to when I was just a little kid. I learned the mechanics of driving by standing behind the front seat of our old Model A wherever we went and watching the coordination of Dad or Mom's feet and shifting hand.

Once in a while Dad would let me drive the tractor, a little Allis Chalmers, on his lap. I finally soloed on a little, red and gray Ford. Those were Dad's first tractors. Up until about 1948 and the purchase of the Allis, our farm work was done behind Topsy and Lady, our two big beautiful draft horses.

So I learned how to drive on the tractor. Often times I could pull a hay-wagon while the larger folks would pick up hay bales. Before we bailed our hay we put it up in stacks. I sometimes was allowed to scatter-rake and pull the overshot stacker cable. I always enjoyed haying season. It made me feel useful and a little more grown-up than at other times of the year.

Sometimes when I helped Dad fix fence and do other chores, he would let me drive his 1950 Chevy pickup here and there around the fields and pastures. At first I was so small that I couldn't push the clutch in and stay on the seat. So I would start the pickup (starter button on the floor). While I was down there near the floorboard, I would engage the clutch and put the shifting lever into first gear. Then as I released the clutch I would hop up onto the seat and drive everywhere in first gear and use the hand throttle knob on the dashboard. When I got to where I was going I would just turn off the ignition.

My parents never owned a new vehicle before I left home. Eventually we traded our old Model A in on an old black '48 (I think) Oldsmobile for a while, then a 50 Chevy Sedan, then a 52 Chevy... two tone Gray and White. I learned to drive on the streets and highways in that 52 Chevy. You could get a learner's permit at fifteen and a half. The Chevy had a three speed shifter on the column. Those were the days when you could leave the ignition in the unlocked position and remove the key but still be able to start the car simply by turning the switch and pushing the starter button. I don't recall ever needing the key and I don't recall ever locking the doors. I guess my folks figured if a stranger took the car they needed it worse than we did.

My first hair-raising adventure, though, was a few years before when I wasn't quite street legal. My sister Leona was married to Charlie Mefferd at the time and they lived on a ranch down south-west of Elsmere. For you non-Nebraskans that's in the heart of the Sand Hills (God's Cattle Country) and about as rural as you can get on planet Earth. Charlie had returned from the Marines and was now a hired hand on a large cattle ranch. I suppose I was about fourteen or fifteen, as I know I didn't have a driver's license or learner's permit.

Charlie had chore duty on the ranch. If he and Leona came to town and wanted to spend the evening, someone had to go back and do some evening chores. One Saturday afternoon I rode out with Charlie to help him. I suppose it was at least forty miles of bad road down to the ranch from Ainsworth. Old Highway 7, as many of you know, was just a gravel road from a few miles South of town all the way to Brewster and beyond. The trip from old Highway 7 to Elsmere was an even narrower gravel road that went up hill and down dale and by Willow Lake and finally on to Elsmere, Purdum and Halsey. If Ainsworth calls itself the "Middle of Nowhere" then the middle of the Sand Hills must not exist at all.

Willow Lake was a popular fishing spot. A local fellow by the name of Skunk Jones made a living trapping critters like muskrats and beaver and spent much of his time fishing in the sand hill lakes.

When Charlie and I finished chores and headed back to town, Charlie asked, "Want to drive?" I was behind the wheel in a flash. It was probably the first time that I ever had a car above about forty miles per hour and forty wasn't too safe on the road from Elsmere, especially for an untrained kid who thought he knew everything. As anyone who has driven there knows, the roads were covered with loose sand and gravel with ridges of gravel along either side. The ridges narrowed the roadway to about a car and a half if you were lucky. A county maintainer (road grader) went up and down the road every once in a while to even out the highs and lows and push the ridges back where they belonged. I was finally getting the knack of this high-speed driving by the time we came by Willow Lake and on straight stretches I may have seen the speedometer needle hit fifty or sixty.

We came up behind Skunk Jones in his old beater of a car and he and his fishing buddy were in conversation and oblivious to the fact that we had sneaked up behind. If I had been thinking, I would have given a polite honk on the horn (the standard procedure), Skunk would have moved over and maybe even stopped, and I would have blasted by in Charlie's old black '50 Plymouth. Well, I thought Skunk had seen me coming in his mirror, as he drifted to the right side of the narrow road.

I floored the Plymouth, gravel flew, and I pulled out to pass. I discovered that instead of giving me right-of-way, Skunk was lost in his world of fish stories with his buddy and was just meandering. When I got about to his fender, he meandered back into the center of the road. By then, I had about a ten miles-per-hour rate of closure and.... BUMP! I hit Skunk's old fish wagon from the left rear corner and off it went to the right. It sailed up and over the gravel ridge, bounced and heaved down through the ditch, through a barbed wire fence and spun around and around in a boggy meadow before it came to a stop.

Meanwhile, Charlie, who I guess was daydreaming and not realizing I would be so stupid as to pass Skunk on such a narrow stretch of road, came to life at the BUMP! He didn't know if I could control his car, so as he grappled for the wheel to turn it one way, I grappled to undo any positive correction while stomping on any unused pedals I could find on the floor. We did a whifferdil, spun out, and after about two turns right between the gravel ridges we ended up pointing in the direction we wanted to go... and with nary a dent or scratch.

We clambered out of the car. My knees were like rubber as we wobbled down to see how Skunk Jones and his buddy had fared. They were fine, but sitting there as if in shell-shock wondering what had suddenly gone so terribly wrong with their fishin-rig. The top barbed wire of the three-wire fence had not broken and had instead run up and over their car leaving deep scratches about four inches apart in paint, glass, chrome and dirt from bumper to bumper. Skunk was good-natured about it. He said it was just his fishing car, of course it was his only car too, but "no harm done". We helped him get it back on the road, fixed the fence as best we could and parted company.

Charlie, for some reason, decided to drive the rest of the way to town. We'd burst into giggles about every five miles and then remain quiet for a spell. We expected my Mom to be waiting dinner on us. Charlie said, "Maybe we shouldn't tell your folks."

I answered, "Yeah. Maybe we shouldn't tell my folks." Then we would burst out in these crazy adrenalin powered giggles. We walked into our home as straight-faced as possible and sat down at the dinner table. About every third bite, either Charlie or I would start to snicker and then both of us would be insanely laughing again. I imagine my mom was testing the wind to see if she could detect alcohol but we were stone cold sober. Nonetheless, it was about the best "drunk" you could imagine.

My dad liked to shoot pool. I walked into the pool hall a few nights later to see if I could hit Dad up for some movie money. Dad happened to be in the middle of a hot snooker game with Skunk Jones. When I saw who it was, I quickly turned around and walked back out the door and strolled back down the sidewalk. I looked across the street toward the Royal Theater, thought a moment about the movie I wouldn't see, and walked back home. I don't know if Skunk ever told my Dad about my sending him into low earth-orbit on the road near Willow Lake. My hasty departure saved Dad fifty cents which would pay for two and a half games of pool in those days. That is if you didn't lose it on big side bets.

I have at least one more car story in me, about the time my brother shot and killed our '57 Chevy with his 12 gauge, but I'd better just leave you with this one for now.

Bicycle Debacles

Introduction by Raleigh Emry
 

Here is how this Story Writing 101 Assignment was introduced:

Our last essay assignment was on the favorite rural mode of transportation for kids, the horse. We now move to the streets of the big cities like Ainsworth, Springview, Long Pine, Meadville, or Johnstown, Nebraska where the combined population might have exceeded 3000 happy people and a few soreheads. (For extra credit, you folks who grew up outside the middle of nowhere can estimate the population of your own stomping ground.) If a kid needed to get across town in less than five minutes, he needed something more than shoe-leather. Until you were sixteen the bicycle was the preferred way.

 The good old Schwinn and the other balloon tired beauties -- some with baskets and tassels, some stripped down to the bare frame and two wheels -- were common into the 50s. Then a few kids started cruising the streets on their new English racer bikes... thinner tires and sometimes three speeds! One of these new breed of bikes even sported this author's name... Raleigh. A Raleigh, three-speed English racer was a Triumph, Austin Healey or MG as far as I was concerned... all are British sports machines and all out of my price range. A bike was synonymous with "freedom" for kids. But just as horses sometimes left you sitting in a sandbur patch, a bike would also buck you off, or catch your pants leg in the chain or add to life's miseries in other ways. I'll start us off with my bike experiences:

 I never had a bike until sometime after I started to school in town. That was in the 6th grade. I had learned to ride on my Campbell cousin's small girl's bike on old highway seven which then ran through Meadville, Nebraska. My Aunt Phyllis and Uncle Perry and cousins lived just north of the Niobrara River bridge. I went to stay with them a few times and learned the pleasures of cruising up and down the gravel road on a bike. The wonderful crunching sounds of gravel under the tires still rings in my ears.

Sometime around maybe 7th grade I had saved up ten dollars and bought a used bike from Gordon Ferneau, a kid who lived at the end of the block. It was the only bike I ever owned as a kid. Used or not, I was proud of it! I took the fenders off. I put the fenders on. I put the handlebars up and down and backwards. I moved the seat to both extremes and tried every height in between. I went through about a dozen sets of pedals and about that many chains and tires. I put playing cards in the spokes and roared around the streets like a motorcycle or I didn't and cruised around silently. In those days before power-steering folks put spinner knobs on their steering wheels for leverage. They were knobs that attached to the wheel that you could grab with your hand to crank the steering wheel. I guess they were good for parallel parking which you only had to do in Ainsworth to pass the driver's exam as there was little need to parallel park in Ainsworth. The spinners were also handy on tractors when you had to quickly crank the steering wheel around at the end of a row to get headed back the other way. Some spinner knobs were clear plastic of various colors and I had two, one on each side of the handlebar of my bike. I also waited and scrimped and saved for an electric horn. I didn't need a horn, electric or otherwise, but the Gambles store had an electric horn in the bike section that I just had to have. It looked high-tech for its day. It ran on batteries and had a thumb button that you could attach near the handgrip. After the horn got wet a few times or the batteries got weak, the horn had an anemic buzz instead of a honk, but it looked snazzy.


Two of my most spectacular crashes were on that bike and they both involved my sister Ruth. She was two years ahead of me in school. (Leona and Bob were four years ahead and may have already graduated by then.) We lived two blocks east and about a half block south of the school in a tiny basement apartment. My Mom, even though she worked at Spearman's Grocery or the telephone office, always had something hot for our lunch. I'm not sure how she did that and work too, but she always did. We might have to warm it a bit if she had gone back to work, but there was always a good nutritious meal waiting for us. So we always went home for lunch. By lunch time I was always starving and standing up and peddling fast all the way home.


One day Ruth got a head start. She never had a bike so she was walking. As I approached on the sidewalk behind her I "neeeped... neeped" with my electric horn and yelled out, "Hurry Up!" As I swerved around her at break neck speed... I'll take that back... one fraction of a mph below break neck speed as I did not break my neck... but as I swerved around her at a dangerous sprained-neck speed, she very casually, almost gracefully reached out and tapped my handlebar... maybe lightly grabbed my handlebar. The front wheel went sideways and it was my first experience at extended solo flight. I flew into the street and plowed the gravel with my elbows and nose. My bike came clattering and tumbling behind me. Ruth may have won the race home that day.


Some time later the same conditions existed. I warily approached Ruth and slowed to a walking speed and said, "Do you want a ride?" She crawled onto the seat and I stood on the pedals between the seat and the handlebars. She reached around and grabbed the handlebars too and let her feet dangle on each side. I told her, in no uncertain terms, that she could hang onto the handlebars but I would steer. That was fine with Ruth. So off we went on the sidewalk down Second Street. When we came to Pine Street, where we had to turn right I had a decision to make. There was only a path on Pine street where the sidewalk should be. My riding habit was to continue into the street and take the street down to the house instead of riding my bike on the bumpy path. Ruth's walking habit was to take the path. So as we approached the decision point at break neck speed... sorry there I did it again... some speed slightly less... I thought it was my decision as I was driving. At the last instant, Ruth decided to override and turn ninety degrees onto the path. I tried to override the override and was about half-way successful. At 45 degrees and beyond the path and short of the street there was a very large tree. So as I tried to muscle the bike into the street and Ruth tried to muscle the bike onto the path, the tree brought all motion to an instant stop. No, I'll take that back. My face brought all motion to an instant stop when it collided with the tree and cushioned the impact for everything else including Ruth. It may have improved my looks.


I also had a bike debacle when I was riding double with my good friend Phil Herring. We were coming back to my home from his, which was several blocks east near the east city park. I didn't have my bicycle for some reason, so I was sitting forward on his handlebars with my toes gingerly resting on the extensions of the front wheel axle. Phil was a long legged fellow and he propelled us along at a nice clip. I'm not even going to get into the break neck stuff anymore because clearly I am still alive and haven't yet broken my neck. But we were cruising. I had a fairly new pair of shoes and shoes were hard to come by back then. A pair or two a year was about all you could expect and I may have been on my second pair by then. We hit a small bump and my feet flew out to the side and flopped back with my heels pointing inward. They entered the revolving spokes of the wheel just behind the front fork. The revolving spokes quickly brought both heels against the front fork and effectively and instantly stopped the front wheel. Phil and I had a dual cross-country flight and we landed in a tangled pile. My heels felt like someone had bashed both of them with a sixteen pound sledge hammer. The rubber heel had ripped right off of one shoe and the other shoe sole was twisted about 60 degrees from horizontal. I remember wearing them like that for a short while... probably more as a novelty than as a necessity as barefoot was acceptable in the summertime.


Another sickening debacle comes to mind involving the crossbar of a boys bike. Makes me wish I was riding a girls bike at the time. I was standing up peddling as fast as I could across a vacant lot trying to catch Bob Brady, another good friend. I hit a hole and my feet slipped off the pedals. I know that each guy who is reading this is already gasping, turning ashen gray and saying "ugggggggh". I will write no more as I am gasping, turning ashen gray and saying "uggggggh" just thinking about it.


When I went off to college I left my bike at home. My brother had a car so if I needed to get beyond walking distance I bummed a ride. When I was a junior and no longer living with my brother, I finally had a car of my own... a '64 Mercury Comet... whooooeee! But then I discovered how much it cost to keep gas in it. So I made some calculations and discovered I could buy a bike and pay for it on saved gas money within a few months. So I parked my car and intended to drive it only on my weekend hot dates (every other blue moon on alternate years if I was lucky) ski trips (several times a winter) and other necessities. I bought myself a brand spanking new Raleigh, English, three-speed racing bike and boy was she pretty! I guess it was a HE with a name like Raleigh... hope so anyway... boy was HE pretty!


I had it for exactly one week. I stopped at the Student Center at good old Colorado State University, went just inside the door to buy a newspaper at a paper rack, turned around and came back out and my bike was gone. So now that my gas money was in my bike and my bike was stolen I learned the joys of walking all over again. By then I had shoes with heels that hadn't been ripped off and soles 60 degrees askew so it wasn't too bad. Those are the tales of an old biker from Austin City Limits.

Here's Adele's doozy of a story. Who'da thought?

Adele Penhollow

I commend you for the bike stories, and I praise your mom for making your lunches....what a memory. Since I never had a bike as a kid, my memory is one from 25 yrs. ago. I was a different person then.

 I can't give you a BIKE story like those, but I do have a motorized version. Sometime in the mid 1970s, I became temporarily insane. I took lessons from a friend and his wife to learn to ride a motorcycle. Don't ask.........please.

 Here I was, never having had the luxury of youthful rebellion...and my six kids at home, thinking I'd gone completely bonkers.. (Yes, I had). Well, my lessons continued for 3 months, and I took my test, took the AAA safety course at the local community college, and obtained a license. I bought a small Honda Twin Star-180cc, Cranberry Red through some friends who owned a Honda dealership.

 My husband also participated and took his test at the same time, but didn't really enjoy riding in traffic...or anywhere else, actually. I kept it sparkling clean and kept it in a safe spot in the garage, away from the boys'*real bikes*...the ones with aggressive handlebars. : )

 I practiced different moves, and drove in traffic as well as on country roads -- daytime on weekends and a few twilight rides to get used to oncoming headlights. These little excursions continued unremarkably for about 6 months. I *even* took that little bike to the supermarket and picked up the occasional supper fixins.

 My white helmet had butterfly decals all over it...to the embarrassment of my kids.

 One gorgeous Sunday, six of us took our bikes across the state line into Pennsylvania, (which is about 20 minutes away). Three couples, enjoying the sunshine and breeze of the mid-October weather. We stopped for a quick picnic and continued down to Kinzua Dam, which is a beautiful area, as is much of our part of the country in Fall. At about 3pm, I remember saying we ought to head home, because I didn't want to drive that distance at night. So, we all got situated, cleaned our mirrors again, and began the ride home. I think it was about 40 miles.

 I was in the "middle of the pack", so to speak...and none of us were driving fast. Suddenly, the biggest and proudest 8-point buck came soaring out of the forest, and directly arched over me and landed across the other side of the highway!! His hoofs missed my helmet by "maybe" 3 inches! THAT was when I made my "Thank you for saving me, Lord" prayer and the decision to quit riding motorcycles.

 When you hear someone tell you that their life "flashed before their eyes"....well, that was the experience that did it for me. My companions only laughed when it happened...I didn't. After we got home, I was literally shaking in my boots. When the kids saw us come inside, my oldest son knew I was upset. My daughter had been babysitting the younger ones, and she pulled it out of me...."Mom.. what happened out there ?" I just told them all that I was retiring from riding. They applauded.

 Three days later, I sold the little Honda, Cranberry Red Twin Star. The guy who bought it said his wife had this crazy idea of wanting to "ride".

 I don't regret learning to ride, and I don't regret quitting. I guess I had to just plain teach myself a lesson, eh?

 FYI: When my boys were old enough to appreciate it, we bought them Raleigh bikes. The two oldest boys rode them 'til after high school, and the two younger boys used them afterward. Yes, they were great bikes.

 Adele

Now wasn't that a dandy story? Makes you want to get out there on your Harley and cruise along... and pick the bugs... and venison out of your teeth. Doesn't it? Here's Patty Jay Owen's story of her misguided youth in Ainsworth... going down to the sandpits... and... and... well I'll let her tell you the story.

 Patty (Jay) Owens

As I was growing up, for some reason, bikes were hard to come by. But, somehow, our next door neighbor, Frank Cummings, (Virginia's father) found one for me. It was a Schwinn. I wasn't quite 10 yrs. of age, and was so excited that even before it was out of its crate, I was spinning the wheels. That little trick landed me a badly cut little finger and a scar I carry to this day. In spite of that, how I loved that bike. It afforded me some of my best memories.

 I already knew how to ride it. I had learned on a boy's bike at my cousins house in Iowa. After falling on the bar and receiving stitches in a most painful place, you can imagine my joy at finding my "new" bike was a girl's bike.

 Through the years, I had many adventures. Some of you will remember them as you were my companions. A group of us would pack lunches and ride out to Bone Creek off the highway. We would ride to the Sandpits and watch others swim. Sometimes we would stop and wade in the cool waters. Jeryce and I spent almost everyday after school for several weeks looking and calling for my lost puppy "Sugar". Later, we found that Sugar had joined a pack of dogs that were killing sheep and had been shot.

Another, experience with a bike of particular meaning to me, was not with my bike, but a tandem bike that Ben Crook had built. We use to make quite a twosome riding that bike. Of course, we were kinda sweet on each other, so that made it extra special. It has been so long since I have ridden a bike, but I will always remember the joy I had owning one. Thanks for the reminder, Raleigh.

Patty (Jay) Owens

Then the Rev. George T. Whitney sent us a short story about a mishap involving someone else's bike:

Rev. George T. Whitney


Peage Morgan just got his new bike at the Gambles store. Gerry Allen ushered us out the door and we sat a few moments in front of Farber's bakery. I was begging Peage to let me ride that new bike. He finally relented and we turned east and crossed main street in front of Prang's apparel. We proceeded along the Baldwin building and reached the alley across from the fire station. A farmer was leaving Honaker's produce and hit me broadside as I entered the alley. The bike was smashed and I went flying. Fortunately, nothing was hurt but my pride. The bicycle was another story. Peage was not concerned about me at all but was crying about his new bike.

Rev. George T.

Yep! That's friends for you... always concerned about your welfare! When my classmate George offered up his story, it reminded me of a time back then that didn't involve a bicycle but it involved a little red wagon. As the wagon swapped which two wheels it was rolling on about every half second, I thought it was close enough to a bicycle to include it here:

Raleigh Emry

Juniors decorated for the senior prom. I believe this mishap took place during that decorating assignment.

We needed a little red wagon for some purpose. Bob Brady had one. So a bunch of us piled into someone's car and we went to get the wagon. The Rev. George T. may have been in the car with us. We got the wagon, but there were so many helpers along for the ride that there was no room in the car for the wagon. Bradley Bourn volunteered to ride in the wagon.

So we tied a rope about thirty feet long to the bumper and to the tongue of the wagon. Bradley jumped in and off we went. The six or eight of us in the car had our heads out the window and offered up advice to the driver... mostly all contradictory.

It started out okay but then we got up a good head of steam, about thirty miles per hour, that wagon began to whip back and forth on the end of the rope like a snagged sword fish and Bradley started yelping "slow down! slow down!" as he hung on for dear life. His plea was forwarded to the driver by the various back-seat drivers. Unfortunately they didn't say "slow down... slow down" they yelled "STOP!"

The driver slammed on the brakes and here came Bradley in the wagon at the pre-brake velocity! Crash! He slammed right into the rear of the car. We all decided it was about the funniest thing that had happened for quite a while and were happy to have been part of the errand so that we could witness it.

That's the bicycle debacles. Hope you enjoyed them!

Horse Feathers

This "Story Writing 101" assignment was as follows:

"If you have ever been bucked off of a horse, tell us how. 'Falling off'will be okay if you don't have a genuine 'bucked off' story. Or if you haven't been bucked off or haven't fallen off, then have you been bitten, kicked, run over by, or otherwise abused by a horse? Inquiring minds want to know. Bonus point will only be awarded if you provide x-rays."

I will start us off with a few.

My cowboy years were numbered. My Dad always had horses... a lot of horses. But the family only had one saddle... Dad's saddle. It was an old model with a high cantle and a small metal saddle horn. But Dad got by with it just fine... as did a century of other fine cowboys before him... give or take a century or two. Dad broke most of our horses that weren't gentle when he traded for them. One big black tossed him high up against the granary wall and left his hip pocket hanging on a nail above the door. It hung there for years. But this story is supposed to be about MY experience with horses.

Dad's saddle horse, Danny, was fun to ride. But being the youngest in the family, someone else almost always had dibs on the driver's seat, the saddle, and I had to ride behind. My sister, Ruth, and I went after the milk cows one evening riding tandem on old Danny. We were down in the Niobrara river-bottom where some strips of trees separated open meadows. We cut through one of these wooded areas and my hat was snatched from my head by a low-hanging branch. So Ruth reined Danny to a stop and I slipped off to pick up my hat. It was just in front of Danny. I tripped over a grapevine and as I fell, the grapevine rustled dead leaves in the tree just above Danny's head. He made one swift jump and came down with each front hoof directly on the back of each of my calves. It roughed and rippled up the hide and put two permanent dents in the muscles. Well sort of permanent anyway. You can hardly see them anymore unless the light is right and I imagine things.

At least that is how I remember the story. Sister Ruth may have another version. While I was lying there in pain and sure that both feet had been removed above the ankles, she may have briefed me on a version that would be fit for public consumption... parents in this case. We may have been jumping hay bales or chasing rabbits or some other activity and I was somehow run over in that process. But I've told it the other way so often that I believe that it's the gospel truth... with some wiggle room built in.

Most of my horseback hours were spent bareback on a Shetland pony. He was a little stud hoss and his name was Buddy... all white except for a mostly dark brown head and blue eyes. One Christmas morning we came downstairs and there he stood, tied to the Christmas tree. He was just a colt at the time and cute! I'll tell you! He was cute! When full grown, he stood only about 38 inches tall at the shoulder. I'm not sure what that would be in "hands". So he was too little for the big kids to ride and to ornery for the little kids to ride. Dad didn't turn him into a gelding because he wanted to raise some smaller sized horses and Buddy made that happen in ways I didn't quite understand when I was four or five... but when you live around animals, you quickly learn such things from more than birds and bees.

Anyway, I was a little kid and, ornery or not, I rode Buddy from maybe the age of four to ten... or so. Buddy was headstrong and took me sightseeing to many places I did not want to go. For example, with his steely blue eyes, he could spy a low hanging limb from a great distance and scrape me off on it.

Early one Spring, Dad rode Danny and I followed along on Buddy and we went to check on the cows in the lower pasture. The river-bottom ground may have still been frozen as I found out that it was very hard. Old Buddy still had his winter coat of long white hair and he looked more like a dog than a horse.

This is a good spot for an unrelated, shaggy dog story. Rodney the knight, a little fellow, traveled around Medieval England astride a St. Bernard Dog. One night it was raining torrents so he stopped at an inn. The inn-keeper said, "Sorry! No vacancy!" As dejected Rodney turned to ride back into the rain, the inn-keeper called out, "Wait! I'll find something! I wouldn't put a knight out on a dog like this."

Anyway Knight Raleigh astride his shaggy dog Buddy, came upon a milk cow, Sadie, that always had a rambunctious, slightly evil temper, and she had a new baby calf. So we rode over to see how they were doing. When I rode up toward Sadie she bellowed and bawled and came at me with lowered head. I guess she must have thought that Buddy was a threat to her calf. Buddy made a jump and exited the scene and I landed flat on my back with no air in my lungs. I can still see Sadie's face as she charged up to me and threatened to flatten me even more. I made myself as thin as possible as she shook her head about two-tenths of an inch above my nose and blew... is it polite to say "snot"?... blew snot all over me.

Dad thundered up on Danny and gave old Sadie a swift smack with his quirt and she abandoned her attempt to flatten me and went back to her calf. Dad let me crawl onto the back of Danny, once I had caught my breath. I suppose I might add that I was making some bawling noises of my own when my wind came back. As cowboys don't cry, I won't try to categorize those sounds. We galloped across the meadow and Dad closed in on Buddy and reached down and grabbed a rein. Once we were stopped Dad said, "Get on and show him who's boss." I really didn't mind riding double with Dad. As a matter of fact, it felt pretty good right where I was sitting and hanging onto that high cantle. I may have muttered something like, "He can be boss today if he wants to."

I had many experiences on little old Buddy but this will do it for today. Now it's your turn.


Confession Of A Cowardly Rider
by Adele Penhollow
 
Being a city-girl, I had no opportunity to ride a real live horsey when I was a kid. But, Mom & Dad took my two sisters and me to various amusement parks in our youth.

When my "little sister" (who's 8 yrs younger than I ) had her chance to ride the fancy merry-go-round at the State Fair one summer, she was about 3 yrs. old, I remember...lots of curly ringlets all over her cute head. I had been her official babysitter when Mom was busy.

Of course I had no qualms about getting on that dizzying contraption, (I had 'experience'). She chose the white horse with a garland of pink flowers. That pretty horse was in the center row of the three-rows available. My other sister chose the black horsey with silver buckles. And, I ..of course.. was holding my little sister, proudly guarding her from falling off.

Everything was going great until the ride was nearly over...and I don't know how this happened, but I looked away for a zillionth of a second, and went flying to the side, smack into a handsome gray ... Appaloosa, I think ... and OUT the side of the platform .... whoosh ! ... with subsequent bruises to my body and ego.

My little sister was fine...she held on like a pro, and just laughed. Why she thought this was planned (or for her amusement) I'll never know. There were several people, including Dad, who came to pick me up, but I was completely embarrassed, and just couldn't make an intelligible remark.

So, ... although some of you have had the pleasures of riding, it's something I just never 'picked up'....yes, I'm an official coward, I admit this freely. But, I do get nervy with other things...such as going to a parking lot at the mall at 1:00 a.m. so that I can be the first one to make figure 8 marks in the new-fallen snow. I used to love doing that.. ; )

Adele

See there? All you folks who had horse stories but not "real live horse stories" should have sent yours in. This is creative writing and not a rodeo. Okay! The next one to chime in was the Rev. George T. Whitney. It seems he could have used a little divine guidance to keep out from under that cottonwood:

Rev. George T. Whitney

Raleigh, I used to stay often at Bill Davis' place 17 miles south of Ainsworth. They had a horse that we could ride bare-back. The house and the barn was a good way off old highway 7. The horse was pretty gentle riding out to the road, but was always in a hurry to get back to the barn. Many a time I was rubbed off that horse on a big ole cottonwood tree that was on a curve in the road going to the house. The horse seemed to know just how to get rid of us.

Rev. George T.

Yep! It seems like all horses suffer from get-home-itis. Many a speed record has been broken on the way to the barn. Elaine Osborn is a witness to this phenomena:

Elaine (Williams) Osborn

I don't pretend to be a creative writer or even a creative thinker with a creative memory so I'll just have to tell it as I remember. :-)

When I was just a young tike, probably about 3rd or 4th grade as we still lived on the old farm place about 7 miles west of Ainsworth, my Dad had asked me to help them out in moving some cattle from one pasture to another. Of course, I was thrilled that I was big enough to be helping out in such a grand capacity. My older brother, Larry, had a horse named "Tiny" which in no way reflected the size of the horse, especially to a little girl such as myself. For some reason I was given Tiny to ride for the cattle moving chore. All went well and I was feeling mighty proud to be a part of the cattle driving crew. When we finished, my Dad warned me that when Tiny knew that he was "headed back to the barn" I might not be able to hold him so to just let him go and hang on. Sure enough we weren't far into our ride back to the farm place when Tiny took off. Remembering what my Dad had said, I let Tiny have his rein and I hung onto the saddle horn for dear life. Everything was going O.K. and I just knew that we were moving about 100 mph with the wind blowing Tiny's mane and tail as well as my hair flying in the wind. Quite a site to behold in the mind's eye of that young girl and pride was growing. It is quite possible we weren't traveling as fast as I thought as a friendly neighbor came up behind us in his car and wanting to let us know he was there and going to pass, he honked his horn. This of course spooked Tiny who was on his mission to get to the barn PDQ.

Tiny started bucking and I landed in a patch of sand burs. It's possible it was just the ordinary little sand hills variety that you all must know so well, but since I am telling the story and it is my memory we are counting on, I recall it to have been a patch of those BIG thorny Texas sand burs. Tiny somehow lost interest in the barn and stopped to stare down at me and wait for me to remount, but with a bunch of Texas sand burs in my back side, fat chance of me getting back in the saddle. Completely humbled by the experience, I had to lead Tiny the rest of the way to the barn. I still have the scars to prove the story, some may call it cellulite, but I prefer to think it is those nasty old Texas sand bur scars.

I never did become an avid horseback rider!

Elaine

Did anyone ever fall off of a horse and not land in sand-burs? Heck no! That goes with the territory! Ginger Axford contributed this nightmare of a horse story complete with sand-burs and wait until you hear about the bobwar (Texan for barbed wire) and the pitchfork! Yeowww!

Ginger Axford

In Norfolk when I was just a little girl, there was a professional photographer with a darling Shetland pony with all the trappings. He even had chaps & hats for tots. One of my favorite pictures of me is that happy little cowgirl in full regalia in the saddle astride that adorable Shetland pony with the silver trappings.

Five or six years later, my brother & I begged for & got Ol' Thunder. Daddy, AKA Turtle, bought him at Lambley's Sale Barn which was a block north of where we lived in the Collin's house on North Main. My how grand it was to be up on the back of that huge horse with the wind blowing through my hair. And, my, how it hurt when I fell off. To this day, I have an imbedded sandbur in my leg. Poor old Thunder went back to the sale barn when my folks saw his bad behavior when Nolan tried to get the halter on him out at the corral north of town where he was stabled.

Beauty came into my life shortly after we moved to the Redenbaugh place on the road past Von Heeder's, Ulysse Lambley's & Manifold's. Beauty was a gem. She was sorrel with a white blaze & stockings. We weren't allowed to ride with a saddle. I don't know how many times I would have to put a bucket or anything else to climb on to mount Beauty. I'd get her along side the step, and she would move ahead. So over & over until finally, I was able to grab that mane and climb up.

Once, Nolan decided he wanted a turn. Beauty & I headed across the alfalfa field at a gallop. Nolan was hot on our trail. Before I could rein in, we were at the fence. Beauty stopped, I didn't. I sailed over the fence but the barbed wire scratch is the scar I still have on my right leg. When Beauty was with foal, I was told to stay in the house. I waited about as long as I could, then I went to the barn. Inside the barn, near the stanchions & hay mangers for the cows, I rounded the corner at the same time Nolan was coming with the pitchfork to get hay. The pitchfork was down & went through my left leg clear to the hilt of the fork. I was down.

Nolan ran for Mom and she pulled it out real slow. It didn't bleed & had missed the bone. Off to the old Brown County Hospital we went for a tetanus shot. I missed a few days of school & still have a little round scar three inches below my left knee and on the back of my leg. Robin was the colt. He was Pinto. He went to live with friends of my folks & we moved to Long Pine. While I lived at the Redenbaugh place, I would go to visit Doris Johnson & her brother, Gene, on their folks' ranch south of Johnstown. What a holiday. Mrs. Johnson was the best cook ever. I tease Doris that we got to eat wonderful food twelve times a day. They had horses of course. Once, I got to ride a gigantic stallion that might have belonged to their neighbor, Harold Hill.

Tony was the horse of the day in Long Pine. He belonged to Mr. & Mrs. Ozzie Potter. The captain of the basketball team worked for & lived with them. That guy & Tony would come calling at my house in Long Pine. One day, my Dad said, " You know, I don't mind your horse, Tony, mowing my lawn, but I sure don't like his calling cards." Imagine dating on the back of a horse, behind the saddle yet!

During the Blizzard of '49, I lived on the ranch of Eleanor & Lyle Williams south of Johnstown. We were in the hired hands house nearby. They gave us a pair of horses to ride. I was expecting my first baby in the spring. As soon as my folks found out that I was riding the horse, they put a stop to it. When the roads were cleared by the 5th Army, I went to town to live with my folks until Linda Kay was born March 7, at the old Brown County Hospital. There was still five-foot of snow under the trees when we headed northwest for Washington State May 1st in a 1935 Chevrolet with an ironing board strapped to the side, much to the dismay of Mom & Dad. They never forgave me for moving so far away.

Danny Boy was a cutting horse that I bought for my children 6, 8 & 10. It was the first thing I bought after I went to work in town the week after all three kids were in school. I worked in the office at a farmer's co-op. One of the customers had an old cutting horse for sale. That horse was amazing. He would walk down the lane to the mailbox & back with those three kids on his bare back. No matter how they tried, he only walked. But let a man put a foot in the stirrup, he would be rarin' to go. I can still hear my older children singing, "Oh, Danny Boy," to their baby sister, Rebecca when she was born in l961.

Oh, what wonderful memories. How I'd love to once again say, " Come on, Giddy-up, Go."

Ginger

Now didn't Ginger have some good memories? Here I sit frantically trying to find the dents on the back of my calves from where Dad's saddle horse, Danny, stepped on them, but I fear bragging rights for scars will have to go to Ginger! Well, Let's see what Leroy Wacker can tell us about his cowboy days:

Lee Wacker 

Tony was a lively ole Shetland pony that dad had bought for us 3 boys when we were about school age or before. Tony had a red mane and a coat that was also on the red side. Tony also had a mind of his very own. At times he could be a most loveable little fellow and at other times he could be a 'devil' that his color would indicate.

Tony's primary job was pretty much carrying one of us boys to the bottom pasture where the dairy cattle usually congregated, knowing that we would have to come after them each evening at milking time. We had a spring fed creek that ran thru the pasture. This creek was fed by springs which originated only about 100 yards from the point where we crossed to get the cattle. You are probably way ahead of me but bear with me. This creek was actually quite wide at that point although it wasn't but 6 to 8 inches deep and was beautifully clear and COLD.

We always rode bare-back even in later years when we had larger horses to ride. Most of the time as we came to the creek, Tony would just wade right in and cross the creek but on occasions he would have that ornery streak and as we came trotting up to the edge of the creek he would come to a sudden, dead stop, and at the same time put his head down so that the rider went plunging out into that nice, cold water. Tony had no preference as to which of us boys were riding and he would treat us all equal and also whether it was winter or summer as the spring never froze.

Tony would also take this opportunity to head back home, riderless, probably knowing by the time we walked the cows home we were probably getting dry enough that our anger had subsided enough that he would still get his hay and oats for supper.

Kind of forgot about ole Tony until you made me rattle my brain to come up with a story to tell. You have to also remember that we were 'sod-busters' in that end of the state and we were just starting to make the change from horse farming to tractor farming.


Leroy

Shoot! I was hoping that Leroy would have scars from one end to the other so the cowboys could claim bragging rights on injuries. But nope! Leroy only got wet and he's had a few years to dry out.

 Anne (Gilchrist) Osborn

After thinking about it, my horse stories aren't all that remarkable---I have been bucked off, stepped on, scraped off on fences and trees, and had several horses take off running wildly---very scary experiences. For some reason screaming just made them run all the faster.

But the episode I'll relate is about both my sisters and I. We had a normally gentle old horse called "Pet." My older sister and I rode together on her (or him???) to school and on our way home one afternoon when we got to our mail box near our home, we decided to get all three of us on her and give my little sister Cindy a ride. For some reason, our dog got excited and nipped the horse on the heels and old Pet took off running and bucking. Fortunately, Cindy and I immediately slipped off in the soft grass, but my older sister Jo was in the saddle and had her hands wrapped in the reins and just sat glued-on in terror as the dog kept nipping and the horse kept running. She finally decided to let loose when she and Pet got to the corral and was bucked off. The corral ground was hard as rock and she hit on her tail bone. It so upset her that to this day she has never gotten on a horse again to this day.

Cindy and I continued to ride until my Dad sold all of the horses. But I do remember my horse "shied" once in the corral and I too experienced just how hard that ground was and experienced getting the wind knocked out of me.

Annie O. from Rural "Middle of Nowhere" Nebraska

No scars there I guess... at least none the ladies would want to show. But dandy stories Annie Okey! The story about all the sisters on the same horse certainly reminds me of another story that I'm itching to tell. It's a good one complete with a sister and a cousin and an overturned saddle, a foot lodged in a stirrup, a body dragging and bumping across the prairie, people rolling into ravines, a black-eye or two and me and old Buddy, my Shetland, being a catalyst for the calamity that befell the other horse and riders. But I got nary a scar and thus the whole horse tale is not worth telling.

Dick Ellis

A friend of mine told me about the time when his wife was around 18 or 19 and was to take her first ride. She had never been on a horse before but as she settled into the saddle that horse started running and lurching to the point she (even disdaining the Cowboy law to never "pull leather) grabbed the saddle horn with both hands. To her dismay the durn thing came loose. With the horn still firmly in hand she lost her right stirrup and pitched off the left side of that running horse. Her foot was entangled in the left stirrup as she hit the ground with the horse going full tilt. Who knows what might have happened if the manager of K Mart hadn't unplugged the machine. No I don't know her hair color or the horse's either.

Hee... hee... hee... I expect there is about as much truth in that one as some of the bossman's stuff!


Pat Manifold Cerny 

My cow pony was smarter than I. They made me ride bareback and if I got off, I was too short to jump back on. Dad told me to wait until the horse put his head down to eat, then throw my leg over his neck and he would automatically raise his head and I would be on. Of course, I was on backward but as long as he stood still I could swing around. That worked twice. Then, he would raise his head just as my ankle was over the neck and flip me. I walked home, leading him, many a time.

I was riding him out in the oats field - they were picking up bundles to take to threshing machine. There was a huge, beautiful butterfly on one of the shocks and I tried to get my pony close enough to grab the butterfly. He wouldn't do it. So I got off and tried to approach on foot. He pushed himself around and planted a hoof on my foot and refused to move. At that point the wagon arrived and the horse and I moved away. There was a huge rattlesnake in the shock. The horse knew it and was keeping me away. But it is a wonder that I never had any broken bones.

When living next to the Lambley's (Tommy, Herris, Gary and Lolitta Susanne) we had a group that played stage coach. We hooked up their Shetland to a wagon and usually we girls were made to ride the stage coach and the robbers gave chase and usually the wagon upset on the gravel/dirt road. We were nuts!


Lee Wacker

Here is some cowboy logic sent along by Leroy Wacker. You may have seen it before but here it is if you missed it the first time out of the chute:

1. Don't Squat with Yer Spurs on

2. Never kick a fresh cow chip on a hot day.

3. There's two theories to arguin' with a woman. Neither one works.

4. Don't worry about bitin' off more than you can chew. Your mouth is probably a whole lot bigger'n you think.

5. If you get to thinkin' you're a person of some influence, try orderin' somebody else's dog around.

6. Never ask a man the size of his spread.

7. After eating an entire bull, a mountain lion felt so good he started roaring. He kept it up until a hunter came along and shot him. The moral: When you're full of bull, keep your mouth shut.

8. If you find yourself in a hole the first thing to do is stop diggin'.

9. Never smack a man who's chewin' tobacco.

10. It don't take a genius to spot a goat in a flock of sheep.

11. Never ask a barber if he thinks you need a haircut.

12. Good judgment comes from experience, and a lot of that comes from bad judgment.

13. Always drink upstream from the herd.

14. Never drop your gun to hug a grizzly.

15. If you're ridin' ahead of the herd, take a look back every now and then to make sure it's still there.

16. When you give a lesson in meanness to a critter or a person, don't be surprised if they learn their lesson.

17. When you're throwin' your weight around, be ready to have it thrown around by somebody else.

18. Lettin' the cat outta the bag is a whole lot easier 'n puttin' it back.

19. Always take a good look at what you're about to eat. It's not so important to know what it is, but it's critical to know what it was.

20. The quickest way to double your money is to fold it over and put it back in your pocket.

21. Never miss a good chance to shut up.

So there is our collection of horse stories. I'll sign off with this quote from one of the real old cowboys from Ainsworth, Nebraska, Doc Micheel. Whenever he drew a nasty bronc at a rodeo, my dad said ol' Doc would sit up there with his Carlsbad hat pulled down over his ears and with hardly any daylight showing between him and the horse, he would yell at the apex of each twisting, violent jump, "What'll I do if he bucks boys? What'll I do if he bucks?" They broke the mold when they made Doc Micheel.

Winter Rains in TX Bring Spring Flowers

By late April, our yard is showing off to nice effect a welcome result of the El Nino rains of this past winter. The bluebonnets look the best ever, and the bright yellow of the Engelmann's daisies provides a fine backdrop. The circle of blue color from the Blue curls and Mealy blue sage around our native persimmon tree in the back yard is at its showiest this time of year. The Prairie primrose natives have settled on a hilly spot in our back yard to showcase their delicate, pink beauty.

The twisted-leaf yuccas in our front terrace have bud stalks as tall as Raleigh. Their creamy white blooms will appear in May. Our red yuccas' stalks of coral buds are stretching up nearly as tall. The spineless prickly pears have oodles of baby pads forming, but I haven't noticed any flower buds yet.

The majority of the terrace blooms are being provided now by the purples of the Deosperma ice plant and the Prairie verbenas, the small daisy-like whites of the Blackfoot daisies, the bright yellow of the Four Nerve daisies, the spikes of blue claimed by the Mealy blue sage, and the occasional show of coral gracing the Salvia greggii.

The roses are looking the best we've seen them in a long time! Their scents fill the rooms of the house when the southern-facing windows are open.

Now, when more rain is forecast, we pray that strong storms don't follow. I suppose we should be grateful for what we have - when we have it. For now, our yard is filled with colors, including freshly bright greens, that refresh our spirits. Life is good!

For a peak at our spring blooms, click on the title above.

Cleaning the Cobwebs from the Bunkhouse

I thought I'd better write something so you devoted followers of this blog won't give up. I had hoped that by now, some of you writers who jumped through the hoops to get your independent posting credentials would have added your two bits worth and, therefore, kept it active for me, but the ol' bunkhouse has stood empty since my last posting of 3 March. Apparently the blog is "out-of-sight and out-of-mind."

Terry and I have been keeping rather busy since then. We decided to paint the interior of the bunkhouse and have made a valiant start. For those of you who have painted, you know that the easy part is picking up the roller or brush. The hard part is moving all the furniture, cleaning the surface, filling the dings and dents, masking the trim, cleaning up and moving everything back. We painted a couple of bedrooms and bathrooms and then our project was taken over by other events.

My 93 year-old step-mother, Alice Emry, caught an 18-wheeler to Dallas, Texas where we picked her up and brought her to Austin to stay with us for about three weeks. We had a fine time showing her the sites and wearing out a deck of cards playing Kings on the Corner.

We then took Alice home to O'Neill, Nebraska in time to celebrate my mother, Ortha Emry's 87th birthday in Ainsworth. We spent a week plus the two bookend weekends in the Middle of Nowhere.

We are now back in Texas and catching up. We may reinitiate our painting project although the great outdoors has now taken center stage on our chore list. This spring has been one of the best. The long-overdue winter rains have really touched off a colorful show of wildflowers this year - but with those came the fast growing weeds and grass.