Along the Back Roads of Yesterday Read online

  Ring stood with his head cocked first one way then another, taking in the whole scene. Suddenly, he started barking and nipping at ol’ Blue’s heels. Across the creek she bolted, knocking me off balance and into the water. When Blue, the cart, and the dog reached the other side, Blue stopped and turned to look at me as if to say,“What’s wrong with you? I’m gonna tell the whole world how stupid you looked lying on your back in the crick.”

  Sixty-five years later, I can still see that blue donkey hooked to the cart, looking at me with the corners of her mouth turned up and a twinkle in her eye. By the time I waded across the creek, I was laughing, too.

  The rest of the way up the mountain was uneventful. The warm sun dried my wet clothes, ol’ Blue was making good time. A piñon squawker (blue jay) scolded us as we rattled past his tree. He said, “What is you and that funny-lookin’ donkey doin’ trespassin’ on my mountain?” (Ring was off chasing a rabbit and was spared the Squawker’s agitated chatter.) About an hour later, we reached the cone-picking area.

  I looped the lines around the left hame on the collar. Ol’ Blue, like the good donkey she was, stood patiently while I filled a bucket with shiny cones and emptied them into the cart. She followed as I moved further into the trees.

  When I first arrived, I noticed a black saddled horse standing in an open area. I looked around several times, but didn’t see anyone. Ring started barking at something in a thicket of currant bushes. Ol’ Blue began to get nervous. She stood with her ears alert and pointed toward the thicket. Ring ventured into the bushes. I could hear someone talking to him. “Good dog. Easy, boy. Where’d you come from?”

  I set my half-filled bucket down and cautiously walked over to the bushes. I discovered a man lying on his back on the ground. He looked up at me and said, “Damn, kid. Am I ever glad to see you. My horse bucked me off and I’m in one hell-uva-fix.”

  Ring walked up to him and gave him a warm, wet lick in the left ear.

  I responded by saying, “You don’t look like much of a cowboy to me.” As soon as the words dropped out of my mouth, I was sorry I’d said anything. (All at once, I didn’t feel very smart.) I could tell at a glance he was in bad shape. His right leg was twisted and lying at an awkward angle. A trickle of blood showed at the left corner of his mouth. I felt as dumb as the knots on a potato. I knew he needed help.

  “Mister.” I said. “I’ll go get some help.” In one frantic sweep, I gathered the lines from the hame on ol’ Blue’s collar and jumped in the cart.

  “Hey, Kid! Wait a minute. Kid, how big is that cart?”

  “Big enough to hold two bales of hay.” I said.

  “Can you back that cart close and help me into it so you can get me outta here? I need to get to a doctor as soon as possible.”

  Ol’ Blue did her part and backed the cart into the thicket. (The look on her face told me she had been saving lives for a long time.)

  “Kid,” he said. “We’ll need some sticks and something to bind them in place so we can make a splint.”

  Out came my Scout knife. I cut three large currant stalks. Next, I caught his horse and removed one of the bridle reins. We made a splint for his injured leg. By the time we finished the splint, I was scared. I was nervous. I was shaking like an aspen leaf in the wind. To make matters worse, when he tried to move, it appeared he might have a broken rib or two.

  “Take your belt and fasten it to mine. We’ll cinch it around my chest,” he said. “We’ll see if that helps.”

  When I tightened the belts around his chest, he let loose with a string of cuss words I had never heard in all the years of my sheltered life. He cussed with feeling and eloquence. (Later, when I grew old enough to cuss, I tried to cuss with the eloquence he used that day on the mountain.) Through it all, ol’ Blue stood as still as thick cream in a jar.

  Getting him into the cart was no easy task. I spread my coat on top of the cones. (No way would I take the cones out.) The cart box was short. His good leg hung over the end gate. Ol’ Blue willingly gave up her collar pad for a cushion to protect his leg from the tailgate.

  No room remained in the cart for me. I jumped on ol’ Blue’s back and we started down the mountain. The Miller place was the closest. We headed there. Every time the cart hit a bump and jolted, the injured man yelled or cussed, sometimes both.

  Would ol’ Blue cross the crick? Upon reaching the water’s edge, she stopped dead-in-her-donkey-tracks and lowered her head to sniff the water. She raised her head and told me if I forced her into the crick, she would tell my mother I wanted to wear a white starched shirt to sunday school. (Sometimes donkeys will resort to such dirty tricks.) I kicked her in the ribs and slapped her rump with the doubled-up lines. Ring got into the act again. A few nips at ol’ Blue’s heels and she stepped into the water. Halfway across, she stopped and tried to lie down. The shafts on the cart kept her from lying down all the way, but she kept trying. During ol’ Blue’s shenanigans, I got my second dunking of the day. (If I’d had a gun, I woulda shot that donkey graveyard-dead right there in the middle of the crick.) The cussin’ and hollerin’ from the cart led me to believe my injured passenger felt the same way.

  By the time I opened the gate into Miller’s horse pasture, Ring was barking at their front door. Years later, Mrs. Miller told me she would always remember that day and the sight of a wet boy on a wet blue roan donkey pulling a cart. Tied to the cart was a black horse and hanging out the end of the cart was a man’s leg.

  The Millers placed a mattress in the bed of their pickup and helped the visibly shaken man from the cart and onto the mattress. The mattress would make his ride to the hospital a little more comfortable than his trip off the mountain.

  Mrs. Miller pinched my left cheek and said, “You’re a good little boy.”

  I’d had enough of the injured man, and didn’t want Mrs. Miller pinching my cheek again and calling me ‘a good little boy’. I climbed into the cart, whistled for Ring, and went back up the mountain to pick more pine cones.

  Late one afternoon several weeks later while I was feeding the chickens, a pickup drove into the yard. Ring barked like he’d never seen a pickup before. (I think he barked sometimes just to hear his head rattle.) I ambled over to the chicken-yard fence and watched a man on crutches get out of the passenger’s side. Mom came from the house to meet him. He said something to her. She pointed to me.

  “Oris, come here,” Mom called.

  I turned and started toward the gate. Standing between me and the gate was Brutus, Mom’s red rooster, with his feathers ruffled and strutting back and forth. He looked at me and said, “What ya doin’? I’ve a good mind to peck your eyes out. Try to get past me and you’ll wish ya’d never been born.” He threw his cigar away, spread his wings and came at me. I tossed a handful of corn at him. (The greedy bird forgot all about me.)

  “Do you know this man?” Mom asked.

  I answered, “No, Ma’am.”

  “I’m Charlie Vicman,” he said, “the not-so-very-good cowboy you hauled off the mountain.” Then he laughed.

  Mom gave me her silent “What-have-you-been-up-to?” look.

  Charlie handed me a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with white string. “This is for you,” he said.

  I took the package and stood looking at the ground. (Sometimes young boys are quiet even though mothers can’t remember a time when they were.)

  Charlie put his arm around my shoulders and said, “Go ahead and open it.”

  I broke the string and opened the package. Inside was a blue western shirt. I knew I should say something (but my brain ran away and my mouth wouldn’t work). I stood and brushed at my jeans with my right hand.

  “Tell the man ‘thank you’,” Mom said.

  I looked at Charlie. (The smile on his face went all the way around to the back of his neck.) “Thank you, sir, for the shirt.”

  “What’s this all about?” Mom asked.

  Charlie sat down on the porch steps and proceeded to tell how his ho
rse had thrown him onto a large rock and broke his leg. Then I came along and hauled him off the mountain in my cart. As he talked to Mom and filled her in on the details, I began to think Charlie was okay.

  “Mr. Vicman, Oris has a habit of not telling us what he does or what goes on in his own private little world. He hadn’t breathed a word about you.” Then she invited him to supper to meet Dad. I was okay with that.

  That fall and winter Charlie spent a lot of time at our house. He and my parents became close friends. As time went on, from him, I learned to appreciate good books. He made Les Miserables come alive for me. To this day, A Tale of Two Cities is one of my favorites.

  Charlie wouldn’t have joined a club. He wasn’t much for going to church. He cussed some, maybe even bent the law a little, and he liked a shot of whiskey once in a while, but he was my idol.

  The following 4 of July will forever be a special day in my life. Charlie won the Bareback Bronc ride at the rodeo.

  I was proud to be his friend.

  A Man Full-Grown and His Donkey

  Supper was almost over. Dad savored the last bite of blueberry cobbler and laid his fork on the plate. He looked at me and said, “Son. There’s a stray donkey in the pasture with yer donkey, Blue. First thing in the mornin’ after breakfast, you’d best go run that donkey out on the county road. He’ll find his way home, wherever that is.”

  I panicked! I took a deep breath and swallowed a couple of times. My hands started to sweat. My heart tried to jump out of my chest. My voice squeaked as I said, “I bought him from Bert.”

  I held my breath and waited for Dad’s reply. He took his time shaking out his napkin and slowly dabbed the left corner of his mouth. By now, I had to breathe, but was afraid to let my breath out because it would rush like a great blast of wind. Mom stopped eating. (The look on her brow indicated a severe storm was about to hit. She, along with my two small brothers, waited for Dad to explode.)

  “Now let me git this straight,” Dad said. “Ya bought that donkey from ol’ Bert without askin’ me first. First off, you shoulda asked me. Secondly, what in Sam Hill did ya use fer money?”

  “Bert only wanted ten dollars for the donkey. I had five dollars in quarters.”

  “Oris, five dollars in quarters don’t make ten dollars.”

  “I know. I traded five of my 4-H hens for the rest—the donkey’s name is Jim.”

  “You did what? Have you lost your mind?” Mom hit the table with her right fist, rattling every dish. She screeched, “For one thing, we don’t need another donkey on this place! Those hens were your 4-H projects. Money’s tight around here right now. We need all the eggs we can sell. What in the world were you thinking? As usual, you were NOT thinking!”

  She looked at Dad and sighed, “I’m at my wits’ end with this kid.”

  For once, my two younger brothers were quiet. Being quiet didn’t keep them from looking all smirky. I was in trouble. They were enjoying every second of it.

  “Son,” Dad said, “Bert did some tradin’ with Mel Anderson. That’s how he happened ta have the donkey. That donkey bluffed out the Anderson kids. They can’t ride him. They can’t drive him. He kicks and bites and is all around a badly spoiled donkey.”

  I sat in my chair trying to think of something to say. My thinker failed me. My mouth was dry. My heart dropped clear to my toes. I knew I was dead. Dad finished what he had to say and waited for me to answer. I looked to Mom, hoping she’d come to my rescue.

  “You got yourself in this mess, now get yourself out of it,” she said, her voice dripping icicles.

  The palms of my hands sweat like they did in Sunday School when Miss Perkins asked for volunteers to read a verse from the Bible. What was I to do? I wanted desperately to keep Jim. I knew I had to come up with an iron-clad reason and quick. Like the neon sign flashing in the window of Al’s Barber Shop, an idea began to burn in my fuzzy brain.

  “Dad. I’ve always wanted another donkey to drive with ol’ Blue.”

  “Son, I just told ya, the Anderson kids couldn’t do a thing with that donkey. What makes ya think you can?”

  “I know I should’ve asked you first before I bought him. Everyone says you’re the best hand with a mule in the whole county, and I knew you’d help me straighten him out. Then I’d have the best team of donkeys around.” My heart was no longer beating. (The only reason I was still alive was my body didn’t know my heart had stopped.) It was news to me that Jim had so many bad habits.

  Dad glanced at Mom, then across the table at my brothers. They were smiling from ear-to-ear like two impish elves, enjoying every second of my uneasiness. Dad looked me square in the eye. “Tomorrow mornin’ ya bring them donkeys home. After I set the water on the hay, that Anderson donkey and me’ll have ta educate ya.”

  “Thanks, Dad. I’ll have ‘em home early.” I breathed a sigh of relief. My heart started beating again. I began to think I’d live.

  Dad leaned back in his chair. From his left shirt pocket, he pulled a Bull Durham tobacco sack and rolled a cigarette. I thought I saw a hint of a twinkle in his eye when he looked across the table at Mom. He scratched a match on the bottom of his chair. I watched as he lit the cigarette. All trace of what might have been a twinkle in his eye had vanished. (Not breathing regularly, I was now seeing things that weren’t there.) It must have been my imagination. Dad pushed his squeaky old chair back from the table, got up, and went out on the back steps to enjoy his last smoke of the day. When the screen door shut, I started breathing again.

  Ralphie, my smart-alecky middle brother said, “Boy, I thought you was really gonna catch it from Dad, and I’ll bet you can’t do a thing with that dumb donkey. I hope you have to sell him and Blue both.”

  Not to be out done by his partner in crime, my little brother, Eddie, asked Mom, “Why didn’t Daddy get mad at Oris for buyin’ another donkey? ’Specially without askin’ first.”

  “That’s enough, you two. It’s not your affair. Put your dirty plates in the sink and be off with you.”

  I started to clear my dishes from the table. Mom motioned for me to sit in a chair.

  “Why didn’t you ask your father before going off half-cocked and buying that donkey?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Well, if you don’t know, who does? Young man, you’d better start thinking. Do you hear me?”

  Dad hadn’t told me to take Jim back. He was going to help me with him. Now, Mom got into the act. When she used that tone of voice, experience had taught me she was gearing up for a long lecture. No way did I want to face her or her practical way of thinking. For once in their lives, my two pesky brothers arrived when needed. Entering the kitchen, Ralphie said, “Mama, can we ride our bikes for a while?”

  Mom looked at the kitchen clock and said, “No. It’s time you got ready for bed.” I knew she’d have her hands full for a few minutes. I took advantage of the situation and slipped out the kitchen door.

  Dad, sitting on the porch steps finishing his cigarette, said, “Son, will ya shut the chicken house door? If we leave the door open and a skunk raids the chicken house, your Mom’ll have my head and yours, too. When that’s done, come back, and we’ll have a talk.”

  A knot grew in the pit of my stomach. My imagination kicked into high gear. Had he changed his mind? Was he going to tell me Jim had to go?

  I shut the chicken house door. My stomach was plain sick with worry. I plopped down by Dad and watched him take the last drag on what seemed to be the end of his fingers. He always got his money’s worth out of a cigarette. He carefully set the very small cigarette butt on the step. With the heel of his badly scuffed left black boot, he ground it into a small spot of light grey ashes.

  With a very dry mouth, and a knot in the pit of my stomach, I waited for him to say something. He wasn’t one for rushing into anything. I wanted to get this talk behind me.

  “Son. Any boy fit to own a donkey can ride, drive, and work his donkey. If he can’t,
he’d best get rid o’ the critter and get hisself a lamb.” He added insult to injury by saying, “No boy worth his salt would let a donkey get the best o’ him, no matter how ornery the donkey or how many boys he had buffaloed. Are you man enough ta tackle that donkey in the mornin’?”

  “Yes, sir,” I answered.

  Come morning, I was up and had most of my chores done before Dad came to the barn. I milked two cows to his one. (He wasn’t keen on milking anyway.) Dad fed the cows and calves. I swept the barn floor and fed the pigs and was ready to go to breakfast. But ‘no-o-o’. Dad had to stop and check Mom’s garden. (As if it wouldn’t be there after breakfast.)

  Halfway through breakfast, Ralphie piped up, “Daddy are you gonna make Oris take that donkey back?” I wanted to punch him a good one. However, from experience, I knew hitting my brother wasn’t the thing to do, especially at the table. The look on my face told the little twerp he was in for it the first time I caught him out of Mom’s sight.

  After breakfast, Dad shouldered his shovel and walked up the ditch to change the water. Hot-footing it over to the pasture, I caught Blue and tied her to the fence. With halter in hand, I walked up to Jim. He stood still as honey in a glass jar. He put his nose into the noseband, and I fastened the halter. ‘Heck fire, no trouble here,’ I thought. ‘This donkey’s gonna be okay.’

  Blue was a good traveler. She walked fast for a donkey and Jim kept pace with her. All the way home, he didn’t let the lead rope tighten. He let me catch him without any problem, and he led better than most horses. I was beginning to think that maybe Mr. Anderson was wrong about him.