Drive - A Memoir 10th Installment
the
wimpy fencers that were sold at The Cal Ranch store. I remember the
times when some kid or relative was around, we would dare each other
to touch the wire, or when Linda’s friends or our cousins were at
the farm we would play ‘wuss out,’ a game where we would hold
hands in a line with the end kid grabbing a weed, and the kid at the
other end grabbing the wire. The electric shocks would occur every
two seconds, and we would all ‘hang’ in there. The kid who would
break free of the line to cry or run away was the ‘wuss out.’
I
was already asking as we scrambled back to our feet, “Should we
find time to make our clubbing sticks and our throwing clubs? I was
thinking about the hordes of jackrabbits this year and the jackrabbit
drives.”
“Yeah,
let’s do it soon,” Russ agreed, “the sticks need time to dry
after we bark ‘em, carve ‘em, and bend ‘em to make them perfect
for throwing and bludgeoning.
“We
can find the perfect tree in the jungle behind – oh! There’s
Vern,” I warned Russ. “We better get this over with.”
The
Old Man was whaling away on a tire iron with a ten pound sledge
hammer, trying to knock a tractor tire off the rim. I was thinking as
we approached how
he swings hard, his full strength, again and again, muttering about
the damn drop center rims, sweat flying, yet never missing the end of
the iron he was holding. If he missed he would surely bust his hand,
but he never missed. Jeez, he was good with a hammer.
“Grab
that digger bar,” he said, seeing us standing there; and true to
his way, never letting us hang around for a moment without
immediately putting us to work. “Stick the flat end between the
bead and the rim.”
“Here?”
I asked.
“No,”
he instructed, dropping his hammer and taking the end of the bar and
guiding the point where he wanted the bar to fit. “Now push, hard.
Both of you push. Ok, now stand on the end.” I stepped up, brought
both feet on the bar and grabbed Russ's shoulder to keep from
falling. “Give me more weight, get up there Russ!” Vern said,
grabbing his hammer and preparing to swing. I was the stouter,
stronger and probably the heavier; okay I am heavier wearing my husky
jeans. Russ is built like 'Ichabod Crane,' the rail thin
schoolteacher in Sleepy Hollow. He put a foot on the bar, stepped up,
panicked and stepped down, keeping one long leg on the ground so we
both wouldn’t fall.
“More
weight, harder!” Vernon seemed like he was getting mad because we
weren’t heavy enough. I wondered how
I could be heavier since I was all on and Russ weight combined with
mine except for a toe on the ground for balance.
“Bounce,
jump up and down, and I’ll hammer the tire iron on
500 more words tomorrow
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