Читать книгу When the Porch Light's On. . .Stories of People, Popcorn, and Parasails - Don Ph.D. Newbury PhD - Страница 5

THE WORD “CHICKEN” elicits smiles, if not outright chuckles. Mere thoughts of this bird, gangly and way down on the IQ chain, conjure up a multitude of images and funny stories….

Dr. Reagan Brown, former Texas Commissioner of Agriculture, entertained around the state with such stories many thousands of times. He sounded more rural than he actually was, but audiences, “citified” or not, loved his stories. Particularly popular was his account of growing-up days when he claimed to be a “chicken-turner” on the family farm. Listeners did some head turning, shifting gazes toward others to see if fellow listeners had an inkling of what a chicken-turner might do. Usually, at least for a few minutes, audiences were clueless, unless they had heard him speak previously….

Soon, though, they exploded in laughter when he explained what chicken-turners do. Dr. Brown explained that on the farm, chickens would “roost” each evening around the rim of their cistern, the source of the family’s cool, clear drinking water. In fact, to get a dipper of water after sundown, one had to push chickens aside.…Brown said that the chickens’ usual roosting formation was “heads outward, tails backward” (toward the water). He claimed that his chicken-turning duty each evening was important if the water was to remain clear and appealing. Usually, Dr. Brown had to pause for several seconds for the laughter to die down, and no matter how many times he appeared before the same audiences, they almost always made him promise to tell the “chicken-turning” story….

THERE’S BEEN PLENTY else along the way to keep chickens front and center of humor, with or without chicken-turners. Take “Laugh-In,” one of the funniest and longest running TV comedy shows ever. It depended greatly on chicken humor. The players often dressed in chicken outfits. They squawked like chickens. They flapped their wings. They popularized a question folks across the country quickly picked up on: “Is that another lousy chicken joke?” “Laugh-In” was king and chickens helped make it so.

Anyway, I never expected another farm story to be as funny as the one about “chicken-turning,” but let’s not run the risk of saying “never.” One thing is sure: true stories are always the funniest; it’s a universal truth.

I NOW TAKE full liberty of asking you to open wide the doors of your imagination. Picture me and my futility as a rural kid, inching toward high school, knowing little about agriculture, and accepting as fact a practice borne out in the history of Early, Texas, schools. All freshman guys took what was called the “ag class” (agriculture). It had to do with animals, crops, rodeoing, and a host of other outdoor things. Girls took “home-ec” (home economics); guys took “ag.” There was no cross-over. They participated in 4-H projects together, but in the classroom, it was “ag” and “home ec” for the guys and gals, respectively. Memory runneth not to the contrary.

Never mind that this fourteen-year-old had never used a hoe, ridden a tractor, fed an animal, or tied a rope. We lived a dozen miles out in the country because that’s where the pipe yards were for my dad’s work at a local natural gas company. And that company supplied natural gas for rural customers. I was in the country, but not of the country. Though I’m sure I looked plenty country enough to be country, looks deceive.

In truth, I was neither urban nor country. I was gangly and clumsy—a veritable poster boy for awkwardness and uncertainty upon entering high school. I froze when the freshman year was mentioned, particularly when “ag class” was the topic. Just about all my friends were “true country,” already owning animals for 4-H contests and such. Some had been tending animals since toddler-hood, with a built-in understanding of which brushes to use in animal grooming, what and when to feed, and so on. They were both conversational and functional concerning cattle, horses, sheep, and hogs. I learned to “hush up” when such conversations began, crutching my way along to adroitly change the subject as soon as possible. “Read any good books lately? Gee, ain’t it been hot?” You know the drill.…

AH, THE VIRTUE of patience! First day of class, my ag teacher, Mr. Herschel Wheeler, no doubt sensed my apprehension about being the only guy in the class with only a barnyard cat and a mongrel dog between me and total “animallessness,” despite our living out in the country. (Cats and dogs, by the way, don’t qualify for 4-H projects.) He said students with limited livestock opportunities sometimes chose rabbits, with a buck and a doe often producing multiple litters of bunnies during a school year. Eureka! I could join the ranks of animal owners; my livestock background was a lot worse than limited.

I digress. My original intention was to get right into an “I’m-not-making-this-up” story about “rabbit-turning,” thus linking it with Brown’s yarn about “chicken-turning.” Allow me to fast-forward to springtime of my freshman year. It was “County Meet Time” (translation: livestock competition in Brown County). I was hanging around the rabbit area with zero chance of getting a ribbon. Alas, I had no entry, but I could at least associate with those who did….

Remember, rabbits were no higher than third-tier as animal project choices among students in my class. Only a few kids—usually living in town and limited to backyards for livestock projects—chose rabbits, and even fewer raised chickens. I had plenty of room, but, for reasons cited earlier, I bought a pair of rabbits as animals of choice….

AGAIN, DIGRESSION, AND apologies are in order. It won’t happen again, probably. As mentioned, it was county meet time, and youngsters from all over the county brought their entries, groomed for judging. Most of the crowds, of course, gathered around the cattle, horses, sheep, and hogs. They even had a “paid judge,” a bright young man with two college degrees and only a whisker away from a doctorate.

Dick Eudaly, now a good friend at Travis Avenue Baptist Church in Fort Worth, had studied at three of the foremost “ag” universities in the world—Oklahoma State, Texas Tech, and Texas A&M. In total awe, we applauded him generously. He smiled at us, acting as if he were more than competent to judge any sort of animal competition. Stifling a yawn, he gave the impression that judging animals at our county meet would be a breeze. (Usually, such judges gave ribbons for cattle, hogs, sheep, and goats, and a lesser judge, almost always a volunteer, ranked the rabbits, because at many shows, there were no rabbits.)

The young man wasn’t visibly shaken—remember, he already had two degrees—when the event chairman revealed a definite problem—the guy who had agreed to judge rabbits didn’t show, and there were several to be judged. The young Cowboy/Red Raider/Aggie was asked (actually, it was more of a plea) if he would judge the rabbit competition as well. Swelling with confidence, he responded, “Of course I will.” (Keep in mind that he had never judged rabbits or even seen it done….)

“Are they fryers or breeding rabbits?” the young man asked, his response implying that he knew something about one or the other. The director answered, “Fryers,” and the response seemed to relieve the deputized judge greatly. He gave the impression that he could judge fryers with an eye closed. Breeding rabbits? Not so sure. (Decades later, he admitted that whichever competition awaited—fryers or breeders—THAT would have been his area of expertise.)

Dick later admitted that he simply didn’t have the heart to confess that all he knew about rabbits was that they had floppy ears, pink eyes, and twitchy noses--the same facts known by pre-schoolers whose parents read to them at bedtime.…(This admission came, however, many years later when rabbit ribbons were faded. We “formerly unsteady freshmen” are now unsteady in other ways. Many have grandchildren showing animals in competition, and—surprise, surprise—are studying in “co-ed” agriculture and home economics classes! From what I understand, not many students choose rabbits for show animals today, either….)

BACK TO THE contest. The judge went straight to the rabbit tent, where a bunch of wide-eyed freshmen had their entries lined up, steadying them with their hands around the rabbits’ rumps that rested on rickety pedestals. He walked up and down, carefully eyeing each entry, much the way he would look at calves. Calves, though, were led around the ring, so they could be viewed from every angle. Dare he ask the kids to lead their rabbits around the ring? He thought not.

Realizing that “fryers” meant that the rabbits were raised for frying pans, the judge figured most of the meat would be found in the rear areas. He couldn’t see those parts; that’s where the youngsters were holding them down. Then, he had an idea! “Reverse the rabbits!” he ordered. (Dick swore later he had never heard the Reagan Brown chicken-turner story. He said this was the only way he knew to examine the “meaty” parts.)

The kids stared at each other in disbelief! They had practiced showing their rabbits, but had never heard such a request. They would have been no more surprised if the judge had ordered them to drop their pants! (High school freshmen, in those days, did exactly what teachers asked. If he had told them to start their engines, they would have looked for engines to start.) Tediously and slowly, they turned their animals’ “rumps outward,” trying, as best they could, to steady their bunnies by holding on to their front legs. The rabbits fidgeted, not accustomed to being in such poses. (I laughed at the “what if” thought of having an entry. Mine would likely have wound up sideways! My buck and doe, as you’ll soon see, had nothing to show for their efforts.)

SENSING THEIR DISCOMFORT, the judge realized that with just a few word strokes, he had painted himself into the smallest of corners. What to do? He did what seemed most logical, given the rabbits’ new positions. He methodically felt the rump of each rabbit, humming softly as he made pencil notes. He determined which rabbits were “rumpiest” and awarded ribbons accordingly. No eyebrows were raised, not even one. The kids just figured this was a new rabbit-judging technique, introduced and perfected at one of those great universities—perhaps researched at all three--and was just now making its way to our part of the country.…

NOW, I RETURN to my sad agricultural efforts. Though “rabbit-turning,” like “chicken-turning,” is funny at the very thought, my efforts to raise rabbits in the high school 4-H club weren’t funny and weren’t successful. As my teacher suggested, I bought a full-grown buck and doe and built my own rabbit hutch, using apple boxes and some used chicken wire. I whistled while I worked, thinking in single dimension: keeping the rabbits INSIDE the hutch. I gave no thought to hutch predators from the OUTSIDE. I use the word “hutch” as often as I can, because every time I said “cage” around Mr. Wheeler, he corrected me. (Critical error number one: Use half-inch hail screen, not two-inch chicken wire, for the cage. No one was that specific about how to build the hutch.)

Sure enough, in a few weeks, I was more than excited to find eight wiggly bunnies when I went to feed one morning. I couldn’t wait to tell the teacher of my good fortune. Dollar signs filled my mind. After all, I only had four dollars invested in the pair of rabbits who were capable of producing many, many more litters. I was told I might get two dollars each for the bunnies on a Saturday morning from kids playing on the lawn at the county courthouse square.

These thoughts lasted only a few hours. I was counting rabbits too soon after they’d “hatched.” Imagine my horror after school that day when I opened the hutch to feed the rabbits, and the babies—every last one of them—were missing! I told my sad story to all who would listen. My teacher asked what kind of wire I had used. “Should have used one-half inch hail wire,” he sighed. “My guess is that a cat was able to get its paw through the chicken wire.” (How weird, I thought, but then reckoned, from a cat’s point of view, this was easier than chasing mice. Sort of like catching fish in a rain barrel.)

It made sense--we had a cat—we called her our “mouser.” We noticed that she seemed quite content just to lie around the next couple of days, like out-of-shape old men in front of the television after Christmas dinner.…I guess she was also our “rabbiter.…” (Critical error number two: When you don’t know how to build a rabbit hutch, ask--don’t just guess. As Dad said, “If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right.” Unless, as he admitted later, there was the convenience of chicken wire laying around, but hail screen would have to be bought.…In such a reflective work as this, it seems important to work in a “my dad always said” line. But, it has always seemed to me that such quotes usually are first uttered by famous people, with dads across the ages later latching on to them as their very own.)

THANKFULLY, HOPE SPRINGS eternal in freshmen. My hope? There was still time in the freshman year for one more litter…Time seemed an ally. Near year’s end, my doe presented me with ten baby bunnies. Again, dollar signs floated in my head. Hey, it was near Easter; no telling what the bunnies would bring at the feed store, in a pen right next to the colored chicks! Why, youngsters would choose rabbits about every time. I shared my excitement with my teacher. He congratulated me.

Hours later, he took the congratulations back. At evening’s feed time, I was below crest-fallen. The doe, perhaps seeing the cat peering through the new hail screen, probably panicked. It appeared she chose to eat the litter before the cat had a chance to do so! My teacher, ever compassionate, told me that sometimes when screwy things happen to the first litter, the doe becomes “mentally warped,” and she does strange things to the second litter.… (Critical error number three: When time is of the essence and final grades are close by, always ask the teacher, “Is there anything else I need to watch out for?” I would gladly have stood guard over both litters, by night and by day, if I had even suspected such a dreadful thing might happen.)

Guess what? I made a “B” in agriculture. (I told you the teacher was compassionate.) He also loved funny stories, and didn’t we decide the true ones are funniest? The teacher told me he was not going to grade me down for not increasing the rabbit count. But, he warned me to be sure to take care of the buck and doe. (Following the second litter, the doe seemed to have zero interest in having a third bunch of bunnies….)

HOW GRATEFUL I was! A “B” is just short of an “A,” and plenty “okay” in my book of school life. I was grateful for the chance to prove my worth by really taking care of the old rabbits. I “smooshed” their pellets, made sure their water was fresh and begged my mom for leaves of lettuce every chance I got. I was determined to keep mom and pop rabbit healthy! Of course, the rabbit saga continued….What’s this? Foreign stuff in poppa rabbit’s ear? What is it? Will it spread? Can humans catch it?

It was the last week of school, and I ran, first thing that morning, to file the latest rabbit report with Mr. Wheeler. “Not to worry,” he answered. “Sometimes rabbits get ear canker. It isn’t serious; it can be treated with mineral oil a couple of times a day.”

Mineral oil? Why couldn’t it be olive oil, machine oil, 30-weight oil, or any other oil we had around the house? No, the teacher spoke slowly, seeming to carve out each syllable, MIN-ER-AL OIL. Clearly, it had to be this specific oil, one I knew little about, except that it was a remedy people depended on to treat constipation. Wouldn’t you know it? We were all out of mineral oil. I told my mother I needed some to treat my rabbits’ ears, explaining that Mr. Wheeler insisted that it was the best home remedy. Despite limited medical knowledge, I didn’t admit to Mom that I figured mineral oil was used exclusively as a laxative—it’s just not a topic a kid broaches with his mother. No sense embarrassing both of us.…

Time to ride my bike to Williams Store, five miles away. (It was two miles on the dirt road and then three more up the state highway.) A freshman has to do what a freshman has to do. I checked my bike tires, knowing that if I wasn’t careful, I would run right over a burr patch, and the next thing I’d hear would be the sickening sound of air spewing out of a punctured tire. Would such an incident make me late to the store? Of course it would, and might delay treatment by a couple of hours. Skillfully, I maneuvered my bike on the country road with nary a puncture. What a relief it was to reach the highway and guide my bike to the edge of the hardtop. I peddled madly, with dust flying as I skidded to a stop in front of the store. “There is a God,” I thought.

UPON ARRIVAL, I whispered a two-part prayer--actually, three. First, I thanked the Almighty for safe arrival and deliverance through the burr patches. The other two parts? One was that Mr. Williams, not Mrs. Williams, would be working that day. Mrs. Williams was terribly hard of hearing, and I wasn’t eager to yell out that I needed a bottle of MINERAL OIL. My face reddened at the thought that ANYONE would hear my request; I only wanted to say “mineral oil” once. Surely anyone hearing me would assume me to be in a state of constipation. The end of the prayer was that there would be NO OTHER customers in the store, particularly if Mrs. Williams was on duty.

Okay, maybe for just the briefest of seconds, I thought that MAYBE there’s not a God. I struck out on parts two and three of my prayer. Mr. Williams had gone into town to fetch the mail, and there were four shoppers in the store—all women. “Jeepers,” I thought. “Just my luck, having to buy a laxative with five women listening—if Mrs. Williams’ efforts could be considered ‘listening.’”

Lingering in my mind was my teacher’s haunting admonition, “Take good care of your buck and doe.” Failing that, I wondered if my prized “B” might melt downward into a “D,” or maybe a dreaded “F.” It was a serious situation, and again, I realized that a freshman must do what a freshman must do. I walked straight up to Mrs. Williams, whispering and shuffling feet before meekly asking, “Do you have any mineral oil?”

“Have any what?” she answered, leaning over the counter, hoping to hear my plea a little better. “Mineral oil,” I repeated. “What kind of oil?” she questioned. Finally, I gutted up with about as much courage as I ever had. Opening my mouth wide, in full surrender, I was determined to speak crisply and with full volume. To heck with it; the syllables could hang out as they would. I said them the just the way I remembered my teacher did: “MIN-ER-AL OIL,” I fairly bellowed.

Mrs. Williams, serious as church, finally understood. “No, we’re all out of mineral oil….” Pausing, she added, as if through a megaphone, “But we’ve got Ex-Lax, and that’s an awful good laxative….” My face felt as if it were on fire. I raced from the store, riding my bike home at warp speed, hang the burrs. As I rode within one hundred yards of the house, I even thought of ringing the stupid bell on my bike. “You can use it for emergencies,” my mother had said when my granddad—her dad—handed the bell to me as a twelfth birthday present. What a “sicko” gift; it was one of those bells pre-schoolers had on their tricycles. It helped them learn to use their thumbs to produce the “brrrrrrrng, brrrrrng” that may seem loud inside, but is little more than a tinkle outdoors. What was my granddad thinking? It was like getting an ugly painting from a relative. Hideous as the work might be, it still had to be on the wall when they visited. It was that way with the bell on my bike. My friends would have rolled on the ground laughing if they ever saw the wimpy bell clamped on my bike. Granddad had visited the day before, so the bell was in place, and I rang it feverishly as I rolled up to the back door. As I had hoped, Mom met me on the porch.

IN TEARS, I spilled out a detailed version of what had happened. Mothers are so sympathetic. She understood completely and didn’t laugh at the incident—at least not in my presence—until years later.

Calmly, we got in the car. She drove the dozen miles to Brownwood, and Mom, not about to run the risk of embarrassing me twice in the same day with delicate requests for mineral oil to store clerks, suggested that I stay in the car. Ah, that’s the very place I wanted to be! Mom marched into the Piggly-Wiggly and returned to the car with a small brown bag. It contained the item so critically needed to perhaps save the life of my rabbit, but, more importantly, to preserve my “B” in agriculture.

Again, God was on His throne; much was right with the world. All’s okay, I guess, that ends okay. That’s how my freshman year ended. Some kids showed wonderful cattle, even fetching big bucks at the Fat Stock Show in Fort Worth. Same for those showing sheep. And hogs. Me? I started with two rabbits, and finished with two rabbits--healthy fat rabbits I let play on the lawn. Life was sunny side up! There was much to be glad about. I didn’t have to wrestle with good-byes to animals I knew soon would be slaughtered and served on restaurant plates. I gagged at the thought of eating my own prized animals. I had those rabbits for several more years. We never even thought of having them as a change from chicken for Sunday dinner. And, rabbit feed wasn’t all that expensive.

I LEARNED A lot that year....But so did my teacher. The next year, Mr. Wheeler handed out mimeographed sheets telling kids just about everything that could happen to their livestock projects—even step-by-step instructions for building rabbit cages—I mean, hutches. He also learned that grading could be based pretty much on sincere effort, because that’s all I had to show for rabbit-raising. Oh, and the livestock judge. Dick claims to have learned a major lesson: Never pretend to be someone you’re not. He said that was the only rabbit competition he ever judged. For years afterward, he confessed to having nightmares about asking kids to “reverse their rabbits.”

Oh, I learned another mighty important lesson! It was that most things are not worth being embarrassed about. In the years since, many is the time I’ve entered stores, head held high, to buy mineral oil or whatever, not caring if Mrs. Williams was the clerk, or who might be listening.…(I draw the line, though, on going to a woman doctor, unless I’m really sick, and she’s the only doctor around.)

ONE LAST THOUGHT: When I told my teacher about my efforts to buy a bottle of mineral oil, he reddened. His face was beyond red. His eyes filled with tears—the kind you get when you laugh until you can’t catch your breath. We thought he was going to have a smothering spell for sure. After several minutes, he closed his book and tried vainly to control himself. He couldn’t, so he dismissed the class twenty minutes early. It was the only time I ever remember getting out of class early, except maybe for PE. I still prize that “B” on my freshman report card and consider it something of a gift. And I am thankful for a compassionate teacher who loved life, and kids, and jokes, and was a full-fledged participant in a one hundred percent true funny story. They ARE the funniest! You just can’t go wrong with chicken or rabbit stories—neither is lousy, true or false!

(CRITICAL ERROR NUMBER four: Actually, I averted this error. I refer to the Holy Bible, where, in Ecclesiastes 3:1, we are reminded, “To everything there is a season.” Even though a trike bell on my bike is a bitter memory, I did NOT ditch the bell. My granddad is long since gone. I know he meant no ill. Besides, it is a strong reminder of a man who had such a positive impact on my life. In a couple of years, when my own grandson lights up the room with a smile seldom equaled—the kind a kid flashes when he first learns to peddle his tricycle--the bell will be in place, clamped right there on the bar by his thumb, so he can make all the “brrrrrng, brrrrng” sounds he wants. But, I’ve circled the date to make sure that when Ben’s thoughts turn to bicycles, the trike bell will long since have been put away.…)

One absolutely last thought: Riney Jordan, a wonderful friend of more than forty years who also likes to splash around in the great sea of past experiences, has advised me to share my rabbit-raising story with the people who do advertising for MasterCard, kinda/sorta/maybe like:

Rabbits: $5

Hutches (or cages): $10

Story About a Freshman Ag Project: PRICELESS!