Book Karma from the Grumpy Injun
I discovered in my collection of books (only 5 bookcases full) somehow I have 2 of the same so the newest copy goes to the best yarn spinner. Any kind of story: funny, tear jerker, sad, love story (oops, already covered that one under sad & tear-jerker), heroic, fiction... it can even be about another forum member (I guess that would come under heroic, right?). If you don't want the book you can still tell a story & if you win name whoever to get the book in your place. Let's give it until New Years Day & I'll take a page out of the book of Azmick & pick a winner by whoever gets the most 'likes'. Now I suppose you want to know the name of the book: Attachment 26347
Trappin with the brothers..
Well i'll take a whack at it. Now, this is a true story – happened a long time ago in a place that was so very much different than it is now....
I've said before, I come from a large family and the three oldest are boys. We lived in a small city, but were fortunate that our property abutted a medium sized river that was part of government flood management system. So it was all woods and floodplain for miles up and down the river. There were a great many critters that used that swath of land, and when we were young it was our personal goal to get up close and personal with each and every one.
Somewhere along the line, we read a magazine article about making a live trap from a shopping cart. Some chicken wire over the top opening, reverse the swinging gate of the cart, a galvanized wood gate latch to keep it closed, and a wood trigger made with a hinge and some wire. All things available to certain trio of enterprising young men.
So, after a late summer day of industry in our backyard, the grand adventure was set to begin. Of course - our efforts had not gone un-noticed. I said at the start, there were 3 of us boys, but to our eternal torment, we had been followed by 3 sisters, two of which had red hair. Now God gives your sister red hair for only one reason - and that is to warn you not to have any fun when they are around, 'else they will surely tell your mother.
It was a normal course at suppertime in that house for there to be a lot of discussion of the day’s events. That particular night, the oldest and meanest of those red-haired girls, could not wait to tell daddy about the shopping cart from the A&P that had come to rest in our backyard. Now, telling Daddy about something questionable that went on during the day, was always a hit or miss proposition, sometimes literally. In this particular case, he seemed somewhat interested in our endeavor. Mother of course, was not sold on it – “But, Leo” she said, “They might get hurt”.
So daddy went out back with us after supper, and we explained how it all worked and how we were going to trap some raccoons and such and make a whole bunch of money selling the pelts. It all tickled daddy’s fancy, and we got a big laugh and a “you boys crack me up”, which of course is code for, “I’m in, but don’t tell your mother”.
So we set that trap up in the back yard, next to the garbage cans, and baited the trigger with cat food and other concoctions. Of course we caught a lot of critters, and it became a breakfast ritual to all get up and rush out to the back porch to see what we had nabbed. The possums were the most fun, we loved to let ‘em loose and chase them around and watch them stop and curl up. We even nabbed a raccoon or two, although they proved too smart for any serious pelt related industry.
And most of those days, daddy was the first one out the door to take a look at what we had caught. He would laugh and say “You boys crack me up”, which is code of course for “I’m having as much fun as you are”. Even the mean red-haired tattletales seemed to be enjoying the fun, until the morning when it all came to an end.
On that particular morning, time had progressed into fall, and there was a snap in the air and something different in the trap. At first, I thought it was a neighbor’s cat, but it was way large for that, and black and white, and making a fearsome racket, kind of humpbacked.
‘Course daddy took one look at it, and being the man of the world he was, knew right away what is was. He about busted a gut laughing, “SKUNK!, you caught a SKUNK”, and followed up with “You boys crack me up”, which of course was code for – “this is gonna be funny!” He also managed to gasp out between laughs, “one of you boys go on down there and let it out”. Of course, being the oldest, I knew right away what that meant, and who it was that was going to have to go down there and face the music.
And then, a quiet voice spoke up and momma said “Leo, they might get hurt”. My father stopped in mid laugh, and began to negotiate – “but, but, but” which of course is code for, “oh crap, I’m, screwed”..
For the rest of my life, I will never forget that epic battle that took place that morning – daddy using a long pole to try and pop the swing door open, and that skunk yowling and doing what it is skunks do. It was a big old mean one – and was not going to take anything from anyone. It ended with both parties beating a retreat, but not before daddy got pasted good.
Needless to say, that was the end of our trapping days. Daddy had choice words to say about our plan, and momma piped in that “she didn’t want us tormenting the poor creatures anymore”, and the evil red-heads became only more convinced of their personal calling to making life miserable for the brothers.
Truth be told, it wasn’t the end of our schemes – but looking back 50 plus years later, it may have been the most enjoyable.
Book Karma from the Grumpy Injun
Here's a true story from Bama:
My grandad was my hero. I called him Pop.
I was normally spending the most time with Pop when I was a kid. He had another 15 grand kids...but I dearly loved being out on the river with Pop during the summer, and out in the woods all fall/winter/spring.
We lived in nowhere Alabama, and there wasn't even a name for parts of the area...it still had names like Drip Branch, Happy Holler, and Toadvine. There still aren't any red lights for about 20 miles in any direction.
Pop had earned a double retirement from two companies. He drew wire at the US Steel wire mill for 25 years, then drive a truck for another 20. He wouldn't have retired from trucking, except he had had a heart attack from 60+ years of smoking.
It was winter time, and my dad knew how much we loved rabbit hunting together. He told me I could not DRAG Pop out in the woods, because he might have another heart attack.
One Saturday morning before 6am, Pop called our house.
We knew it was him, because nobody else ever called that early.
My dad said, "If that's Pop, tell him you're too busy to go hunting. Got chores or whatever."
My heart sank.
It was Pop.
He asked if I wanted to go rabbit huntin' this morning.
I told him I couldn't because I have chores to do.
Pop asked how much fire wood I had cut that week, and how much was on the back porch.
I said about two cords.
He asked several other questions, then realized what was going on.
He said, "Well tell your daddy I'M GOING HUNTING. NOBODY IS ALLOWED TO GO BUT BUTCH. PERIOD.
IF HE WANTS ME TO GO BY MYSELF...THATS FINE!!!!
I'LL BE COMING BE THERE IN FIFTEEN MINUTES!!!!"
My dad told me to get my stuff.
While we were out at a big field in the woods, the beagles struck a rabbit and took off!
Pop asked if I was gonna go shoot the rabbit when they circled. (Rabbits are known for running in big circles when chased by beagles. Go to where they just were, and they'll be back by in a few minutes.)
I went in the woods, but really just hiked around to the top off the ridge where I could keep an eye on Pop from up there.
He was standing by his old black '60 model Ford, drinking coffee from a thermos, old trusty pistol on his belt holster, just standing there smiling....
then he grabbed his chest, and doubled over.
I was frozen in time...
He was just standing there not moving.....
Holding his chest.
Then he moved ever so slowly, and let go of the truck.
He took off his jacket (it was VERY cold that am). Very carefully laid his jacket on the truck hood, then started slowly removing his overalls....
Evidently it wasn't another feared heart attack....
It was the greasy breakfast we're infamous for here in the South.
He had pooped all over himself.
The giant of a man, had been reduced to a frail stick from health issues, and now he was VERY carefully doing damage control.
He was able to partially undress himself, get himself cleaned up, slit both sides of his underwear and removed them like a diaper...then redressing.
I decided to never tell anyone.
About that time, his last article of dressing was putting his pistol holster back on.
His prized pistol flipped out of the holster, and went SPLAT!!!!....right into the small pile of yuck.
I lost all control...and laughed so hard I nearly threw up.
He yelled up and asked how long I'd been up there. I replied long enough to go from scared to can't breathe because I was laughing so hard.
I slid down the ridge, and we laughed and laughed and laughed....while he was cleaning his pistol.
He made me promise that morning...that whenever he died, I'd go rabbit hunting or fishing. Whichever season it was...and think about this day and days like it. Because "Your Granny will have plenty of people helping her cry, or trying to out cry each other."
Some of my relatives were furious when they heard I went hunting....on the morning after Pop died.
It was a great morning to hunt and cry by myself....with freshly skinned rabbits cooking on a small fire by the creek.
But the rabbits weren't as good as when me and Pop cooked them in the woods.
I forgot the salt.
Pop always had the salt.
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