Good evening, stranger. I’m surprised to see you. Please, make yourself comfortable.
I don’t get many visitors.
Perhaps that’s because of the hours I keep. Yes, it’s very late in the evening; the sun has long since set. This is my time.
Can I get you some refreshment? No? Very well, then. I can only guess why you are here.
You seem nervous, a bit uncomfortable. You’re sitting so far away. Are you frightened? Now that you’re here, you can see I do not resemble HIM. Yet, still, you have fear; fear you have bravely overcome to hear a story.
So I shall tell it.
You know, of course, of HIM. Master of the night. Immortal, Undead, the Drinker of Blood. We shall not utter his name, for wherever He is, He shall hear it, and He will come.
You do not want that.
Yet I have no fear of him, for we are related. He will not, can not, would not harm me. Sadly, I possess none of his attributes. I am not immortal. I do not have superhuman strength and speed. Ladies do not find me sensual, irresistible. Even so, we are related. And for that reason alone I have nothing to fear from Him.
One more thing - I do not drink blood.
I see you have relaxed a bit. That is good. See, you have nothing to fear from me. Actually the taste, even the sight, of blood makes me nauseous. I much prefer Diet Coke.
But I am what you would term a Vampire. I am a creature of the night. But just as He craves blood, needs blood to maintain his life force, I too have a need, an unquenchable thirst, a thirst that must be slaked nightly for me to maintain my own life force.
I crave the sound of children’s laughter.
I see that you find this amusing. What a contrast, you must be thinking. The dashing, dangerous, sensual Count, slaking his thirst with the blood of comely young maidens. Me, the not-so-dashing Ordinary Man, slaking my own desperate thirst by finding ways to make young children laugh.
Yet, I must have it. I must. It is a terrible addition. If I go more than a night or two without hearing the sound of children laughing, I begin to get weak, woozy. My life force begins to ebb. I find it difficult to function, my strength (such as it is) drops, my skin turns pale.
So I do what I must to stay alive. I search them out, those young, innocent children for whom laughter is as normal as breathing. Once I find them, I do what I must to incite that laughter. Often it is as easy as making a silly face. Occasionally I must do a pratfall, trip over something, fall in a spectacular fashion.
Once I had to make Diet Coke come out of my nose.
See, it has worked on you. Just the mental image you created of me with fizzling Diet Coke gushing from my nostrils has set you to laughing. Sadly, your laughter does not quench my thirst. It must be the laughter of children.
You cannot stop laughing now. You are stuck by the ridiculousness of my plight. A vampire who must make children laugh to stay alive. The contrast between He and I could not be more stark. Everything about Him is dashing, mysterious, sensual and scary. Even his name, inspires fear, dread, and also wonder, a hint of sexual danger.
Mine name, alas, does not.
He is The Count. Count Dracula.
I am called VamPickle.
The Vampire who Tickles.
I shall pause until you can stop laughing and pick yourself back up off the floor.
I must say, you are exhibiting rather poor manners. You are, after all, my guest.
Do you not think I hate my plight? Do you think I enjoy this name?
And yet, my name serves me in my quest. Merely saying my name to my intended victim is sometimes enough to create the laughter I crave.
You can see that, considering how well it has worked on you.
But now, I have uttered His name. He has heard this, and he will come.
For your sake, you must be off. For if he were to find you here, he would not be satisfied merely to hear you laugh.
Yet if you return upon the morrow, I shall finish my sad tale. The Tale of VamPickle, the Vampire who tickles, and the two young children whose laughter I most desire above all others.
For just as he is a connoisseur of blood, seeking out only those who have the finest, freshest vintage; I too have a discriminating palette. And I have found two young children whose laughter has become a narcotic for me. I must have it. Continuously.
So if you return, I shall tell you how I have become trapped by this addiction, and how it has become ever more difficult to obtain.
Safe travels, stranger. Stay out of the dark alleys.
It’s great to be VamPickle.
Sunday, August 21, 2005
Thursday, August 18, 2005
The Toughest Guy in The Gym
As I’ve mentioned in a previous post or two, I work out four or five nights a week at a local fitness center. It’s one of the national chain outfits. The place is close to my home, it’s open late, the price is reasonable and it’s large enough that I never have to wait long to use a particular piece of equipment.
I go late at night, after Chris and Tommy are tucked in to bed. By the time I get there, between 9:00 and 9:30 pm, most of the crowd is gone. I see the same group of regulars; those people, like me, who for whatever reason find that this time of night is best for their schedule to work out.
The title of this post is not a reference to me. Not in my wildest dreams would I ever be considered to be The Toughest Guy in The Gym. No, I fall into the category of Old Guy Trying Desperately to Retain Some Semblance of Muscle Tone. On a good day I might sneak into the category of With Lots of Luck and Less Dessert He Might Once Again Fit Into His Pants. And once in a very great while, I spend an evening in the category of If He Were Ten Years Younger He Might Actually Lift That Barbell.
The days when I might even be in the running for Toughest Guy in The Gym are so far back in my rearview mirror I’ve forgotten what they look like.
But still, I’m a guy, and once in a while some testosterone makes an appearance in my system, and I start to look around and wonder, well, if not me, then who is the toughest guy in this gym?
There are some obvious candidates. The guy with the broad shoulders and narrow waist, who has such an extreme shoulder to waist ratio that he makes a 42 point Times New Roman capital letter V (Boldcase) appear to be an 8 point Tahoma lowercase letter u by comparison.
Or how about the guy with all the tattoos? He’s not huge, but very well defined, and in case you hadn’t noticed his body, he’ll use his colorful tats to draw attention to specific parts. There is the requisite barb wire band around both biceps, the flaming, screaming skull and crossbones across his back. The psychotic clown face on one of his calves. Yep, he must be tough. Tough enough to endure the needles required to produce all those tattoos. Tough enough to knock down anyone who dares to comment on how ridiculous he looks.
There’s the guy I call Philly Cat. A Southeast Asian guy, young and wiry. I don’t know him but he always wears the same shirt, a black t-shirt that says Philly Cats on the front. I think it’s a minor league baseball team. He not big, but he’s tough and cut. He is so focused, so intense, and he always takes every set to failure. He’s a tough dude.
A guy I call The Aussie might be the one. He’s a big, friendly guy. Barrel-chested, but not loaded with huge, rippling muscles. Still, he lifts more weight than almost anyone in there. I don’t know how he does it, but he puts up huge lifts, rep after rep, sets it down and walks of with a smile on his face. You can almost hear him say, "Hey, no big deal, mate!”
There are others. The guy with a single-digit body fat percentage, on whom I swear you can see capillaries. Jersey Guy, who looks like he was a roadie for Bruce Springsteen, can do 22 pull-ups. I watched him and counted. The Football Guy, who looks like he is one year removed from a college football team, 6’ 6” and about 280. He’s huge, scowls well and lifts a ton of weight.
Depending upon your definition of tough, I would have thought any one of these guys might have the right to claim the title of Toughest Guy in The Gym.
Until tonight.
Tonight I saw the person who owns that title outright, at least in my book.
The Toughest Guy in The Gym is…a woman.
You hardly notice her among the crowd I’ve just described. Like me, she sort of blends into the background, goes about her business. No posing, no posturing, just in there to work out, get the job done, go home. In fact, tonight is the first night I noticed her. But from what I saw of her, she must be a regular. She knows what she’s doing.
What makes her so tough, you ask?
She only has one leg.
It’s summer here, and quite hot. Most people in the gym are wearing shorts, or long, tight spandex pants. She’s wearing full length track suit pants, loose and baggy. But one leg hangs very loose, and there’s no shoe at the bottom.
Other than that, and the crutch at her feet, you’d never know what her deal is.
But she’s there and she’s doing the full routine. Free weights, sit ups, lat pulldowns. She even does pull-ups, dropping down hard off the bar at the end of her set, landing on one leg, getting her balance, bending down to pick up her crutch before moving on to the next station.
She’s focused, moving with purpose, knowing exactly what she wants to accomplish while she’s here. Unlike so many of the others, she’s not sneaking a glance in the mirror to see how she looks. She just wants to be strong.
I’d be willing to bet hardly any of the ‘tough’ guys I described above would be in here working out like this on one leg. Their vanity would prevent it. Oh, one or two might come in, do some token sets, then shrug, as if to say, “Hey, what can I do? See this? It’s not my fault.”
But I don’t’ see that from this woman. It is what it is. She’s asking no quarter, making no excuses. One leg, two legs, doesn’t matter. Bring it. I’m here, she says. Let’s get to work.
Toughness is made up of many things. Among them I would count courage, resiliency, and fortitude. If that is part of your measure of toughness, this woman has more than her share.
I’ll say it right now. She’s tougher than me. I don’t know if I’d have what it takes to do what she’s doing. I’d like to think so. But in all honesty, I’m not sure I do.
This is the first time I’ve seen her. Maybe she normally comes at a different time, and for some reason had to come at this time tonight. I’ll probably never know.
But I’m glad I saw her tonight. For two reasons.
One, the next time I’m feeling like I want to cut my workout short, or skip it all together, I’m going to remember her. If she can come in here and do what she does, as well as she does, then, dammit, so can I.
And two, now the question has been answered.
Who’s the Toughest Guy in The Gym?
She is.
It’s great to be The Family Man.
I go late at night, after Chris and Tommy are tucked in to bed. By the time I get there, between 9:00 and 9:30 pm, most of the crowd is gone. I see the same group of regulars; those people, like me, who for whatever reason find that this time of night is best for their schedule to work out.
The title of this post is not a reference to me. Not in my wildest dreams would I ever be considered to be The Toughest Guy in The Gym. No, I fall into the category of Old Guy Trying Desperately to Retain Some Semblance of Muscle Tone. On a good day I might sneak into the category of With Lots of Luck and Less Dessert He Might Once Again Fit Into His Pants. And once in a very great while, I spend an evening in the category of If He Were Ten Years Younger He Might Actually Lift That Barbell.
The days when I might even be in the running for Toughest Guy in The Gym are so far back in my rearview mirror I’ve forgotten what they look like.
But still, I’m a guy, and once in a while some testosterone makes an appearance in my system, and I start to look around and wonder, well, if not me, then who is the toughest guy in this gym?
There are some obvious candidates. The guy with the broad shoulders and narrow waist, who has such an extreme shoulder to waist ratio that he makes a 42 point Times New Roman capital letter V (Boldcase) appear to be an 8 point Tahoma lowercase letter u by comparison.
Or how about the guy with all the tattoos? He’s not huge, but very well defined, and in case you hadn’t noticed his body, he’ll use his colorful tats to draw attention to specific parts. There is the requisite barb wire band around both biceps, the flaming, screaming skull and crossbones across his back. The psychotic clown face on one of his calves. Yep, he must be tough. Tough enough to endure the needles required to produce all those tattoos. Tough enough to knock down anyone who dares to comment on how ridiculous he looks.
There’s the guy I call Philly Cat. A Southeast Asian guy, young and wiry. I don’t know him but he always wears the same shirt, a black t-shirt that says Philly Cats on the front. I think it’s a minor league baseball team. He not big, but he’s tough and cut. He is so focused, so intense, and he always takes every set to failure. He’s a tough dude.
A guy I call The Aussie might be the one. He’s a big, friendly guy. Barrel-chested, but not loaded with huge, rippling muscles. Still, he lifts more weight than almost anyone in there. I don’t know how he does it, but he puts up huge lifts, rep after rep, sets it down and walks of with a smile on his face. You can almost hear him say, "Hey, no big deal, mate!”
There are others. The guy with a single-digit body fat percentage, on whom I swear you can see capillaries. Jersey Guy, who looks like he was a roadie for Bruce Springsteen, can do 22 pull-ups. I watched him and counted. The Football Guy, who looks like he is one year removed from a college football team, 6’ 6” and about 280. He’s huge, scowls well and lifts a ton of weight.
Depending upon your definition of tough, I would have thought any one of these guys might have the right to claim the title of Toughest Guy in The Gym.
Until tonight.
Tonight I saw the person who owns that title outright, at least in my book.
The Toughest Guy in The Gym is…a woman.
You hardly notice her among the crowd I’ve just described. Like me, she sort of blends into the background, goes about her business. No posing, no posturing, just in there to work out, get the job done, go home. In fact, tonight is the first night I noticed her. But from what I saw of her, she must be a regular. She knows what she’s doing.
What makes her so tough, you ask?
She only has one leg.
It’s summer here, and quite hot. Most people in the gym are wearing shorts, or long, tight spandex pants. She’s wearing full length track suit pants, loose and baggy. But one leg hangs very loose, and there’s no shoe at the bottom.
Other than that, and the crutch at her feet, you’d never know what her deal is.
But she’s there and she’s doing the full routine. Free weights, sit ups, lat pulldowns. She even does pull-ups, dropping down hard off the bar at the end of her set, landing on one leg, getting her balance, bending down to pick up her crutch before moving on to the next station.
She’s focused, moving with purpose, knowing exactly what she wants to accomplish while she’s here. Unlike so many of the others, she’s not sneaking a glance in the mirror to see how she looks. She just wants to be strong.
I’d be willing to bet hardly any of the ‘tough’ guys I described above would be in here working out like this on one leg. Their vanity would prevent it. Oh, one or two might come in, do some token sets, then shrug, as if to say, “Hey, what can I do? See this? It’s not my fault.”
But I don’t’ see that from this woman. It is what it is. She’s asking no quarter, making no excuses. One leg, two legs, doesn’t matter. Bring it. I’m here, she says. Let’s get to work.
Toughness is made up of many things. Among them I would count courage, resiliency, and fortitude. If that is part of your measure of toughness, this woman has more than her share.
I’ll say it right now. She’s tougher than me. I don’t know if I’d have what it takes to do what she’s doing. I’d like to think so. But in all honesty, I’m not sure I do.
This is the first time I’ve seen her. Maybe she normally comes at a different time, and for some reason had to come at this time tonight. I’ll probably never know.
But I’m glad I saw her tonight. For two reasons.
One, the next time I’m feeling like I want to cut my workout short, or skip it all together, I’m going to remember her. If she can come in here and do what she does, as well as she does, then, dammit, so can I.
And two, now the question has been answered.
Who’s the Toughest Guy in The Gym?
She is.
It’s great to be The Family Man.
Monday, August 15, 2005
A thank you note
Dear Mom,
I just wanted to drop you this note to thank you for the wonderful gift you gave Chris and Tommy. They sure love it! They’ve been playing on it all day. I can’t tell you how happy you have made them. I guess I should try, though.
But first, you might be wondering why I’m sending you this thank you note.
After all, you’re dead.
For almost 3 months now.
You know, better than anyone, how terrible I am at thank you notes. I remember, even if you don’t, how you would have to sit with me and make me write them after every birthday, every Christmas, for far more years than you should have. Even as an adult, knowing better, I always seem to get them out late, or not at all. At which point I have to make a phone call and deliver a verbal ‘thank you’ along with an apology for being socially inept.
But this note is not one I put off for so long that you up and died before I was able to send it, thank goodness. I wouldn’t want the last thing you remembered about me was, “That’s my son – can’t find the time to write a simple thank you note!”
No, this note is for the gift you gave the boys after you died.
Anyway, Mom, Chris and Tommy absolutely love the swing set you bought them. You remember - the one you had talked about buying for them for almost a year. I told you many times how much the boys love going to the park to play on the swings and playground equipment, and you would always say to me, “Why don’t you buy them a swing set of their own?”
To which I would reply, “We can’t afford to do that right now.”
“Well, one of these days I’m going to do it for them. Just help me pick one out, one that they would like. I want them to have that,” you’d say.
Well, Mom, I never did get around to picking one out, even though you kept asking me about it. I always thought there would be plenty of time. Plenty of time for you to come out here to visit us. Plenty of time to spend with the boys and give them this gift yourself. Plenty of time for you to sit on our back deck, watching the boys play on a brand new swing set. To watch them run, climb, swing and play. To see them interact with each other. To see what fine young boys they have become. I thought there would be time to do a lot of things.
I was wrong.
But I did have a plan, procrastinator that I am. I thought maybe we’d sit down and figure out the swing set thing when we all got together at the beach this past June. We’d look at some catalogues; you could make your choice, and tell Chris and Tommy about it in person. Then maybe later this summer you’d come out and see it for yourself.
But you died two weeks before our trip.
I never told the boys what you wanted to do for them. I wanted you to be able to do that, to show them the picture, to see the joy and excitement on their faces when you told them they would have their very own swing set in their own back yard.
And when it didn’t work out, I figured we’d just let it go. We have several parks in our area. They’re really quite nice. The boys wouldn’t know any differently. They would still have fun.
But as I thought more about it, I realized that you would want them to have this even if you couldn’t be there to see it. So much of you, your life, was about doing for others. It was never about getting the credit. You were the very embodiment of the adage ‘it’s better to give than to receive.’
Over the course of your life you have given so much to so many. To me, perhaps, more than anyone. And I could spend the rest of my life trying to thank you and never come close to expressing just how much you have meant to me.
And if I did, you’d roll your eyes and say, “Enough, already!”
So I won’t go there.
But I know you’d have been angry if I left one of your last wished unfulfilled. Especially one I know would have given you so much pleasure.
So MBW and I went through the catalogues. We went to the showrooms. And we found a very nice swing set. One we knew the boys would love. One we never would have bought on our own. But one I know you would have.
We knew we couldn’t afford it. But guess what? It just so happened that the manufacturer was offering no interest, no payments for one full year. That weekend only.
Was that a coincidence?
So we bought it. Knowing that a year from now your estate will be settled, and there might just be enough to cover the cost. And if it falls a little short, well, we’ll figure out a way to make up the rest.
Anyway, this weekend the crew came to set it up.
It’s wonderful.
It’s one of those redwood monstrosities with a fort, a slide, tire swing, sandbox, rope ladder, trapeze bar, and three regular swings.
As you might expect, Chris and Tommy are out of their minds with excitement. They can’t figure out what to do first. They run from one end to the other, trying every single thing, wrestling with each other over who gets to do what first. They race up the ladder, down the slide, over to the tire swing, and back again. They play ‘pirates’ in the fort. They build cities in the sandbox. They swing for the sky, trying to touch the clouds.
But you already know all that, don’t you?
I’m pretty sure you were there.
Chris knows how to swing. He has the whole ‘pumping’ thing down. He can go from a standstill to full height very quickly, without a push.
Tommy cannot do that yet. He can climb up into the swing, but he hadn’t figured out how to pump yet. So whenever we would go to the park, I’d have to stand behind him and push. Of course, I didn’t mind. I knew he’d get it one of these days.
But today, when he climbed onto one of the swings for the very first time, he started to pump. All by himself. Without any help from anyone.
The look on his face told the whole story. He was surprised, then happy, as he exclaimed, “I’m pumping, Mom! I’m pumping, Dad. Look at me!”
“Look at me GOOOO!”
And sure enough, he was. Pumping. With no help from MBW, Chris, or me. Slowly, at first, but as his confidence grew he went higher and higher, his smile bigger and bigger. Zooming through the air, back and forth, his hair flying in the breeze he was able to make for himself, for the first time ever.
It was wonderful to witness. He was so thrilled – the new swing set, his new achievement.
I think you were there, giving him a little push.
I’m not talking about some sort of creepy ‘Sixth Sense’ kind of thing. I don’t think you’re hanging around the house, wanting to tell me something. I don’t see you; I don’t get chills for no reason.
But I do think, somehow, somewhere, you’re watching the boys. Not always, but once in a while. Sitting out there, a smile on your face. “They’re doing okay, my grandsons. They’re doing okay.”
Or maybe I just want to believe that.
The biggest sadness in losing you when we did, for me, was knowing you wouldn’t get to see your grandsons during some of the most enjoyable years of their lives. I so much wanted to share this part of their lives, and mine, with you. It would have meant so much to the boys, to me, and, I think, to you.
But your health was failing, and I think you were ready. You had so much pain for so long, it was time for the suffering to end.
Perhaps now you’re at peace.
But I think, in some way, you’re out there, somewhere, taking in some of what’s going on in their lives.
Because I never did tell the boys the swing set was a gift from you. They know you are dead, even though they really never knew you that well. You got to see Chris exactly two times in his five years. Tommy, only once in his three. That just wasn’t enough. They really never knew you.
So maybe you can tell me why, that night after playing on the swing set all day, Tommy told me this as we tucked him in for bed.
“Dad, Nana’s dead.”
“That’s right, Tommy, she is.”
“I still love her, though.”
Go ahead, mom. Tell me you had nothing to do with his learning to swing. On the swing set you bought for them. The very first time he tried it.
I don’t believe it.
Thank you, mom. Thank you for everything.
It’s great to be The Family Man.
I just wanted to drop you this note to thank you for the wonderful gift you gave Chris and Tommy. They sure love it! They’ve been playing on it all day. I can’t tell you how happy you have made them. I guess I should try, though.
But first, you might be wondering why I’m sending you this thank you note.
After all, you’re dead.
For almost 3 months now.
You know, better than anyone, how terrible I am at thank you notes. I remember, even if you don’t, how you would have to sit with me and make me write them after every birthday, every Christmas, for far more years than you should have. Even as an adult, knowing better, I always seem to get them out late, or not at all. At which point I have to make a phone call and deliver a verbal ‘thank you’ along with an apology for being socially inept.
But this note is not one I put off for so long that you up and died before I was able to send it, thank goodness. I wouldn’t want the last thing you remembered about me was, “That’s my son – can’t find the time to write a simple thank you note!”
No, this note is for the gift you gave the boys after you died.
Anyway, Mom, Chris and Tommy absolutely love the swing set you bought them. You remember - the one you had talked about buying for them for almost a year. I told you many times how much the boys love going to the park to play on the swings and playground equipment, and you would always say to me, “Why don’t you buy them a swing set of their own?”
To which I would reply, “We can’t afford to do that right now.”
“Well, one of these days I’m going to do it for them. Just help me pick one out, one that they would like. I want them to have that,” you’d say.
Well, Mom, I never did get around to picking one out, even though you kept asking me about it. I always thought there would be plenty of time. Plenty of time for you to come out here to visit us. Plenty of time to spend with the boys and give them this gift yourself. Plenty of time for you to sit on our back deck, watching the boys play on a brand new swing set. To watch them run, climb, swing and play. To see them interact with each other. To see what fine young boys they have become. I thought there would be time to do a lot of things.
I was wrong.
But I did have a plan, procrastinator that I am. I thought maybe we’d sit down and figure out the swing set thing when we all got together at the beach this past June. We’d look at some catalogues; you could make your choice, and tell Chris and Tommy about it in person. Then maybe later this summer you’d come out and see it for yourself.
But you died two weeks before our trip.
I never told the boys what you wanted to do for them. I wanted you to be able to do that, to show them the picture, to see the joy and excitement on their faces when you told them they would have their very own swing set in their own back yard.
And when it didn’t work out, I figured we’d just let it go. We have several parks in our area. They’re really quite nice. The boys wouldn’t know any differently. They would still have fun.
But as I thought more about it, I realized that you would want them to have this even if you couldn’t be there to see it. So much of you, your life, was about doing for others. It was never about getting the credit. You were the very embodiment of the adage ‘it’s better to give than to receive.’
Over the course of your life you have given so much to so many. To me, perhaps, more than anyone. And I could spend the rest of my life trying to thank you and never come close to expressing just how much you have meant to me.
And if I did, you’d roll your eyes and say, “Enough, already!”
So I won’t go there.
But I know you’d have been angry if I left one of your last wished unfulfilled. Especially one I know would have given you so much pleasure.
So MBW and I went through the catalogues. We went to the showrooms. And we found a very nice swing set. One we knew the boys would love. One we never would have bought on our own. But one I know you would have.
We knew we couldn’t afford it. But guess what? It just so happened that the manufacturer was offering no interest, no payments for one full year. That weekend only.
Was that a coincidence?
So we bought it. Knowing that a year from now your estate will be settled, and there might just be enough to cover the cost. And if it falls a little short, well, we’ll figure out a way to make up the rest.
Anyway, this weekend the crew came to set it up.
It’s wonderful.
It’s one of those redwood monstrosities with a fort, a slide, tire swing, sandbox, rope ladder, trapeze bar, and three regular swings.
As you might expect, Chris and Tommy are out of their minds with excitement. They can’t figure out what to do first. They run from one end to the other, trying every single thing, wrestling with each other over who gets to do what first. They race up the ladder, down the slide, over to the tire swing, and back again. They play ‘pirates’ in the fort. They build cities in the sandbox. They swing for the sky, trying to touch the clouds.
But you already know all that, don’t you?
I’m pretty sure you were there.
Chris knows how to swing. He has the whole ‘pumping’ thing down. He can go from a standstill to full height very quickly, without a push.
Tommy cannot do that yet. He can climb up into the swing, but he hadn’t figured out how to pump yet. So whenever we would go to the park, I’d have to stand behind him and push. Of course, I didn’t mind. I knew he’d get it one of these days.
But today, when he climbed onto one of the swings for the very first time, he started to pump. All by himself. Without any help from anyone.
The look on his face told the whole story. He was surprised, then happy, as he exclaimed, “I’m pumping, Mom! I’m pumping, Dad. Look at me!”
“Look at me GOOOO!”
And sure enough, he was. Pumping. With no help from MBW, Chris, or me. Slowly, at first, but as his confidence grew he went higher and higher, his smile bigger and bigger. Zooming through the air, back and forth, his hair flying in the breeze he was able to make for himself, for the first time ever.
It was wonderful to witness. He was so thrilled – the new swing set, his new achievement.
I think you were there, giving him a little push.
I’m not talking about some sort of creepy ‘Sixth Sense’ kind of thing. I don’t think you’re hanging around the house, wanting to tell me something. I don’t see you; I don’t get chills for no reason.
But I do think, somehow, somewhere, you’re watching the boys. Not always, but once in a while. Sitting out there, a smile on your face. “They’re doing okay, my grandsons. They’re doing okay.”
Or maybe I just want to believe that.
The biggest sadness in losing you when we did, for me, was knowing you wouldn’t get to see your grandsons during some of the most enjoyable years of their lives. I so much wanted to share this part of their lives, and mine, with you. It would have meant so much to the boys, to me, and, I think, to you.
But your health was failing, and I think you were ready. You had so much pain for so long, it was time for the suffering to end.
Perhaps now you’re at peace.
But I think, in some way, you’re out there, somewhere, taking in some of what’s going on in their lives.
Because I never did tell the boys the swing set was a gift from you. They know you are dead, even though they really never knew you that well. You got to see Chris exactly two times in his five years. Tommy, only once in his three. That just wasn’t enough. They really never knew you.
So maybe you can tell me why, that night after playing on the swing set all day, Tommy told me this as we tucked him in for bed.
“Dad, Nana’s dead.”
“That’s right, Tommy, she is.”
“I still love her, though.”
Go ahead, mom. Tell me you had nothing to do with his learning to swing. On the swing set you bought for them. The very first time he tried it.
I don’t believe it.
Thank you, mom. Thank you for everything.
It’s great to be The Family Man.
Thursday, August 11, 2005
Ordinary Man
The recent passing of Peter Jennings brought back, for me, the memory of the time I met him.
I’ve been out of the broadcast news business for over ten years now. During the course of my eleven year career in that business I worked for three different television stations. All three were ABC affiliates. So for my entire career, Peter Jennings was the face, the voice, the de facto leader for the network news our broadcasts would follow. His was the standard we aimed for.
Early in my career, when I was young and gung-ho, I taped the music sounder that lead into the ABC network evening news and used that as the background music for the outgoing message on my telephone answering machine.
It was during the launch of the space shuttle Discovery that I met Peter Jennings. You may recall the explosion of the space shuttle Challenger on January 26, 1986 which killed, among six other astronauts, Christa McAuliffe, a Concord, New Hampshire high school social studies teacher. On September 28, 1988, Discovery was the first shuttle launched after the Challenger explosion. You can imagine the press coverage that launch attracted. Until Challenger exploded, shuttle launches had become almost routine, drawing little more than the normal NASA beat reporters. But the Discovery launch drew news coverage from around the world, including the top people from ABC, CBS, NBC, as well as many local stations, including mine.
I was selected by my station to cover the event, along with a reporter. During one of our forays to the ABC News editing facility we happened to literally bump into Peter Jennings as we walked in the door. He was every bit the dashing, charismatic person you might expect. He was also very gracious, taking the time to shake hands, exchange pleasantries, and wish us good luck with our broadcast before moving on his way. We were suitably impressed, and very inspired during the time we covered that story.
Peter Jennings was an extraordinary man.
I, on the other hand, am an ordinary man.
I lead an ordinary, unremarkable life. I’m a man of average height and weight, average looks. These days, I work in a cubicle. I drive a white vehicle. I live in a suburb an ordinary city, surrounded by hundreds of tract homes just like mine. I follow the same, basic routine virtually every working day, and follow a slightly different, yet predictable, routine on the weekends.
Unlike some people who lead exciting, dramatic lives in big, exciting cities, surrounded by other similar of similar stature, I am one of the faceless masses in ‘flyover country.’ Working at my little job, raising my family, living out my entirely unremarkable life.
And now, sharing it with you here in the blogosphere, where I am one of hundreds of thousands of people sharing, in my case, unremarkable stories, no doubt forgotten the moment they are read by 10 or 12 people.
It all means very little to anyone.
Anyone, that is, except for three very remarkable and important people.
There is dignity, relevance, and yes, even importance in the role I play in the lives of Chris and Tommy. In my very unremarkableness, my pedestrian ordinariness, I am in fact remarkable to them. By virtue of doing the same, dull, predictable things every day, I am giving them exactly what they need to have their own opportunity to become remarkable, extraordinary people themselves. By going to work, building a career (no matter how dull, boring and ordinary it is), providing food, shelter, healthcare and education, I’m giving them the foundation, the stability they need to grow up into secure, successful young men.
As far as MBW is concerned, I am important for the role I play as described above. In her case, she probably settled for the ordinary when, in fact, she no doubt had many opportunities for something far above ordinary. But now, having made her choice, for better or worse she seems to have grown used to this life. If she feels somehow shortchanged by the decision she has made, she’s gracious enough not to discuss it with her friends when I’m within earshot.
Even so, she will grudgingly tell you that within my narrow, ordinary existence I bring something more to the table when it comes to our boys. I recognize who and what I am, the role I have to play, and take pleasure and pride in the responsibility and job I have to do. I’m a good dad. Involved, engaged, committed. I will never be the most exciting dad when it comes to career day at school. I’ll never pull up to the soccer game in the flashiest car, have the funniest stories to tell, or be able to give my kids the coolest, most expensive graduation gifts.
But I will be there. And I’ll bring everything I have. If I’ve done my job right, that will be enough.
And if it isn’t, it won’t be for lack of effort. When it comes to being ordinary, I’m not mailing it in. I will be the best ordinary I can be.
In deciding to begin a blog I considered many different themes and names. In the end, I decided to go with what I knew I could write about. I don’t have a job that lends itself to great stories, slices of life that can captivate thousands of readers. I don’t have the sense of humor that will produce daily hysterically funny entries that will get passed all over the internet. I don’t wade into the gladitorial mosh pit on weekends and describe it for everyone. I don't write well enough to enthrall anyone with my prosaic prose.
There’s a reason I call myself The Family Man. I’m a man. I have a family. And that’s what I write about. An ordinary man writing about ordinary things. Could there be anything less, well, ordinary?
But I believe there is something to be said for doing all of the ordinary things. Doing them well. Bringing passion and commitment to the everyday, regular tasks. Staying the course. Being the rock, the plain, ordinary rock, that anchors those things that are most important.
It takes a whole bunch of ordinary for something to be recognized as extraordinary. If you are one of those extraordinary people, then you have me to thank for making you so, if only by comparison.
You’re welcome.
But I’ll take what I have, thank you. My little life, pedestrian as it is, suits me just fine. There are those moments, and I’ve shared a few in this blog, when the very ordinariness of my family life is extraordinary to an exponential degree. A hug from Chris. A giggle from Tommy. A knowing glance from my wife.
Each one, exceptionally ordinary.
Each one, exceptionally extraordinary. And absolutely priceless.
It is extraordinary to be The Family Man.
I’ve been out of the broadcast news business for over ten years now. During the course of my eleven year career in that business I worked for three different television stations. All three were ABC affiliates. So for my entire career, Peter Jennings was the face, the voice, the de facto leader for the network news our broadcasts would follow. His was the standard we aimed for.
Early in my career, when I was young and gung-ho, I taped the music sounder that lead into the ABC network evening news and used that as the background music for the outgoing message on my telephone answering machine.
It was during the launch of the space shuttle Discovery that I met Peter Jennings. You may recall the explosion of the space shuttle Challenger on January 26, 1986 which killed, among six other astronauts, Christa McAuliffe, a Concord, New Hampshire high school social studies teacher. On September 28, 1988, Discovery was the first shuttle launched after the Challenger explosion. You can imagine the press coverage that launch attracted. Until Challenger exploded, shuttle launches had become almost routine, drawing little more than the normal NASA beat reporters. But the Discovery launch drew news coverage from around the world, including the top people from ABC, CBS, NBC, as well as many local stations, including mine.
I was selected by my station to cover the event, along with a reporter. During one of our forays to the ABC News editing facility we happened to literally bump into Peter Jennings as we walked in the door. He was every bit the dashing, charismatic person you might expect. He was also very gracious, taking the time to shake hands, exchange pleasantries, and wish us good luck with our broadcast before moving on his way. We were suitably impressed, and very inspired during the time we covered that story.
Peter Jennings was an extraordinary man.
I, on the other hand, am an ordinary man.
I lead an ordinary, unremarkable life. I’m a man of average height and weight, average looks. These days, I work in a cubicle. I drive a white vehicle. I live in a suburb an ordinary city, surrounded by hundreds of tract homes just like mine. I follow the same, basic routine virtually every working day, and follow a slightly different, yet predictable, routine on the weekends.
Unlike some people who lead exciting, dramatic lives in big, exciting cities, surrounded by other similar of similar stature, I am one of the faceless masses in ‘flyover country.’ Working at my little job, raising my family, living out my entirely unremarkable life.
And now, sharing it with you here in the blogosphere, where I am one of hundreds of thousands of people sharing, in my case, unremarkable stories, no doubt forgotten the moment they are read by 10 or 12 people.
It all means very little to anyone.
Anyone, that is, except for three very remarkable and important people.
There is dignity, relevance, and yes, even importance in the role I play in the lives of Chris and Tommy. In my very unremarkableness, my pedestrian ordinariness, I am in fact remarkable to them. By virtue of doing the same, dull, predictable things every day, I am giving them exactly what they need to have their own opportunity to become remarkable, extraordinary people themselves. By going to work, building a career (no matter how dull, boring and ordinary it is), providing food, shelter, healthcare and education, I’m giving them the foundation, the stability they need to grow up into secure, successful young men.
As far as MBW is concerned, I am important for the role I play as described above. In her case, she probably settled for the ordinary when, in fact, she no doubt had many opportunities for something far above ordinary. But now, having made her choice, for better or worse she seems to have grown used to this life. If she feels somehow shortchanged by the decision she has made, she’s gracious enough not to discuss it with her friends when I’m within earshot.
Even so, she will grudgingly tell you that within my narrow, ordinary existence I bring something more to the table when it comes to our boys. I recognize who and what I am, the role I have to play, and take pleasure and pride in the responsibility and job I have to do. I’m a good dad. Involved, engaged, committed. I will never be the most exciting dad when it comes to career day at school. I’ll never pull up to the soccer game in the flashiest car, have the funniest stories to tell, or be able to give my kids the coolest, most expensive graduation gifts.
But I will be there. And I’ll bring everything I have. If I’ve done my job right, that will be enough.
And if it isn’t, it won’t be for lack of effort. When it comes to being ordinary, I’m not mailing it in. I will be the best ordinary I can be.
In deciding to begin a blog I considered many different themes and names. In the end, I decided to go with what I knew I could write about. I don’t have a job that lends itself to great stories, slices of life that can captivate thousands of readers. I don’t have the sense of humor that will produce daily hysterically funny entries that will get passed all over the internet. I don’t wade into the gladitorial mosh pit on weekends and describe it for everyone. I don't write well enough to enthrall anyone with my prosaic prose.
There’s a reason I call myself The Family Man. I’m a man. I have a family. And that’s what I write about. An ordinary man writing about ordinary things. Could there be anything less, well, ordinary?
But I believe there is something to be said for doing all of the ordinary things. Doing them well. Bringing passion and commitment to the everyday, regular tasks. Staying the course. Being the rock, the plain, ordinary rock, that anchors those things that are most important.
It takes a whole bunch of ordinary for something to be recognized as extraordinary. If you are one of those extraordinary people, then you have me to thank for making you so, if only by comparison.
You’re welcome.
But I’ll take what I have, thank you. My little life, pedestrian as it is, suits me just fine. There are those moments, and I’ve shared a few in this blog, when the very ordinariness of my family life is extraordinary to an exponential degree. A hug from Chris. A giggle from Tommy. A knowing glance from my wife.
Each one, exceptionally ordinary.
Each one, exceptionally extraordinary. And absolutely priceless.
It is extraordinary to be The Family Man.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Rock On
I like to think I’m not one of these whiny, sniveling, complaining wimps that always wants to tell you how hard life is, how unfair things are, or just how, in general, the world really sucks.
I know all too many people just like that. I’m sure you do, too. If you’re like me, you try to avoid them at all costs, and suffer them with a stiff upper lip when avoidance is just not possible.
When you’re me, it’s very difficult to complain about much. I have a great life. I’m not trying to brag, or be all snooty about it. I’m just a very, very lucky guy, and I try to remember how lucky I am, and not piss and moan when every little thing doesn’t go my way. By and large, I get more than my fair share of The Golden Light.
That’s why I’m very reluctant to mention that things have been a bit stressful for me the past few weeks. I can’t put a finger on what, exactly, it is. Work is somewhat stressful right now, I’m not sleeping very well, and my workouts have been lousy for some time now. I don’t have the strength or the endurance I did earlier this year.
I’m not depressed, exactly, just sort of listless. And I’m not sure why, and that bugs me even more.
So I was a bit grumpy last night at about 2:00 a.m., just as I had finally fallen asleep, when Tommy woke up and started calling for Mom or Dad. He’s a very restless sleeper, often waking up in the middle of the night. Sometimes he sleepwalks – we’ll hear him come into our room and crash into something, and one of us will carry him back to bed.
This time he was standing in the hallway. I couldn’t tell if he was asleep or awake. I scooped him up and carried him over toward his bed, when he lifted his face up and said, “Rock me, daddy.”
We have a glider rocker in his room. It’s the same one we used for Chris when he was a baby. It’s wonderful for rocking a child, whether you’re nursing (or giving a bottle – yes, I did my share of that), or just comforting a restless child. When Tommy was born we moved it into his room.
We’ve had to use it quite a bit.
The last thing I wanted to do was rock him. I had to get up in four hours and go to work, and it would’ve been nice to spend most of that time sleeping. What I really wanted to do was plop him back in his bed, make sure his ‘blankie’ and Elmo were correctly positioned, and try to get back to sleep myself. But the way he looked at me when he asked, well, I just couldn’t refuse.
So we sat down in the rocker and began to glide back and forth. He snuggled up against me, wiggled once or twice to find the position that felt comfortable to him, and promptly fell back asleep.
There’s something about a sleeping child that is peaceful, tranquil, angelic. Feeling his little chest gently rise and fall against mine, looking at his face, his content little grin, slowly began to draw all of the frustration and stress out of my system. I felt myself becoming more relaxed, more centered, more balanced.
We continued to glide. I remembered a time long, long ago when I went to a drive-in movie with my parents. I must have been four years old. My mom and dad piled the back seat of their car full of pillows and blankets, and put me back there while they sat up front and watched the movie. Of course I can’t remember anything about the movie – I doubt I saw five minutes of it. In fact, I’m not sure I remember the evening, or if I just sort of remember the memory of it. But sitting in the glider rocker with Tommy, I remembered the feeling I had that night of Absolute Security. I was with my mom and dad; safe, warm, comfortable. Nothing could go wrong. I was Secure.
Loved.
And I knew that’s what Tommy was feeling as he slept in my arms in the glider. Safe and secure in the strong arms of Daddy. Warm, content, protected. Loved.
And there is a feeling that comes with being the provider of that feeling. I don’t have the words for it. But holding him, knowing how he was feeling, having felt it myself in my life, gave me a stronger sense of purpose, of meaning. It is an awesome responsibility.
It is also an honor. A privilege.
I don’t know how long we rocked. It was a long time. I wanted to savor the moment, bask in it, soak every last ounce of energy and pleasure from it. At some point I must have joined him in sleep.
When I finally woke up I saw the first hint of dawn in the eastern sky outside his bedroom window. I got up, carefully laid him in his little bed, adjusted his ‘blankie’ and Elmo just so, and crept back into bed myself.
When the alarm went off I got up, got ready, and went off to work just like any other weekday. The same feelings of stress, listlessness, and angst came back.
But they were offset by something larger, something more important.
The emotional connection I made with my son put everything else in perspective. I have a lot of responsibility in my life, personally, professionally, morally. But none of that even comes close to what I shared with Tommy. Those other things will come and go. I’ve got much more important things to concern myself with. I’m Tommy’s dad, and Chris’s too. They need to be able to have that feeling when they need it. Without reservation, unconditionally. I have to be there for them.
You might be thinking Tommy’s lucky to have a dad like me. That’s not for me to say.
But I’ll tell you, without a doubt, Tommy did more for me last night than I did for him.
The truth is clear. I’m the lucky guy in this house.
It’s great to be The Family Man.
I know all too many people just like that. I’m sure you do, too. If you’re like me, you try to avoid them at all costs, and suffer them with a stiff upper lip when avoidance is just not possible.
When you’re me, it’s very difficult to complain about much. I have a great life. I’m not trying to brag, or be all snooty about it. I’m just a very, very lucky guy, and I try to remember how lucky I am, and not piss and moan when every little thing doesn’t go my way. By and large, I get more than my fair share of The Golden Light.
That’s why I’m very reluctant to mention that things have been a bit stressful for me the past few weeks. I can’t put a finger on what, exactly, it is. Work is somewhat stressful right now, I’m not sleeping very well, and my workouts have been lousy for some time now. I don’t have the strength or the endurance I did earlier this year.
I’m not depressed, exactly, just sort of listless. And I’m not sure why, and that bugs me even more.
So I was a bit grumpy last night at about 2:00 a.m., just as I had finally fallen asleep, when Tommy woke up and started calling for Mom or Dad. He’s a very restless sleeper, often waking up in the middle of the night. Sometimes he sleepwalks – we’ll hear him come into our room and crash into something, and one of us will carry him back to bed.
This time he was standing in the hallway. I couldn’t tell if he was asleep or awake. I scooped him up and carried him over toward his bed, when he lifted his face up and said, “Rock me, daddy.”
We have a glider rocker in his room. It’s the same one we used for Chris when he was a baby. It’s wonderful for rocking a child, whether you’re nursing (or giving a bottle – yes, I did my share of that), or just comforting a restless child. When Tommy was born we moved it into his room.
We’ve had to use it quite a bit.
The last thing I wanted to do was rock him. I had to get up in four hours and go to work, and it would’ve been nice to spend most of that time sleeping. What I really wanted to do was plop him back in his bed, make sure his ‘blankie’ and Elmo were correctly positioned, and try to get back to sleep myself. But the way he looked at me when he asked, well, I just couldn’t refuse.
So we sat down in the rocker and began to glide back and forth. He snuggled up against me, wiggled once or twice to find the position that felt comfortable to him, and promptly fell back asleep.
There’s something about a sleeping child that is peaceful, tranquil, angelic. Feeling his little chest gently rise and fall against mine, looking at his face, his content little grin, slowly began to draw all of the frustration and stress out of my system. I felt myself becoming more relaxed, more centered, more balanced.
We continued to glide. I remembered a time long, long ago when I went to a drive-in movie with my parents. I must have been four years old. My mom and dad piled the back seat of their car full of pillows and blankets, and put me back there while they sat up front and watched the movie. Of course I can’t remember anything about the movie – I doubt I saw five minutes of it. In fact, I’m not sure I remember the evening, or if I just sort of remember the memory of it. But sitting in the glider rocker with Tommy, I remembered the feeling I had that night of Absolute Security. I was with my mom and dad; safe, warm, comfortable. Nothing could go wrong. I was Secure.
Loved.
And I knew that’s what Tommy was feeling as he slept in my arms in the glider. Safe and secure in the strong arms of Daddy. Warm, content, protected. Loved.
And there is a feeling that comes with being the provider of that feeling. I don’t have the words for it. But holding him, knowing how he was feeling, having felt it myself in my life, gave me a stronger sense of purpose, of meaning. It is an awesome responsibility.
It is also an honor. A privilege.
I don’t know how long we rocked. It was a long time. I wanted to savor the moment, bask in it, soak every last ounce of energy and pleasure from it. At some point I must have joined him in sleep.
When I finally woke up I saw the first hint of dawn in the eastern sky outside his bedroom window. I got up, carefully laid him in his little bed, adjusted his ‘blankie’ and Elmo just so, and crept back into bed myself.
When the alarm went off I got up, got ready, and went off to work just like any other weekday. The same feelings of stress, listlessness, and angst came back.
But they were offset by something larger, something more important.
The emotional connection I made with my son put everything else in perspective. I have a lot of responsibility in my life, personally, professionally, morally. But none of that even comes close to what I shared with Tommy. Those other things will come and go. I’ve got much more important things to concern myself with. I’m Tommy’s dad, and Chris’s too. They need to be able to have that feeling when they need it. Without reservation, unconditionally. I have to be there for them.
You might be thinking Tommy’s lucky to have a dad like me. That’s not for me to say.
But I’ll tell you, without a doubt, Tommy did more for me last night than I did for him.
The truth is clear. I’m the lucky guy in this house.
It’s great to be The Family Man.
Sunday, August 07, 2005
Frontier Justice
Welcome back, stranger.
Sorry I’ve been gone for awhile. Some things came up that I weren’t expectin’ and I had to deal with ‘em. That’s how it goes in the sherifin’ business sometimes.
Anyway, I’m sure you ain’t here for idle chitchat. So let me tell you how things played out in the feud between ol’ Gentleman Chris and Two Gun Tommy.
If you remember, there was some tension between Chris and Two-Gun. They were stealin’ horses and cattle from each other. Then Chris went and kidnapped Two-Gun favorite cowpoke, an orange-haired kid named Elmo. Two-Gun retaliated by swipin’ Gentleman’s favorite horse. That’s when things got plum out of hand. Their cowpokes were buyin’ up all the ammunition in town, and folks were gettin’ nervous. Word was the two brothers were gatherin’ up toward the fence dividin’ their spreads. I knew I couldn’t let this go on no longer.
So I saddled up my big white stallion, strapped on my gunbelt, stowed the Winchester in the saddle holster, and headed out to settle this thing my own way.I was ridin’ out before dawn. The sun hadn’t yet cleared the horizon, but them clouds were already red. I remember my daddy tellin’ me a story once about a red sunrise. He said:
“Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.
Red sky at mornin,’ sailors take warnin’.”
Well, I ain't no sailor, and there ain’t no kind of water for sailin’ in these here parts nohow. But I didn’t need no nursery rhyme to tell me that this was lookin' like a bloody mornin’ indeed.
I came up over a small rise, and sure enough, I see Gentleman’s ‘boys all mounted up and armed to the teeth. And ridin’ up slow from Fireplace Butte were Two-Gun’s crew, their hardware glintin’ in the mornin’ sunlight.
It looked like they was aimin’ to settle this thing once and for all. Right here, right now.
Well, so was I.
I rode up over towards Gentleman’s crew, pulled up about forty yards short. I let my duster fall open so’s them boys could see my weapons, let ‘em know I meant business. I sat there for a minute, starin’ em down, waitin for someone to draw.
Nobody did.
With that settled, I called out, “Gentleman, you aughta come out here and take a little ride with me.”
There was some movement among the men, and Chris came to the front of the group.
“Now, Sheriff,” he said, a big, warm smile on his face, “This here’s just a little disagreement between me and Mr. Two Gun. You surely don’t need to be involved in this.”
That’s Gentleman for you. Always smooth, a real diplomat.
But I’d seen enough of that over the years. I adjusted my duster, placed a hand on the stock of my Winchester, and said, “Gentleman, I suggest you take a ride on over here, let’s just visit about this for a moment.”
Then, a bit firmer – “Right now.”
Well, he didn’t like that one bit. He turned, talked with his ‘boys, turned back and stared at me.
I just waited. There weren’t nothin’ else to say.
Finally, he tapped his spur to his horse and slowly rode over.
As he was comin’ I glanced over to see where Two-Gun’s men were. They had paused when they’d seen me and stopped about 200 yards away. Now they were just sittin’ by, waitin’ to see how things played out.
Gentleman rode up. He said, “Ain’t no need for you to call me out in front of my men, Sheriff Mann.”
It was time to set the tone for this meetin,’ and for the rest of the mornin’ as well.
I said, “Chris, I’m the law in this town. I ain’t callin’ you out. I’m just tellin’ you what you’re gonna do here. You give orders to your men. That ain’t callin’ them out, that’s just the way it is. And right now, you’re takin’ orders from me.”
I leaned over my horse, hand still on the stock of the Winchester, and glared at him.
“You got that?”
His horse backed up half a step. Gentleman didn’t say a word, but after a moment, gave just the slightest nod of his head.
“Now, let’s you and me take a ride over and have a chat with Two-Gun.”
We cantered over toward where Two-Gun’s boys were waitin’. We paused a ways out from them, stopped still. I turned to Gentleman and said, “I ain’t gonna make you throw down your guns. But I want you to put both hands on your saddlehorn where everyone can see ‘em.”
He didn’t like that one bit. His eyes got all fiery hot and his mouth started movin’ like he was gonna say something, but he thought the better of it. Slowly he raised his hands and put ‘em on the saddlehorn, turned his horse so Two-Gun and his boys could see him.
It was time to talk to Two-Gun.
This was the tricky part, and that’s why I had to get Gentleman first. Ol’ Two-Gun’s a young hothead. There ain’t no way he’d a done what Gentleman just did. And I wasn’t sure he wouldn’t ride on out here and start blastin’ at both of us. But this way the only way I had a chance to make this work.
And even Two-Gun couldn’t outdraw me.
So I called out, “Hey, Two-Gun, take a ride out here, would ya?”
He called back right away. “Now why do I want to do that, Sheriff?”
I waited for a second before I said, “Because if I have to ride in there and get you, it ain’t gonna be pretty for either of us. But you’ll come one way or another. I’m just givin’ you a chance to ride out like a man.”
Two-Gun don’t like to be insulted. He said, “If you were a man you’d come get me.”
Before the last word was out of his mouth I had my Winchester up and out of the saddle holster, and fired off a single shot that took the hat right off the head of one of his cowpokes.
There was a long moment of silence. I wondered if they were all going to start blasting away. Gentleman looked at me like I was crazy.
I said loudly, “Two-Gun, if I come in there and get you, I’ll be takin’ you straight to the undertaker.”
Nobody moved.
Then, slowly, Two-Gun rode out from his pack, and ambled over to where we was waitin.’
As he got closer I said, “Both hands on the reigns. I see you go for a gun, you’ll be dead before you hit the ground.”
Turning to Gentleman, I said, “Don’t you even think about drawin.”
At last Two-Gun rode up.
“Boys,’ I said, “Let’s make this quick. I don’t know who started this, and I don’t care. But it ends right now, and it’s goin’ down like this. Gentleman, your boys are gonna bring Two-Guns cows back, and that boy Elmo too. Right now. Two-Gun, your boys are gonna bring Gentleman’s horses back, every last one, includin’ that big Brown he calls Chocolate. We’re gonna make this exchange right here, and when we’re all settled up, your ‘boys are gonna ride back off, and the three of us are gonna talk about your punishment.”
Well I could see neither one of ‘em like the idea. Two-Gun started to reach for his belt, but thought better of it when he saw my big Winchester pointed right at his chest.
“Do we have an understandin’?”
They nodded.
“You ride off to your ‘boys,” I said, “tell ‘em what to do, and ride back here. Right now. Any funny business, you’ll be eatin’ lead for breakfast.”
They did what I said, rode back. We sat there in silence for about 20 minutes. The cowhands from both sides came back, and the exchange was made to everyone’s grudging satisfaction. When Gentleman’s boys brought out that cowhand Elmo, with his dang orange hair, he rode up to Two-Gun and gave him the a big hug.
Frankly, it made me a bit uncomfortable. But Two-Gun clearly had a soft spot in his heart for Elmo. To each his own.
Elmo turned, pointed out toward Two-Gun’s spread by Fireplace Butte, and said “That’s Elmo’s World!”
O-kay.
The cowhands rode off. Now it was just me, Gentleman and Two-Gun.
I said, “Boys, you disappoint me. This is a big valley. It should be big enough for both of you. But you just can’t seem to play nicely together without fighting and stealing.”
“So you’re each going to have to go to your room until I tell you to come out.”
Gentleman started to argue, saying it wasn’t his fault, that Two-Gun started it, but I’d heard this all before and wasn’t having any of it. I simply pointed up the stairs and said, “Go.”
Two-Gun just started to cry.
“Go,” I said to him as well.
He left without a word.
And that was it.
Frontier Justice. Takin’ the boys off the frontier until cooler heads prevail.
It ain’t always easy bein’ the Sheriff.
As I watched them boys walk off, I took in the whole Berber valley. Them boys had worked hard and created two very nice ranches. I was proud of them, despite their behavior. They’re going to be fine men one day.
You see, stranger, them boys are MY boys.
I told you at the beginnin’ of this tale them two were brothers.
They are also my sons.
And that’s just about the end. You see, that night a terrible storm swept through the Berber valley. It raged for hours. When it was over, the townfolk called that storm the most ferocious storm these parts have ever seen. It scoured every last trace of the ranches, buildings, cattle and fencing right off the land. When it was over, the valley looked brand new.
After awhile people referred to that storm as simply the Mighty Big Windstorm.
MBW.
Someday those boys’ll come out of their rooms. Maybe they’ll rebuild them ranches. Maybe they’ll build a trainyard instead, or some settler’s cabins with those pre-cut logs folks have takin’ to callin’ Lincoln Logs. I even heard some talk about buildin’ something called an airport.
Airport – ain’t that the dangest thing you ever heard?
Well, stranger, that’s it. That’s the story of the Range War. Or more exactly, the range war that wasn’t.
Hope the story was worth your while.
Feel free to drop in anytime you’re in town. Pull up a stool, have a drink, and I’ll tell you some tales. I’ve got a few.
See ya around, stranger.
Yep, it’s great to be Sheriff Mann.
Sorry I’ve been gone for awhile. Some things came up that I weren’t expectin’ and I had to deal with ‘em. That’s how it goes in the sherifin’ business sometimes.
Anyway, I’m sure you ain’t here for idle chitchat. So let me tell you how things played out in the feud between ol’ Gentleman Chris and Two Gun Tommy.
If you remember, there was some tension between Chris and Two-Gun. They were stealin’ horses and cattle from each other. Then Chris went and kidnapped Two-Gun favorite cowpoke, an orange-haired kid named Elmo. Two-Gun retaliated by swipin’ Gentleman’s favorite horse. That’s when things got plum out of hand. Their cowpokes were buyin’ up all the ammunition in town, and folks were gettin’ nervous. Word was the two brothers were gatherin’ up toward the fence dividin’ their spreads. I knew I couldn’t let this go on no longer.
So I saddled up my big white stallion, strapped on my gunbelt, stowed the Winchester in the saddle holster, and headed out to settle this thing my own way.I was ridin’ out before dawn. The sun hadn’t yet cleared the horizon, but them clouds were already red. I remember my daddy tellin’ me a story once about a red sunrise. He said:
“Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.
Red sky at mornin,’ sailors take warnin’.”
Well, I ain't no sailor, and there ain’t no kind of water for sailin’ in these here parts nohow. But I didn’t need no nursery rhyme to tell me that this was lookin' like a bloody mornin’ indeed.
I came up over a small rise, and sure enough, I see Gentleman’s ‘boys all mounted up and armed to the teeth. And ridin’ up slow from Fireplace Butte were Two-Gun’s crew, their hardware glintin’ in the mornin’ sunlight.
It looked like they was aimin’ to settle this thing once and for all. Right here, right now.
Well, so was I.
I rode up over towards Gentleman’s crew, pulled up about forty yards short. I let my duster fall open so’s them boys could see my weapons, let ‘em know I meant business. I sat there for a minute, starin’ em down, waitin for someone to draw.
Nobody did.
With that settled, I called out, “Gentleman, you aughta come out here and take a little ride with me.”
There was some movement among the men, and Chris came to the front of the group.
“Now, Sheriff,” he said, a big, warm smile on his face, “This here’s just a little disagreement between me and Mr. Two Gun. You surely don’t need to be involved in this.”
That’s Gentleman for you. Always smooth, a real diplomat.
But I’d seen enough of that over the years. I adjusted my duster, placed a hand on the stock of my Winchester, and said, “Gentleman, I suggest you take a ride on over here, let’s just visit about this for a moment.”
Then, a bit firmer – “Right now.”
Well, he didn’t like that one bit. He turned, talked with his ‘boys, turned back and stared at me.
I just waited. There weren’t nothin’ else to say.
Finally, he tapped his spur to his horse and slowly rode over.
As he was comin’ I glanced over to see where Two-Gun’s men were. They had paused when they’d seen me and stopped about 200 yards away. Now they were just sittin’ by, waitin’ to see how things played out.
Gentleman rode up. He said, “Ain’t no need for you to call me out in front of my men, Sheriff Mann.”
It was time to set the tone for this meetin,’ and for the rest of the mornin’ as well.
I said, “Chris, I’m the law in this town. I ain’t callin’ you out. I’m just tellin’ you what you’re gonna do here. You give orders to your men. That ain’t callin’ them out, that’s just the way it is. And right now, you’re takin’ orders from me.”
I leaned over my horse, hand still on the stock of the Winchester, and glared at him.
“You got that?”
His horse backed up half a step. Gentleman didn’t say a word, but after a moment, gave just the slightest nod of his head.
“Now, let’s you and me take a ride over and have a chat with Two-Gun.”
We cantered over toward where Two-Gun’s boys were waitin’. We paused a ways out from them, stopped still. I turned to Gentleman and said, “I ain’t gonna make you throw down your guns. But I want you to put both hands on your saddlehorn where everyone can see ‘em.”
He didn’t like that one bit. His eyes got all fiery hot and his mouth started movin’ like he was gonna say something, but he thought the better of it. Slowly he raised his hands and put ‘em on the saddlehorn, turned his horse so Two-Gun and his boys could see him.
It was time to talk to Two-Gun.
This was the tricky part, and that’s why I had to get Gentleman first. Ol’ Two-Gun’s a young hothead. There ain’t no way he’d a done what Gentleman just did. And I wasn’t sure he wouldn’t ride on out here and start blastin’ at both of us. But this way the only way I had a chance to make this work.
And even Two-Gun couldn’t outdraw me.
So I called out, “Hey, Two-Gun, take a ride out here, would ya?”
He called back right away. “Now why do I want to do that, Sheriff?”
I waited for a second before I said, “Because if I have to ride in there and get you, it ain’t gonna be pretty for either of us. But you’ll come one way or another. I’m just givin’ you a chance to ride out like a man.”
Two-Gun don’t like to be insulted. He said, “If you were a man you’d come get me.”
Before the last word was out of his mouth I had my Winchester up and out of the saddle holster, and fired off a single shot that took the hat right off the head of one of his cowpokes.
There was a long moment of silence. I wondered if they were all going to start blasting away. Gentleman looked at me like I was crazy.
I said loudly, “Two-Gun, if I come in there and get you, I’ll be takin’ you straight to the undertaker.”
Nobody moved.
Then, slowly, Two-Gun rode out from his pack, and ambled over to where we was waitin.’
As he got closer I said, “Both hands on the reigns. I see you go for a gun, you’ll be dead before you hit the ground.”
Turning to Gentleman, I said, “Don’t you even think about drawin.”
At last Two-Gun rode up.
“Boys,’ I said, “Let’s make this quick. I don’t know who started this, and I don’t care. But it ends right now, and it’s goin’ down like this. Gentleman, your boys are gonna bring Two-Guns cows back, and that boy Elmo too. Right now. Two-Gun, your boys are gonna bring Gentleman’s horses back, every last one, includin’ that big Brown he calls Chocolate. We’re gonna make this exchange right here, and when we’re all settled up, your ‘boys are gonna ride back off, and the three of us are gonna talk about your punishment.”
Well I could see neither one of ‘em like the idea. Two-Gun started to reach for his belt, but thought better of it when he saw my big Winchester pointed right at his chest.
“Do we have an understandin’?”
They nodded.
“You ride off to your ‘boys,” I said, “tell ‘em what to do, and ride back here. Right now. Any funny business, you’ll be eatin’ lead for breakfast.”
They did what I said, rode back. We sat there in silence for about 20 minutes. The cowhands from both sides came back, and the exchange was made to everyone’s grudging satisfaction. When Gentleman’s boys brought out that cowhand Elmo, with his dang orange hair, he rode up to Two-Gun and gave him the a big hug.
Frankly, it made me a bit uncomfortable. But Two-Gun clearly had a soft spot in his heart for Elmo. To each his own.
Elmo turned, pointed out toward Two-Gun’s spread by Fireplace Butte, and said “That’s Elmo’s World!”
O-kay.
The cowhands rode off. Now it was just me, Gentleman and Two-Gun.
I said, “Boys, you disappoint me. This is a big valley. It should be big enough for both of you. But you just can’t seem to play nicely together without fighting and stealing.”
“So you’re each going to have to go to your room until I tell you to come out.”
Gentleman started to argue, saying it wasn’t his fault, that Two-Gun started it, but I’d heard this all before and wasn’t having any of it. I simply pointed up the stairs and said, “Go.”
Two-Gun just started to cry.
“Go,” I said to him as well.
He left without a word.
And that was it.
Frontier Justice. Takin’ the boys off the frontier until cooler heads prevail.
It ain’t always easy bein’ the Sheriff.
As I watched them boys walk off, I took in the whole Berber valley. Them boys had worked hard and created two very nice ranches. I was proud of them, despite their behavior. They’re going to be fine men one day.
You see, stranger, them boys are MY boys.
I told you at the beginnin’ of this tale them two were brothers.
They are also my sons.
And that’s just about the end. You see, that night a terrible storm swept through the Berber valley. It raged for hours. When it was over, the townfolk called that storm the most ferocious storm these parts have ever seen. It scoured every last trace of the ranches, buildings, cattle and fencing right off the land. When it was over, the valley looked brand new.
After awhile people referred to that storm as simply the Mighty Big Windstorm.
MBW.
Someday those boys’ll come out of their rooms. Maybe they’ll rebuild them ranches. Maybe they’ll build a trainyard instead, or some settler’s cabins with those pre-cut logs folks have takin’ to callin’ Lincoln Logs. I even heard some talk about buildin’ something called an airport.
Airport – ain’t that the dangest thing you ever heard?
Well, stranger, that’s it. That’s the story of the Range War. Or more exactly, the range war that wasn’t.
Hope the story was worth your while.
Feel free to drop in anytime you’re in town. Pull up a stool, have a drink, and I’ll tell you some tales. I’ve got a few.
See ya around, stranger.
Yep, it’s great to be Sheriff Mann.
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Range War
Howdy, stranger.
Yep, I can tell you’re not from around these parts. You don’t even have to say a word, though I bet your accent would be a dead giveaway.
Nope, we don’t see many of you eastern city slickers out this way. We get the odd tourist now and again. Half the time they’re lost, and I hafta point 'em back to the train depot. But you got that look, stranger. I know why you’re here.
Pull up a stool, stranger, and I’ll tell you the story you’ve come to hear.
You want to hear the story of the Range War.
Y’see, this town’s always been a quiet place. Not much happens around here. Oh, sure, we get the occasional rowdy drunk, and I’ll have to throw him in the tank overnight. Hardly ever any more trouble than that.
It’s my job to keep it that way. I’ve been the sheriff now for ‘bout long as anyone can remember. I’m Sheriff Mann.
But around these parts, they call me Big Daddy.
As I said, this here’s a quiet town. We got this here restaurant and bar, a bank, a stable, general store, and some rooms for rent. There’s a mine just outside a town, but it’s pretty much played out. Most of the business in these parts is done by the two big ranch operations here in the valley.
The C Bar M range sits out on the Berber flats. It’s a gorgeous spread, ‘bout the biggest in the whole county. My, that’s pretty country. Fields so flat and lush, why it looks just like that fancy carpet you got in your high-falutin’ hotels back where you come from. The hay that comes outta C Bar M is ‘bout the best hay ever. Likewise C Bar M cattle fetch the highest prices in these parts. It’s a first class operation, run by a first class rancher. They call him Gentleman Chris.
Gentleman Chris is about the nicest, straightest cowhand you’d ever hope to meet. Tall, fair and handsome, ol’ Gentleman’s a real ladies man. Smart as a whip, a real sharp businessman. He’ll treat you fair, though, and if you needed it, he’d give you the shirt off his back.
The thing is, you don’t want to cross him, ‘cause he don’t forget. Oh, he’ll smile and laugh, slap you on the back, treat you like a good ol’ boy. But once you let your guard down, he’ll snap you in two like a brittle twig.
On the other end of the valley, you got the TG spread. It backs right up to Fireplace Butte. They call it that ‘cause, well, that butte, it just looks like a fireplace.
Butte, not butt.
Dang, you city folks are dumber than mules!
The TG’s a smaller, scrappier outfit. The land ain’t quite so good, the hay not quite so sweet. The cattle are just a bit scrawnier, the cowhands a little bit rougher. And the TG spread’s run by the toughest cowhand in these parts. His name is Tommy.
But most folks call him Tommy Two-Gun.
Ol’ Two-Gun’s about the quickest draw in these parts, and he’s got the quick temper to match. He’s a little guy, but you sure don’t want to say that to his face. He’s cat quick, and he don’t take kindly to insults. They still tell the tale of the new cowhand who made some crack about "that little cowboy, don’t he ride a pony?”
Well, Two-Gun overheard that remark.
Next morning,’ here comes that poor cowboy into town…trussed up like a heifer, dragged behind a pony.
Nope, you don’t want to mess with Two-Gun.
Now we got a couple of smaller ranches in these parts, but they don’t amount to much. It’s really just Gentleman and Two-Gun that run things around here. It’s a big county, and between the two of ‘em, they pretty much own all of it.
Of course, they don’t get along. Not one dang bit.
The craziest part? They’re brothers.
Now there was always a sort of an uneasy truce between the two of them. Oh, they’d have a feud now and then, but nothin’ major. Every once in a while a couple of Gentleman’s cows would go missin’ and they’d turn up on Two-Gun’s spread. Next week or so, one of Two-Gun’s horses would be found with Gentleman’s herd. A couple cowhands from each spread would meet out in the valley and swap ‘em back. Hardly ever had to resort to gunplay.
But at the last county fair, when everyone comes into town, the two of them happen to bump into each other, and the next thing you know, the fists are flyin'. The cowhands from both sides got into it and we had a major brawl goin.’ I had to step in and set things right, and I gave each of those boys a warnin’ not to be brawlin’ in my town. Well, they stared at me, they stared at each other, and finally they pulled their boys’ together and headed back out of town.
I thought that’d be the end of things.
I was wrong.
Next thing I know, ol Gentleman comes into my office to file a complaint. Seems a whole bunch of his cows went missin.’ But that weren’t the worst of it. Ol’ Gentleman had himself a prize horse – a big, brown, barrel-chested stallion. That was one beautiful horse. Went by the name of Chocolate. Well, Chocolate was missin’ along with them cows, and he was sure that Two-Gun was behind it.
Well, I told him I’d head out to Two-Gun’s place and have a chat with the boy, and that was good enough for Gentleman. He thanked me politely and headed back to his spread.
Not 15 minutes later Two-Gun shows up. He’s got a different story to tell. According to him, most of his cows are gone, along with his best cowhand, an orange-haired lad, went by the name of Elmo.
Well, I asked Two-Gun if he thought Elmo might’a run off with those cows. A dark shadow crossed his face and he reared up with a cocked fist, and I thought he was gonna swing on me…but he caught himself. Glowering at me, he said, “Elmo doesn’t steal Tommy’s cows.”
Well, so much for that.
Then he said, “Big Daddy, I’m goin’ to get Elmo back, and my cows too. If you don’t do something about this, I will.”
That’s vintage Two-Gun. Bold, defiant, takin’ matters into his own hands.
And he left.
The next few days were eerily quiet in town. It was almost like folks were bracin’ for a storm. I come to hear from folks that both Gentleman’s and Two-Gun’s cowhands were stockin’ up on guns an’ ammunition. The shelves at the general store were gettin’ bare. Even the stagecoach drivers were nervous comin’ in to town.
Folks started whispering about a Range War.
Now I really couldn’t believe that these two brothers’ would actually draw down on each other, but it was starting to look like that’s what was gonna happen.
Unless I did something about it.
Well, I wasn’t gonna let this escalate into an all-out range war. Folks in these parts, particularly the womenfolk, count on me to keep the peace. And when I heard from a preacher passin’ thru town that it looked like the two brothers were putting their cowhands up toward the fence dividin’ their spreads, I knew it was time to take charge of this situation.
So I saddled up my big stallion, a large, white beast I call Suburban. ‘Bout the biggest, strongest ride in town. Better’n nearly 250 regular horsepower, by my reckoning.’ Pulls my big trailer with no trouble. I strapped on my gunbelt, stowed the Winchester in the saddle holster, and headed out to the Berber flats.
Well, stranger, if you want to hear the rest of the story, you’re gonna have to come back another night. I’ve got my rounds to make tonight before I turn off the lights in this town. But if you come back in a couple days or so, I’ll tell ya the rest of the story.
Out here in the west, there’s only one way to head off a full-on Range War.
And that’s what we call Frontier Justice.
So come back, stranger.
Yep, it’s great to be Sheriff Mann.
Yep, I can tell you’re not from around these parts. You don’t even have to say a word, though I bet your accent would be a dead giveaway.
Nope, we don’t see many of you eastern city slickers out this way. We get the odd tourist now and again. Half the time they’re lost, and I hafta point 'em back to the train depot. But you got that look, stranger. I know why you’re here.
Pull up a stool, stranger, and I’ll tell you the story you’ve come to hear.
You want to hear the story of the Range War.
Y’see, this town’s always been a quiet place. Not much happens around here. Oh, sure, we get the occasional rowdy drunk, and I’ll have to throw him in the tank overnight. Hardly ever any more trouble than that.
It’s my job to keep it that way. I’ve been the sheriff now for ‘bout long as anyone can remember. I’m Sheriff Mann.
But around these parts, they call me Big Daddy.
As I said, this here’s a quiet town. We got this here restaurant and bar, a bank, a stable, general store, and some rooms for rent. There’s a mine just outside a town, but it’s pretty much played out. Most of the business in these parts is done by the two big ranch operations here in the valley.
The C Bar M range sits out on the Berber flats. It’s a gorgeous spread, ‘bout the biggest in the whole county. My, that’s pretty country. Fields so flat and lush, why it looks just like that fancy carpet you got in your high-falutin’ hotels back where you come from. The hay that comes outta C Bar M is ‘bout the best hay ever. Likewise C Bar M cattle fetch the highest prices in these parts. It’s a first class operation, run by a first class rancher. They call him Gentleman Chris.
Gentleman Chris is about the nicest, straightest cowhand you’d ever hope to meet. Tall, fair and handsome, ol’ Gentleman’s a real ladies man. Smart as a whip, a real sharp businessman. He’ll treat you fair, though, and if you needed it, he’d give you the shirt off his back.
The thing is, you don’t want to cross him, ‘cause he don’t forget. Oh, he’ll smile and laugh, slap you on the back, treat you like a good ol’ boy. But once you let your guard down, he’ll snap you in two like a brittle twig.
On the other end of the valley, you got the TG spread. It backs right up to Fireplace Butte. They call it that ‘cause, well, that butte, it just looks like a fireplace.
Butte, not butt.
Dang, you city folks are dumber than mules!
The TG’s a smaller, scrappier outfit. The land ain’t quite so good, the hay not quite so sweet. The cattle are just a bit scrawnier, the cowhands a little bit rougher. And the TG spread’s run by the toughest cowhand in these parts. His name is Tommy.
But most folks call him Tommy Two-Gun.
Ol’ Two-Gun’s about the quickest draw in these parts, and he’s got the quick temper to match. He’s a little guy, but you sure don’t want to say that to his face. He’s cat quick, and he don’t take kindly to insults. They still tell the tale of the new cowhand who made some crack about "that little cowboy, don’t he ride a pony?”
Well, Two-Gun overheard that remark.
Next morning,’ here comes that poor cowboy into town…trussed up like a heifer, dragged behind a pony.
Nope, you don’t want to mess with Two-Gun.
Now we got a couple of smaller ranches in these parts, but they don’t amount to much. It’s really just Gentleman and Two-Gun that run things around here. It’s a big county, and between the two of ‘em, they pretty much own all of it.
Of course, they don’t get along. Not one dang bit.
The craziest part? They’re brothers.
Now there was always a sort of an uneasy truce between the two of them. Oh, they’d have a feud now and then, but nothin’ major. Every once in a while a couple of Gentleman’s cows would go missin’ and they’d turn up on Two-Gun’s spread. Next week or so, one of Two-Gun’s horses would be found with Gentleman’s herd. A couple cowhands from each spread would meet out in the valley and swap ‘em back. Hardly ever had to resort to gunplay.
But at the last county fair, when everyone comes into town, the two of them happen to bump into each other, and the next thing you know, the fists are flyin'. The cowhands from both sides got into it and we had a major brawl goin.’ I had to step in and set things right, and I gave each of those boys a warnin’ not to be brawlin’ in my town. Well, they stared at me, they stared at each other, and finally they pulled their boys’ together and headed back out of town.
I thought that’d be the end of things.
I was wrong.
Next thing I know, ol Gentleman comes into my office to file a complaint. Seems a whole bunch of his cows went missin.’ But that weren’t the worst of it. Ol’ Gentleman had himself a prize horse – a big, brown, barrel-chested stallion. That was one beautiful horse. Went by the name of Chocolate. Well, Chocolate was missin’ along with them cows, and he was sure that Two-Gun was behind it.
Well, I told him I’d head out to Two-Gun’s place and have a chat with the boy, and that was good enough for Gentleman. He thanked me politely and headed back to his spread.
Not 15 minutes later Two-Gun shows up. He’s got a different story to tell. According to him, most of his cows are gone, along with his best cowhand, an orange-haired lad, went by the name of Elmo.
Well, I asked Two-Gun if he thought Elmo might’a run off with those cows. A dark shadow crossed his face and he reared up with a cocked fist, and I thought he was gonna swing on me…but he caught himself. Glowering at me, he said, “Elmo doesn’t steal Tommy’s cows.”
Well, so much for that.
Then he said, “Big Daddy, I’m goin’ to get Elmo back, and my cows too. If you don’t do something about this, I will.”
That’s vintage Two-Gun. Bold, defiant, takin’ matters into his own hands.
And he left.
The next few days were eerily quiet in town. It was almost like folks were bracin’ for a storm. I come to hear from folks that both Gentleman’s and Two-Gun’s cowhands were stockin’ up on guns an’ ammunition. The shelves at the general store were gettin’ bare. Even the stagecoach drivers were nervous comin’ in to town.
Folks started whispering about a Range War.
Now I really couldn’t believe that these two brothers’ would actually draw down on each other, but it was starting to look like that’s what was gonna happen.
Unless I did something about it.
Well, I wasn’t gonna let this escalate into an all-out range war. Folks in these parts, particularly the womenfolk, count on me to keep the peace. And when I heard from a preacher passin’ thru town that it looked like the two brothers were putting their cowhands up toward the fence dividin’ their spreads, I knew it was time to take charge of this situation.
So I saddled up my big stallion, a large, white beast I call Suburban. ‘Bout the biggest, strongest ride in town. Better’n nearly 250 regular horsepower, by my reckoning.’ Pulls my big trailer with no trouble. I strapped on my gunbelt, stowed the Winchester in the saddle holster, and headed out to the Berber flats.
Well, stranger, if you want to hear the rest of the story, you’re gonna have to come back another night. I’ve got my rounds to make tonight before I turn off the lights in this town. But if you come back in a couple days or so, I’ll tell ya the rest of the story.
Out here in the west, there’s only one way to head off a full-on Range War.
And that’s what we call Frontier Justice.
So come back, stranger.
Yep, it’s great to be Sheriff Mann.
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