memoir

Louie Figures It Out

One proud day, Louie acquired a bedraggled, old gray mule. The poor beast had obviously been”rode hard and put up wet.” It was tormented by flies, particularly in spots where harness had rubbed. Nonetheless, Louie was enamored of the sad beast pastured in his brother Don’s empty cow lot adjacent to our barn. The lot had gnawed down to the last blade of grass by its previous occupants. The only amenity available to the mule was a half barrel of water. Don and Louie spent some time spraying the mule for flies, which had to be a relief. Don went about his business assuring Louie they’d get old gray some hay tomorrow. A seed was planted.

Old Gray ate all the grass he could reach through the fence. Louie spent the rest of the afternoon pulling grass and delivering it by the handful to the grateful mule. Even Boogereater and Jamie got caught up in the exercise for a while.

About dusk, Daddy came home and scattered out hay for his stock and went on his busy way. Remembering Don’s intentions, Louie opened his cow pen gate and turned Old Gray into Daddy’s feed lot to get at the hay. Delighted at the opportunity to chow down, Old Gray kicked at Daddy’s cows to get them out of his way. Daddy heard the ruckus and came hurrying back, only to find his cows scattered and Old Gray munching happily.

Daddy shouted at Louie.” Get that mule out of here. He’s gonna hurt my cows!” He handed Louie a block of hay to toll the mule out and waved a stick at Old Gray. Reluctantly, Old Gray allowed himself to be led back into Don’s cow lot. Glad to have settled that problem, Daddy secured his own gate and went about his business

Louie was not to be denied that easily. He scooped up a generous portion of Daddy’s hay and tossed it over the fence to Old Gray. The happy mule tore into it with enthusiasm. It had probably been a long time since he’d such a rich meal. Satisfied with his day’s work, Louie went home for his own supper.

The next day when Daddy went out to throw hay to his cows, he found Louie and Old Gray waiting for him. The scattered remains of yesterday’s hay lay about them on the ground. Daddy warned Louie not to let Old Gray in his pasture.

Louie waited patiently for Daddy to put out the hay before climbing over the fence. “Louie, don’t be climbing my fence. You’ll tear it up. What in the hell are you doing?”

Louie scooped up a few blocks of hay and tossed them over the fence to Old Gray. “Old Gray ain’t got no hay. You don’t care Old Gray have hay?”

Daddy knew he wasn’t going to win this round. “Oh hell no, man! That’s what I bought it for.”

Valuable Mule

Farmer Jones had a wife who was a terrible, terrible nag. Every time she would talk to him about anything she would nag him and the only way he could get away was to go do some plowing with his old mule in the field.

Needless to say Farmer Jones spent a lot of time walking up and down the fields with his old mule until one day his wife, in a fit of remorse for her nagging ways decided to surprise her husband by fixing him a nice lunch to eat while he was out plowing in the fields. 

She took the lunch out to the field, and Farmer Jones was very happy and surprised to see her and hoped that she had finally changed her nagging ways. She hadn’t been out there for ten minutes when she began nagging her poor husband again about something.

During her tirade, she dropped the picnic basket behind the mule and the mule gave her a good swift kick in the head. She fell over dead as a door nail from the mule’s strong kick.

A few days later, at the funeral parlor a couple of friends of Farmer Jones noticed that after the service both men and ladies would come up to Farmer Jones and offer their sympathy and condolences. In each case, Farmer Jones would nod his head up and down when ladies would speak, and would shake his head from side to side when a man-friend would come up to comfort him.

After the service was over, those friends of Farmer Jones went up to him and asked him why he nodded his head for the ladies but shook his head for the men.

“Well”, Farmer Jones said, “when the ladies would come up they would say something like… Isn’t that a lovely dress she is wearing? or “Doesn’t she look natural, just like she is asleep?… and I would nod my head yes in agreement. But when the men came up, they all asked me if I wanted to sell that mule”.

Flower Felons

One fine day, Mother and I ran by our favorite garden center while we were running errands, as any right-thinking person would.  I know better than to take Mother with me around flowers. She has no flower morals and always leads me into sin. I was strolling about, measuring the beauty of the flowers against the high cost of divorce, should I purchase any more this month, a miracle occurred.  One of the vendors walked up to me and asked if I liked flowers.  She cut me off before I really got started.  She lived at ——Jones Street.  She’d collected so many flowers she couldn’t take care of them.  They were all in her yard and on her porch.  Go by and get all I wanted.

“Is this a joke?  What if your neighbors see me loading flowers and call the police?”

“Oh, that’s no problem.  Just take a picture of me and show it to them if they say anything, or tell them to call me.  It will be fine.”  That sounded reasonable.  I snapped her picture making the peace sign and sped to _______Jones Street.  The neighbors were on their doorstep watching us, probably wondering why they hadn’t been offered anything.  I showed them the lady’s picture, telling them she said we could have her plants.  They looked suspicious, but didn’t yell at us.  The plants were gorgeous and the pots artistic. She’d even started a couple of nice pineapples that were nearly ripe! Why would anyone go to all that trouble only to give them away? I was in heaven. I had many of them loaded when I noticed we were on ______Patterson Street.  Hurriedly, we put the lovely plants back, explained to the incredulous neighbors, and took off.

We never did find ________Jones Street, but at least we haven’t been arrested, yet.  I’ll bet that woman in the garden center is still laughing.

Setting Louie Straight

Louie lived with his mother, an ancient crone.  It must have been a hard  life for both.  From outward appearances, they seemed very poor.  Their  decrepit home cried out for paint.  Windows needed screens. Old Lady Rick often hung in the crooked doorway shrieking at Louie.  “Louie, get me some taters out o’ the tater house!  Pour a bucket of water on them tomaters!” Louie generally plodded wordlessly to do Mama’s bidding. 

Mama had another son who lived across the street, Don Ricks, the proud father of Boogereater and Jamie, the suspected cigarette thief.  Don plowed and maintained Mama’s poor garden, except for what Louie could be pushed into doing.  The Rolling Store, a converted school bus pulled in next to her house weekly so Louie could fetch the scant  groceries on her list.

Following Boogereater’s gasoline sniffing episode, Daddy was extremely critical of Mother’s handling of the situation.  If Mother had been attending her children instead of trying to sneak a nap, Connie would never have slid off the bed.  Mother should have stood up to to Mrs. Rick and not left her children to take “that kid” to the doctor.  If she’d kept the screen locked like she was supposed to, Louie would never have gotten in to scare her. I guess if she hadn’t put gas in the car, Boogereater wouldn’t have sniffed it.  The bill from the doctor put the icing on the cake. The point of this was, Daddy knew how to handle things.

Thanksgiving was a’coming.  The rooster to have the place of honor at the festivities was shut in a coop fattening.  The accomodations were nothing special but the menu was excellent.  In his neighborhood ramblings, Louie apparently noted the incarcerated rooster, stirring a memory.  Mother noted Louie headed across our yard with the squawking rooster under his arm.  Mother rushed out to rescue her bird.  “Louie, bring back my rooster!  We are fattening him for Thanksgiving!

“I ‘mon eat him.  I ‘mon eat dis rooster.” He replied complacently as he headed home with his new rooster.”

“Louie!  Bring him back!  That’s my rooster!”. This wasn’t the first time Louie got the best of her. 

She was fuming when Daddy got home.  “Louie got my rooster! I saw him cutting across the  front yard with the rooster under his arm.  I hollered at him, but he wouldn’t bring him back!”

“Well, if you’re gonna deal with him, you’re gonna have to be smarter than he is!”This was a generous paraphrase of Daddy’s response.  He’s d never heard of political correctness.  “I’ll go get your damned rooster!”. He strode confidently across the dusty road.

He found Louie out back of the house shutting the rooster in a crate, “Louie, I came to get my rooster.  Don’t be going out on my place no more.”

Louie met the challenge, totally unperturbed.  “I ‘mon eat him.”

Tolerating no nonsense, Daddy glared at him. “I’m taking my rooster.”

“I’ll get me ‘nother one.” Replied Louie steadily, knowing right was on his side.

Bested, Daddy stomped back to his own yard.  Where’s my rooster?” Mother queried.

“Let’im keep the damned thing!” Daddy spouted.  “He ain’t got enough sense to talk to!”

Mysogyny

“She’s sick.” Miss Ann confided as she handed over her precious Yorkie I  had just agreed to  responsibility for. “I’m kind of surprised she made it this long. We are both sick and I just can’t take care of her no more. Her medicine costs forty dollars a month and I just ain’t got the money.”. My heart fell. “What’s wrong with her?”

“Irritable Bowel Syndrome,” smiled the vet, mindful that Biscuit’s bowels had already paid off like a slot machine in the seven years Biscuit had been her patient.

Miss Ann sure knew how to hold her tongue till the deal was done. “Don’t worry. She goes on paper.” not mentioning Biscuit preferred towels, rugs, socks, slippers, dog toys, or whatever seemed expeditious.

Buzzy, my gentlemanly American Eskimo Dog, met us at the back door. She warned him off with a scowl, informing him things were going to be different from now on. When I put her down, she smiled contently and pooped on my shiny hardwood floor. Spotting Bud, she strolled over and daintily pawed his ankle. When their eyes met, true love pulsed beween them.

She shot me a look. “You ain’t woman enough to take my man.”

Louie Gets Help Part 2

Boogereater’s mama scooped up her wormy-looking five-year-old and hefted herself into the front seat of Mother’s car. Though they were neighbors, the two women had never been friends. Mrs. Rick was a wild-haired harridan whose dirty children ran wild until long after dark and caused general turmoil in the neighborhood by leaving water-hoses running, gates open, and throwing rocks at cars. Boogerseater’s older brother had even been caught stealing cigarettes out of one house. Mrs. Rick’s attitude implied Mother had been negligent in allowing Boogereater access to her gas tank.

Furthermore, Mother was furious at having to leave her toddler out of pocket to take them to the doctor. The three miles to town seemed endless as Mother fretted over her misplaced baby. After a lifetime, they reached the doctor’s office. Mrs. Rick unloaded her floppy boy, rushing in. She didn’t even close the car door behind herself, leaving Mother to get out and close it, wasting even more time.

Naturally, Mother made a bee-line for home, very nearly speeding a time or two. A very timid driver, she never exceeded twenty-five miles per hour. Vacillating between fury and preparatory grief, she was held up by a train of sixty-seven cars about a quarter of a mile from home.

After a lifetime, she pulled into her driveway to be met by Louie and a bevy of neighborhood kids. The kids rushed up to the car, demanding to know “Is he dead? Is he dead?”

She had to work her way around Louie, who stood his ground. “Boy’s done dead.” He pronounced,making it clear he had the situation under control.

Once in the house, she found a frustrated Freddie May trying to pacify Connie who was bawling her eyes out for her mama. Sally was impatiently rocking the shrieking infant, Marilyn, who had been awakened during the melee. The women fled after informing Mother Connie had found sleeping on the floor where she’d wallowed her pillow off the side of the bed.

The story had a interesting ending. Boogerhead roused up about the time he got to the doctor, apparently no harm done. Daddy got a bill from the doctor about a week later. They didn’t pay it.

More Annie

We once had a fat, farting, sullen Dalmatian named Annie who liked only two things in this world.  The kid across the street named Greg and anything with wheels:  riding mower, wagon, wheel barrow, cars. We’d often look out and see Annie sitting on the seat of the riding mower.  I do believe if we’d left the keys in she would have cranked it.  She’d even try to sit perched ridiculously on top of the push mower.  If we left a car door open, she’d go flying in, hopping in the driver’s seat, perched behind the wheel.  When she did make a car trip, we had to restrain her to keep her in the back.

Bud acquired a red MG Midget with a rag top.  Can you guess where this is headed?  Annie fell in love with it, thinking it was just her size.  It was in really good condition, except for a dime-sized snag in the rag top just over the driver’s seat.  Bud normally parked it in the garage, but he carelessly left it in the drive one night.  When he came out the next morning, Annie was sitting in the driver’s seat, staring straight ahead.  She wouldn’t look to the right or the left. She had wanted to get in that car so badly, she’d climbed on top and fallen through the ragtop.  I heard him shrieking and wondered what catastrophe had taken place.  He tore the door open trying to get at her.  She ripped by him, making a beeline for the protection of the fiberglass igloo doghouse she’d never even stuck a toe in before that day.  Bud kicked at her(I hope the statute of limitations has run out on cruelty to animals)but she made it in before he connected.  He got a huge bruise on his shin from kicking the doghouse.  Though she lived to be fourteen, she never did get to drive.

Louie Gets Help

Louie’s brother and family lived directly across the dusty road from him, probably his only social contacts other than his mother. That sultry August afternoon, Mother put her seventeen-month-old, Connie, down for a nap, flanked by a pillow on each side, on the big bed in her own bedroom for a nap before scooping up her colicky newborn, Marilyn, to feed and rock. It was so hot she could hardly catch her breath. The only hope of a cooling breeze was the rocker in front of the bedroom window. The attic fan pulled a breeze through that window. Mother could her two of her older children playing in the sand under the window. Periodically, the attic fan would pull in a bit of dust and Mother had to make a decision whether she’d rather endure the occasional dust spray or call out the kids and wake the cranky baby who was just drifting off. Carefully, she eased the sleeping baby into her crib without waking her, optimistically hoping she could slip in bed next to the sleeping Connie and catch a little nap. Tiptoeing out she told Phyllis, her oldest to keep an eye on me and Bill and slipped quietly in next to Connie.

Her own breathing slowed and she was almost asleep when she got the creepy feeling someone was looking at her. She jerked awake to see Louie standing in her bedroom door, staring at her. She hopped up, horrified and furious. She squeaked hoarsely. “Louie! What are you doing in here? I’ve told you not to come in my house!” It turned out Phyllis had forgotten to latch the screen when she came back in.

“Boogereater done dead.” Louie pronounced in a monotone. Boogereater had gotten his name for obvious reasons.

Confused, Mother shooed him out angrily and latched the screen just as couple of neighbor ladies showed up at her door.

“Junior, (Boogereater’s proper name) is passed out or maybe dead! He took the gas cap off your car and sniffed. He’s laying out by your car.”

Mystified, Mother followed the women out. Sure enough the boy was lying by her car, flaccid and pale with blue lips. He sure looked dead!

Just then, Boogereater’s mama rushed up and grabbed her lifeless boy. “Somebody’s got to take him to the doctor!” She looked fiercely at Mother. “You got to take him!”

Louie interjected.”Boy’s done dead.”

Withering under the accusing eyes of the presumed dead boy’s mother. Mother offered feebly. “ I can’t go. Both my babies are asleep!”

Boogereater’s Mama stared her down, pronouncing, “It was your gas he sniffed.”

Mother has always had a gift for feeling guilty.

Boogereater’s mama glared at her. “Sally and Freddie May can watched your youngun’s. You the only one with a car. Go git your keys! I’ll put him in the car.”

Defeated, Mother went to get her purse and keys. Sally and Freddie May followed her in. As she headed out, she peaked in on her sleeping babies. Marilyn was fine, but Connie was missing.

“I can’t go. My baby’s missing! She was right here on the bed! We were taking a nap!” She wailed. “ I can’t go! My car might not even start.” Mother insisted.

“ That baby ain’t got out! Them women can find her while we’re gone.” demanded the boy’s mother, hard on her heels.

Checking the back door and finding it still latched, Mother turned on Phyllis, reading just outside the bedroom. “Did Connie slip out past you?”

“No ma’am. I’ve been sitiing here the whole time she’s got to be in the house. I’ll find her.” Phyllis was dependable.

Guilt-ridden and bullied, Mother grabbed her things and rushed to the car. Sadly for her, the car started on the first crank.

Louie watched as Mother backed out. “Boy done dead.” He pronounced.

That was the beginning of Boogereater’s gas sniffing.

More to come.

Chicken Joke

A New York City yuppie moved to the country and bought a piece of land. He went to the local feed and livestock store and talked to the proprietor and asked to buy one hundred chicks.

“That’s a lot of chicks,” commented the proprietor. “I mean business,” the city slicker replied.

A week later the yuppie was back again. “I need another hundred chicks,” he said. “Boy, you are serious about this chicken farming,” the man told him.

“Yeah,” the yuppie replied. “If I can iron out a few problems.” “Problems?” asked the proprietor. “Yeah,” replied the yuppie, “I think I planted that last batch too close tog