Runcorn Gap
Written by S.E. Hicks
Straddled on the apex of the stern, Tobias Archer repeatedly dropped the lead and line to check the depth of the River Mersey. Giles Ginter, his childhood friend was at the helm directing the river cog through the shallow sandy bottomed channel. Tobias scanned the ship, looking proudly forward at his father Oswyn, who was standing statuesquely at the bow, studying intently the water in advance of the cog. He listened curiously at Piers Geste, who was barking orders to the small crew manning the square rigged sail and again to the oarsman. They were eight, mostly Archers and one from Ginter‘s family. Giles Ginter had many a time sailed the river but had never ventured west of Warrington nor to far east into Manchester. Tobias knew not of navigation, he was both excited and inquisitive. The trip on the river flat would be his only schooling, an incomplete preparation for the rapids yet to come.
The river was flowing just fast enough to mostly out run the effects the gentle early morning breeze had on the sail. As he watched the sail fill and relax, Tobias wondered of the horses they had set free at the confluence of the Goyt and the Etherow. Packed with a few bags of rock, the equine had been sent on a rouse, galloping east towards Mottram ferry with no riders along the River Mersey’s north bank. He thought of his Millicent and her angry father the Shire-reeve. Tobias’ fathers men had in deed thrown Barnaby Shipwash and the hue and cry off their trail. The Archers were temporarily safe from their pursuers. At least for now. Their heading would be north and west on the whims of the river. With the aide of the single sail river cog, the gap between them had lengthened considerable.
Their trip on the river would take them past Wulfiges, the land of wolves. On to Woolston Eyes and the great breeding grounds of the Black Neck Grebe, past the mill pond at Warrington, Lancashire the place of the Roman crossing, then into the treacherous narrows of Runcorn Gap. If the cog made it through to the wide expanse of the estuary they would be but a day’s sail to the next narrow and on to the busy Seaforth Dock of Liverpool, the gateway to the Atlantic.
As the cog approached the Runcorn, the wind picked up sail and Giles ordered the men to furl the square rig. Both Oswyn and Piers joined the men on the oars. Giles requested Tobias to help him man the tiller. Just before they entered the mouth of the gap, a young woman appeared on the far bank chased by two rouges. Her dress of rags just clinging to her, she sloshed her way to the edge of a moored row boat, casting off into the fast water just ahead of the cog. The unknown woman was successful evading her assailants.
The river groaning sounds like a raging beast, began to dance a myriad of ballistic ballets before them. Tossing about sea craft and voyagers alike. The drift ahead presented a surging river which was riddled with white capped dilemmas defining but a single course. One mistake meant death to the few that dared her challenging jaws.
Giles instructed the crew at each approaching obstacle. The men responded courageously to the demands of each protuberance. Rocks void of moss not lacking in mass sent colossal rising fountains of water up skywards and stood defiantly in their path. Tobias keen on the fate of the young woman in the row boat was distracted from his duty and was knocked over by the pitch of the cog and sudden sway of the tiller. When he finally stood he caught only a brief glimpse of the waterlogged women as she disappeared into the raging torrents. The little rowboat, now a passenger less, sagged and dipped, spiraling into one boulder then the next. How the wooden dinghy held together was a tribute to the ship’s carpenter and a parcel of luck. The girl could be seen infrequently, barely holding on to the gunnels of the craft, rarely raising her head from the water. Two hours more of rapids inspired careful and diligent management of the cog-- suffering the crew to safe passage thru Runcorn Gap.
When the cog finally found itself in quiet water, the embattled ship came upon the little row boat. Tobias rushed to the lee side and with anguish, peered over the side to look for the girl. She was not in sight. He had nearly turned away when a hand slowly appeared from the murky water and grabbed hold the gunnels. The woman had survived the watery ride but was bleeding badly about her head. He saw her face in a brief flash. He noticed a piece of her scalp was missing and bare skull exposed. Her had been nose, smashed into her skull and her bloody cheeks were dislocated she looked haunting and pitiful, unrecognizable. Before they could mount an effort her eyes froze in death. Her disheveled corpse slipped away into the green murk leaving simply a spire of crimson trail in the water and a single blonde shed floating on the surface. It was hair like Millicent had.
Oswyn said “Do not forlorn her passing Tobias, she did not die without courage.”
Then Oswyn said a short prayer to himself, others coalesced with Tobias at the stern to bid her a safe journey.
“Who do you think she was and what fate had she escaped from?” questioned Tobias.
“ I can not conjecture her first fate, but the River Mersey and the rapids of Runcorn Gap was the fate that took her life,” said Giles.
Tobias then sheltered his eyes as he wished not for his father’s men to see his tear.
After they passed the placid tidal narrows of Liverpool Bay they moored at Seaforth Dock. Both Oswyn and Tobias stowed themselves in the hold, keeping out of sight. Giles and Piers went ashore to perform reconnaissance of the markets adjacent to the ship yard. They had a mission, to hire a guide for a sea crossing to Ireland. Neither Giles or Piers could navigate the vast openness of the Irish sea. They not only needed a guide but a guide with charts and compass. Someone that could be trusted, someone not easily bought buy the Duke’s shilling.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Excerpt from "Common Vengeance"
The harbor master sat at his desk keeping one eye on the pier and the other on his shipping file. He could observe from his little office that the Congolese dock workers were doing their job of mooring the Portuguese merchant ship. If his life depended on it, Major Dunstein could not find any information about the Saint Mercy. He had misplaced the harbor mooring logs again, something he had done many a time in the past, primarily due to the effects of his rum consumption. The Major had served as the harbor master for some thirty-five years, he now owned the harbor, the town, and everything in it. The two piers, both four hundred feet long had mooring space for three ships on either side. With a little help from his good friend Keeps and on the backs of adequately paid Congolese employees, he had built the entirety with his two hands. He had built the town as well, all the time influenced by the rum. The harbor itself was mostly empty on this day, except for this new ship the Saint Mercy, which was now docked at the extreme end of the north pier.
“Hey Major, looks like some good business. They need a new foremast, some sail, and rigging,” said Keeps.
“Good,” said the Major, “Have the men set to work straight away. We’ve got other ships due any day now.”
“Hey Major, looks like some good business. They need a new foremast, some sail, and rigging,” said Keeps.
“Good,” said the Major, “Have the men set to work straight away. We’ve got other ships due any day now.”
Don's Sonic by S.E. Hicks
Don’s Sonic
Written by Fletcher “Butchwax” Ferguson
Rare is the time when a circumstance occurs that becomes so memorable it carries with it degrees of exponential substance that allows the experience to take on a life of its own. An event that is still transcending time. So it was one night after a year of heavy academic drudgery for four college sophomores, good friends .
In an effort to protect the guilty the names of the participants have in fact been changed. This story is about the inaugural summer bash held by a college buddy, who is now safely established as a municipal judge for a county not to be named later. As all stories go there are different accounts but this version is told from one individual’s view point. An individual that may or may not have been present at the time but the tale will be told as if he/she was. I must apologize to any reader who finds the material offensive. It is not designed to offend nor is it meant to represent a point of proud historical happening. It is what it was and through it all remains a fact of happenstance. Enough introduction, here is the tale of Don’s Sonic.
Having spent a truly hideous semester of laborious study, working the grave yard shift at a metal shop and competing in a never ending Track and Field season that had lasted from December to May. I was ready to break training and get a good drunk on. I was not alone in this regard, as the eminent announcement of the first annual beer bash, held at an obscure privately owned lake house was well received by three others. Three friends who clearly had experienced the same level of mind twisting demands as I had. The beer bash was scheduled for a Saturday with a Sunday scheduled for recovery before the trip home. We may have got an early start.
At the time I was working the day shift at the metal shop and was finishing a long week of cutting to length, heavy gauge sixteen inch aluminum pipe. The twelve foot lengths of pipe were cut from a twenty six foot piece of raw material. Once the pipe was cut to length, I had to drill a six inch hole in either end inorder to attached two aluminum nipples with flanges. The heavy pipe was being manufactured into what was called a hydrostatic water treatment device used by hospitals at the time. The work was very physically demanding, the weather was beyond hot for the month of June and the work was time sensitive. Needless to say, by the time I had my shower after I got off that Friday afternoon I was more than ready for the first beer that I had had in better than ten months.
My buddy Seymour Wiggins showed up at my apartment with a mutual buddy Homer Grayskull. Homer was a very tall and lanky country boy who could really throw the discus and toss down a beer, Seymour was a short legged fellow distance runner who could drink until his nose sweat while driving a foreign four speed. Homer had conveniently taken the liberty of filling two large coolers with ice and Papst Blue Ribbon. After a few PBR’s we left my one room apartment to head the thirty miles north to pick up another buddy who was, to say it mildly, a unique character in of his self. Tuan Tan Nguyen was a Vietnamese refugee then pre dental school student with a personality that never stopped evolving. We could not help but adopt him. Bright in spirit, super intelligent, the little Asian genius was a brain trust of never ending resource and countless laughs. Someone you could count on to provide a side splitting one liner on most any occasion, when you least expected it. The guy was so smart he not only picked up the English language in under a semester, he mastered Latin and French as well. The guy was scary smart, quick witted.
Anyway, after a good six pack apiece we had picked up Ten Til-Noon, which was what we called him (eleven fifty for short). We had a good three hour drive yet so the beer was a primary focus while we caught up. As the beer was going down, we drove and started to unwind. Homer who was at least six foot seven was in the back with our Asian friend (5 foot 1 maybe) consequently, leg room in the little four seat import was at a premium and a constant festering subject. About thirty minutes into the trip, Tuan presents us with a Thai stick joint. Now neither Homer, Seymour nor I had ever even considered smoking such. Nonetheless, it got smoked. The best of the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band went into the cassette player and the THC induced creativity began. What followed were witty jokes along with deep meaningful, philosophical discussions having world changing impact. Theories and theorems of which never will be absorbed nor come to light in today’s society. Insightful wisdom that would never be remembered nor recalled. We were, on a different plane in a completely different stratosphere.
That is when it happened, the realization that food was needed, so we pulled into a small town Sonic Drive In restaurant and placed an order. We each in turn placed an order via the micro phone. When Tuan ordered four bearded clams we could not have stopped laughing to save our lives much less eat. Thus, we left immediately without any food. Now when we did leave, Tuan hit us with another little ditty. Due to the fact of a unintended alignment of two electronic signs, the fact we had impaired enhanced cognitive skills and had depth perception issues, Tuan referred to the Sonic as Don’s Sonic. Additionally, it was right next door to Don’s Pharmacy.
That revelation added to the drug induced laughter caused by the diminutive Asian’s request for bearded two legged shell fish. Auspiciously, that was not the end of the kingdom that the enterprising phantom, monopolizing entrepreneur Don owned. Along the way we saw Don’s Autos, Don’s Auto Repair, Don’s Tires. Don’s Tow Service, Don’s Trucking, Don’s Tractor Service, Don’s Lumber, Don’s Hardware, Don’s Gas and Go, Don’s Bar and Grill, Don’s Ice Cream Shoppe, Don’s Title Company, Don’s Real Estate and let us not forget Don’s Septic Service. Don needed his own yellow pages just to find himself. Thus, we found a Don’s Printing, a Don’s Phone Service and Don’s Advertising Agency.
Down the road and for the next two days we ran across more road side businesses owned by Don. There was a Don’s this and a Don’s that, even a Don’ s This and That. We blamed Don’s Thai stick for the phenomenon. All weekend long we encountered Don. When we pulled the boat up to Don’s Marina on Saturday, I just about lost it. A plethora of Don’s taverns, Don’s shops, Don’s stores and Don’s more, complete with every possible type of Don’s signage from Don‘s Signs, all uniquely belonging to Don. Don’s empire continued to line the roadsides, infecting our funny bones then and still does today.
When you combine explosive pent up brain stress with alcohol, THC and a creative unfettered, exuberant Vietnamese comedic genius, nothing is not funny. Therapy is the result. Tuan was convinced that Don owned everything between where we where and where we were going from then until the end of time. The revelation left us in a continuous state of historical, hysterical delirium. A whimsy which has fostered a life long guffaw. Consequently, Don became a lasting unparalleled enigma, a magical reappearing institution that has lasted some 40 years. From that day since, Don has been and remains to be, part of our lives. I can not eat at Sonic with out thinking of Tuan’s order and thinking of the fact it was Don’s Sonic that started it all.
Tuan called me a few years after college and told me he had been accepted into Don’s school of Dentistry, one of his professors was Dr. Don Donaldson, he had married a young Amer-Asian lass named… you guessed it Dawn Donnley. His first born son, Donald was attending Don Meriwether Elementary. Last time I saw him he was driving a Cadillac he had bought from Don’s GM. Since then no communication has ever taken place without some reference to Don working its way into the conversation, ever more cleverly and subtly as time has rolled on. Once I got a Don’s Sonic monogrammed pen and pencil set for Christmas. It was wrapped in brown paper cut out of a Don‘s Deli take out bag. I’m not sure it will ever end but Don will continue to bring a smile to my face. Whenever passing his ubiquitous roadside businesses, I will always be reminded.
I will never forget Ten Til-Noon nor Don’s Sonic.
Every time I drink a PBR I give a toast to Don, who and where ever he may be. To Don and bearded clams.
Written by Fletcher “Butchwax” Ferguson
Rare is the time when a circumstance occurs that becomes so memorable it carries with it degrees of exponential substance that allows the experience to take on a life of its own. An event that is still transcending time. So it was one night after a year of heavy academic drudgery for four college sophomores, good friends .
In an effort to protect the guilty the names of the participants have in fact been changed. This story is about the inaugural summer bash held by a college buddy, who is now safely established as a municipal judge for a county not to be named later. As all stories go there are different accounts but this version is told from one individual’s view point. An individual that may or may not have been present at the time but the tale will be told as if he/she was. I must apologize to any reader who finds the material offensive. It is not designed to offend nor is it meant to represent a point of proud historical happening. It is what it was and through it all remains a fact of happenstance. Enough introduction, here is the tale of Don’s Sonic.
Having spent a truly hideous semester of laborious study, working the grave yard shift at a metal shop and competing in a never ending Track and Field season that had lasted from December to May. I was ready to break training and get a good drunk on. I was not alone in this regard, as the eminent announcement of the first annual beer bash, held at an obscure privately owned lake house was well received by three others. Three friends who clearly had experienced the same level of mind twisting demands as I had. The beer bash was scheduled for a Saturday with a Sunday scheduled for recovery before the trip home. We may have got an early start.
At the time I was working the day shift at the metal shop and was finishing a long week of cutting to length, heavy gauge sixteen inch aluminum pipe. The twelve foot lengths of pipe were cut from a twenty six foot piece of raw material. Once the pipe was cut to length, I had to drill a six inch hole in either end inorder to attached two aluminum nipples with flanges. The heavy pipe was being manufactured into what was called a hydrostatic water treatment device used by hospitals at the time. The work was very physically demanding, the weather was beyond hot for the month of June and the work was time sensitive. Needless to say, by the time I had my shower after I got off that Friday afternoon I was more than ready for the first beer that I had had in better than ten months.
My buddy Seymour Wiggins showed up at my apartment with a mutual buddy Homer Grayskull. Homer was a very tall and lanky country boy who could really throw the discus and toss down a beer, Seymour was a short legged fellow distance runner who could drink until his nose sweat while driving a foreign four speed. Homer had conveniently taken the liberty of filling two large coolers with ice and Papst Blue Ribbon. After a few PBR’s we left my one room apartment to head the thirty miles north to pick up another buddy who was, to say it mildly, a unique character in of his self. Tuan Tan Nguyen was a Vietnamese refugee then pre dental school student with a personality that never stopped evolving. We could not help but adopt him. Bright in spirit, super intelligent, the little Asian genius was a brain trust of never ending resource and countless laughs. Someone you could count on to provide a side splitting one liner on most any occasion, when you least expected it. The guy was so smart he not only picked up the English language in under a semester, he mastered Latin and French as well. The guy was scary smart, quick witted.
Anyway, after a good six pack apiece we had picked up Ten Til-Noon, which was what we called him (eleven fifty for short). We had a good three hour drive yet so the beer was a primary focus while we caught up. As the beer was going down, we drove and started to unwind. Homer who was at least six foot seven was in the back with our Asian friend (5 foot 1 maybe) consequently, leg room in the little four seat import was at a premium and a constant festering subject. About thirty minutes into the trip, Tuan presents us with a Thai stick joint. Now neither Homer, Seymour nor I had ever even considered smoking such. Nonetheless, it got smoked. The best of the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band went into the cassette player and the THC induced creativity began. What followed were witty jokes along with deep meaningful, philosophical discussions having world changing impact. Theories and theorems of which never will be absorbed nor come to light in today’s society. Insightful wisdom that would never be remembered nor recalled. We were, on a different plane in a completely different stratosphere.
That is when it happened, the realization that food was needed, so we pulled into a small town Sonic Drive In restaurant and placed an order. We each in turn placed an order via the micro phone. When Tuan ordered four bearded clams we could not have stopped laughing to save our lives much less eat. Thus, we left immediately without any food. Now when we did leave, Tuan hit us with another little ditty. Due to the fact of a unintended alignment of two electronic signs, the fact we had impaired enhanced cognitive skills and had depth perception issues, Tuan referred to the Sonic as Don’s Sonic. Additionally, it was right next door to Don’s Pharmacy.
That revelation added to the drug induced laughter caused by the diminutive Asian’s request for bearded two legged shell fish. Auspiciously, that was not the end of the kingdom that the enterprising phantom, monopolizing entrepreneur Don owned. Along the way we saw Don’s Autos, Don’s Auto Repair, Don’s Tires. Don’s Tow Service, Don’s Trucking, Don’s Tractor Service, Don’s Lumber, Don’s Hardware, Don’s Gas and Go, Don’s Bar and Grill, Don’s Ice Cream Shoppe, Don’s Title Company, Don’s Real Estate and let us not forget Don’s Septic Service. Don needed his own yellow pages just to find himself. Thus, we found a Don’s Printing, a Don’s Phone Service and Don’s Advertising Agency.
Down the road and for the next two days we ran across more road side businesses owned by Don. There was a Don’s this and a Don’s that, even a Don’ s This and That. We blamed Don’s Thai stick for the phenomenon. All weekend long we encountered Don. When we pulled the boat up to Don’s Marina on Saturday, I just about lost it. A plethora of Don’s taverns, Don’s shops, Don’s stores and Don’s more, complete with every possible type of Don’s signage from Don‘s Signs, all uniquely belonging to Don. Don’s empire continued to line the roadsides, infecting our funny bones then and still does today.
When you combine explosive pent up brain stress with alcohol, THC and a creative unfettered, exuberant Vietnamese comedic genius, nothing is not funny. Therapy is the result. Tuan was convinced that Don owned everything between where we where and where we were going from then until the end of time. The revelation left us in a continuous state of historical, hysterical delirium. A whimsy which has fostered a life long guffaw. Consequently, Don became a lasting unparalleled enigma, a magical reappearing institution that has lasted some 40 years. From that day since, Don has been and remains to be, part of our lives. I can not eat at Sonic with out thinking of Tuan’s order and thinking of the fact it was Don’s Sonic that started it all.
Tuan called me a few years after college and told me he had been accepted into Don’s school of Dentistry, one of his professors was Dr. Don Donaldson, he had married a young Amer-Asian lass named… you guessed it Dawn Donnley. His first born son, Donald was attending Don Meriwether Elementary. Last time I saw him he was driving a Cadillac he had bought from Don’s GM. Since then no communication has ever taken place without some reference to Don working its way into the conversation, ever more cleverly and subtly as time has rolled on. Once I got a Don’s Sonic monogrammed pen and pencil set for Christmas. It was wrapped in brown paper cut out of a Don‘s Deli take out bag. I’m not sure it will ever end but Don will continue to bring a smile to my face. Whenever passing his ubiquitous roadside businesses, I will always be reminded.
I will never forget Ten Til-Noon nor Don’s Sonic.
Every time I drink a PBR I give a toast to Don, who and where ever he may be. To Don and bearded clams.
True or false
If something is false it can not be not false at the same time.
If in your judgment you find that what I think is not false, false
and the first statement which is true can not be argued as false,
one can only conclude that what is wrong, is the judgment of fault
you find in a truth, that is false, because
a Truth can not be not false and false at the same time
just as something that is false can not be not false at the same time.
SE Hicks
If in your judgment you find that what I think is not false, false
and the first statement which is true can not be argued as false,
one can only conclude that what is wrong, is the judgment of fault
you find in a truth, that is false, because
a Truth can not be not false and false at the same time
just as something that is false can not be not false at the same time.
SE Hicks
Every Thing That Is
God "Is."
God "Is" everything.
Therefore, everything "Is" from God.
God then has a reason for everything that "Is."
There are 2600 Christian denominations.
If the above "Is" true, then every one of these
denominations "Is" because God has a reason for them to be.
God "Is" everything.
Therefore, everything "Is" from God.
God then has a reason for everything that "Is."
There are 2600 Christian denominations.
If the above "Is" true, then every one of these
denominations "Is" because God has a reason for them to be.
For Argument's Sake
For Argument Sake
Nothing can be True and not True at the same time.
If in your judgment, my understanding of Truth be not true
and my Truth is true to me, considering the first statement which can not be argued as false, which is true.
One can only conclude that the only thing
that is wrong, is your "judgment" of my Truth. Simply because nothing can be true and not true at the same time.
S.E. Hicks
Nothing can be True and not True at the same time.
If in your judgment, my understanding of Truth be not true
and my Truth is true to me, considering the first statement which can not be argued as false, which is true.
One can only conclude that the only thing
that is wrong, is your "judgment" of my Truth. Simply because nothing can be true and not true at the same time.
S.E. Hicks
Excerpt from ''The Incomplete Works of Fletcher 'Butchwax' Ferguson'' by S.E. Hicks
Snakes In The Belfry
written by Fletcher “Butchwax” Ferguson
It’s a well known fact that I’m an avid outdoorsman. Consequently, I have had my fair share of encounters with all creatures great and slithery. The possibility of running into an unexpected creature or wild thing carries with it a degree of adrenaline rushing anticipation. It keeps you coming back to the woods and the streams. On many occasion I have come face to face with a wild species. However, not all these episodes have occurred in the country.
Many years ago when my boys were still quite young, my wife and I were living the typical hectic life of two working parents. With a toddler of just over three and an infant in diapers, it took super human skills and split second timing to ready the troops, get a shower a piece, dress and eat in order to get to work on time. My wife gave the assignments out and had it timed to a gnats ass. About the only time I had to myself was after the wife had hit the shower, before the kid’s feet hit the floor or the baby awakened with a diaper full of a big wad of fresh steaming god awful smelling shit. That was the tiny fragment of time I had to enjoy a cup and stand looking out the front window scratching my hole laden, underwear covered ass. The fleeting moment was the most valuable few minutes of the entire day.
On this one occasion the five minutes of ass scratching bliss was interrupted by the arrival of the water meter maid. The frail looking, very petite black as coal woman pulled up and parked at the end of my driveway. Smartly dressed in her uniform, she was a mere wisp of a woman. It was just barely starting to lighten up. In November in this part of the country, the sun doesn’t show itself until well after seven a.m. I stood behind our large front picture window drinking my first cup, concealed by a veil of darkness the night was still clinging to. I was able to watch the meter maid go about her early morning chores from a position of anonymity that the low light afforded me. I could not help but notice that there had been a beautiful dusting of snow that night which had delicately placed puffy little clouds of snow resting in and on the still somewhat green plants and grass.
After the meter maid had been next door she entered our yard. The water meter was located in a vertically positioned plate covered twelve inch pipe nestled under the shrubs that grew across the front of our yard. A threaded nut had been tightened securing the hatch’s heavy plate. The meter was actually located inside the pipe three feet or so below ground level to protect it from freezing. The meter housing was both hidden by my hedges and covered by the light snow. The rookie first day on the job meter maid, failed to locate the meter in the dim light and returned to her truck to retrieve a flash light.
Once she found the meter she used a long handled wrench to loosen the nut that held the cover plate tight. This effort alone was not adequate for her to read the meter as the plate was frozen fast in place. Try as she would the weak woman could not displace the plate. This was the best early morning entertainment I had had in eons. The nearly helpless women failed over and over to get the plate off. Frustrated, she tried everything, finally undaunted she went to her knees, took the name brand flash light and banged it on the plate breaking winters frozen grip. She then stuck the flash light under her chin, still on her knees and removed the plate thus enabling her to see the water meter. Well, she promptly dropped the flash light down the deep pipe opening.
By now my laughter had awakened my three year old son who was standing by his daddy’s side rubbing one eye and pulling on the edge of my t-shirt asking to see what I was laughing at. There’s nothing like sharing a moment with your son. Picking him up, holding him close, feeling his little heart beat against my chest as he joyously laughed at what he didn’t fully comprehend, is still an active memory. He just laughed with an unfettered exuberance. As the meter maid struggled to reach her flash light, she had to use the full length of her little arms to reach the flash light, forcing her to lay on her side in the wet snow to reach it. The show caused my young son to laugh with even more earnest, infecting my funny bone until we were both in tears with debilitating side splitting laughter.
That’s when the now wet from the snow meter maid was seen scooting rapidly on her rear, stiff legged and flaying her arms wildly. She was ineffectively trying to scramble away from the meter. She was retreating via a technique of lifting one cheek and pushing off with her hand then repeating the action as fast as her wet nearly catatonic limbs would allow. The flash light she had pulled from the hole was in realty, a fist full of garter snakes The snakes having been haplessly cast in to the snow, were trying in slow motion to seek the nearest source of heat. That happened to be the meter maid. As the cold effected the snow bound snakes, they slowly moved towards the meter maid. We went into a complete state of delirium with our laughter. She could not escaped the half dozen snakes that were desperately pursuing her, seeking the lifesaving heat the meter maids body offered.
It dawned on me that the situation was getting serious so I put on some gym shorts and a pair of slippers. As I went to the rescue, my three year old was fast on my heels with a mission of his own design. The woman was completely catatonic. Rigid with fear she could not and would not breathe. As I picked her up out of the snow it was evident she had pissed herself. I shook the woman enough to have gotten her to now focus on me. She looked at me with petrified bulging eyes, still not breathing. The only recourse was to slap the girl to get her to breathe.
When the slap came so came an ear drum busting scream that penetrated the entire neighborhood and got the attention of the young buck that had just moved in across the street. He came charging across the street. The rescue attempt failed, as he hit the snow after hurdling my hedges. As he slid into my gas yard light pole he racked himself resulting in a debilitating painful injury. He was wreathing in pain, as he had not only busted his balls but had broken his pubis bone. Knocking the glass out of the yard light in turn. He hit it hard, Ouch!
I put the still rigid, wet and cold meter maid in our porch swing. While my new neighbor rolled around in the snow holding his balls, groaning a most pitiful sound, I wrapped up the stiff meter maid in a old comforter. I was forced to call an ambulance, as she had slipped into shock. My neighbor, a nice guy it turned out, also required medical attention resulting in a second ambulance. The water company came and took the truck. The guys that came to get the truck not only appreciated the phone call but fully enjoyed the shear beauty of the humorous calamity. A story I’m sure was repeated to a wide collection of blue collar workers at bars and taverns for months to come.
Once the truck and ambulances had left, my attention went back to my three year old whom had successfully picked up and stored in our dry fish aquarium a half dozen of the now fully warm garter snakes. Several of which had escaped in the house with out my knowledge. My son was busy forcing the remaining snakes to stay in the aquarium when I found him. “Can we keep them? Can we keep them? Daddy please can we keep them?” That’s when the second scream of the morning came. A scream that was not affected by cold or shock. It was nothing more than a determined women making it known to her husband that there was a snake in her bathroom. This was the kind of scream that sent fear rapidly in to my courageous soul. It was flight fear that I felt. I was now the suddenly petrified catatonic recipient of the curse the snakes had brought that morning.
The blue eyed blond tornado was oblivious to the morning’s events, and was not especially curious as to where the snake had come from. She was all to focused on her time sensitive routine and just wanted the damn thing out of her bathroom. As I collected the now carpet lint covered snake she calmly ask me as she applied her eye shadow, if the boys were close to being ready. I sheepishly said no and before I could explain--Son-of-a-bing-son-of-a-bang. I was dead meat. She was completely unsympathetic to any thing that had happened. All she was concerned with was chewing my ass because we were all going to be late.
At noon that day the story had reached a local psychiatrist’s radio talk show which my wife listened to during her lunch religiously. She heard the story thought it was funny and called me to tell me about it.
“Honey, I heard the funniest thing on the radio today at lunch.”
written by Fletcher “Butchwax” Ferguson
It’s a well known fact that I’m an avid outdoorsman. Consequently, I have had my fair share of encounters with all creatures great and slithery. The possibility of running into an unexpected creature or wild thing carries with it a degree of adrenaline rushing anticipation. It keeps you coming back to the woods and the streams. On many occasion I have come face to face with a wild species. However, not all these episodes have occurred in the country.
Many years ago when my boys were still quite young, my wife and I were living the typical hectic life of two working parents. With a toddler of just over three and an infant in diapers, it took super human skills and split second timing to ready the troops, get a shower a piece, dress and eat in order to get to work on time. My wife gave the assignments out and had it timed to a gnats ass. About the only time I had to myself was after the wife had hit the shower, before the kid’s feet hit the floor or the baby awakened with a diaper full of a big wad of fresh steaming god awful smelling shit. That was the tiny fragment of time I had to enjoy a cup and stand looking out the front window scratching my hole laden, underwear covered ass. The fleeting moment was the most valuable few minutes of the entire day.
On this one occasion the five minutes of ass scratching bliss was interrupted by the arrival of the water meter maid. The frail looking, very petite black as coal woman pulled up and parked at the end of my driveway. Smartly dressed in her uniform, she was a mere wisp of a woman. It was just barely starting to lighten up. In November in this part of the country, the sun doesn’t show itself until well after seven a.m. I stood behind our large front picture window drinking my first cup, concealed by a veil of darkness the night was still clinging to. I was able to watch the meter maid go about her early morning chores from a position of anonymity that the low light afforded me. I could not help but notice that there had been a beautiful dusting of snow that night which had delicately placed puffy little clouds of snow resting in and on the still somewhat green plants and grass.
After the meter maid had been next door she entered our yard. The water meter was located in a vertically positioned plate covered twelve inch pipe nestled under the shrubs that grew across the front of our yard. A threaded nut had been tightened securing the hatch’s heavy plate. The meter was actually located inside the pipe three feet or so below ground level to protect it from freezing. The meter housing was both hidden by my hedges and covered by the light snow. The rookie first day on the job meter maid, failed to locate the meter in the dim light and returned to her truck to retrieve a flash light.
Once she found the meter she used a long handled wrench to loosen the nut that held the cover plate tight. This effort alone was not adequate for her to read the meter as the plate was frozen fast in place. Try as she would the weak woman could not displace the plate. This was the best early morning entertainment I had had in eons. The nearly helpless women failed over and over to get the plate off. Frustrated, she tried everything, finally undaunted she went to her knees, took the name brand flash light and banged it on the plate breaking winters frozen grip. She then stuck the flash light under her chin, still on her knees and removed the plate thus enabling her to see the water meter. Well, she promptly dropped the flash light down the deep pipe opening.
By now my laughter had awakened my three year old son who was standing by his daddy’s side rubbing one eye and pulling on the edge of my t-shirt asking to see what I was laughing at. There’s nothing like sharing a moment with your son. Picking him up, holding him close, feeling his little heart beat against my chest as he joyously laughed at what he didn’t fully comprehend, is still an active memory. He just laughed with an unfettered exuberance. As the meter maid struggled to reach her flash light, she had to use the full length of her little arms to reach the flash light, forcing her to lay on her side in the wet snow to reach it. The show caused my young son to laugh with even more earnest, infecting my funny bone until we were both in tears with debilitating side splitting laughter.
That’s when the now wet from the snow meter maid was seen scooting rapidly on her rear, stiff legged and flaying her arms wildly. She was ineffectively trying to scramble away from the meter. She was retreating via a technique of lifting one cheek and pushing off with her hand then repeating the action as fast as her wet nearly catatonic limbs would allow. The flash light she had pulled from the hole was in realty, a fist full of garter snakes The snakes having been haplessly cast in to the snow, were trying in slow motion to seek the nearest source of heat. That happened to be the meter maid. As the cold effected the snow bound snakes, they slowly moved towards the meter maid. We went into a complete state of delirium with our laughter. She could not escaped the half dozen snakes that were desperately pursuing her, seeking the lifesaving heat the meter maids body offered.
It dawned on me that the situation was getting serious so I put on some gym shorts and a pair of slippers. As I went to the rescue, my three year old was fast on my heels with a mission of his own design. The woman was completely catatonic. Rigid with fear she could not and would not breathe. As I picked her up out of the snow it was evident she had pissed herself. I shook the woman enough to have gotten her to now focus on me. She looked at me with petrified bulging eyes, still not breathing. The only recourse was to slap the girl to get her to breathe.
When the slap came so came an ear drum busting scream that penetrated the entire neighborhood and got the attention of the young buck that had just moved in across the street. He came charging across the street. The rescue attempt failed, as he hit the snow after hurdling my hedges. As he slid into my gas yard light pole he racked himself resulting in a debilitating painful injury. He was wreathing in pain, as he had not only busted his balls but had broken his pubis bone. Knocking the glass out of the yard light in turn. He hit it hard, Ouch!
I put the still rigid, wet and cold meter maid in our porch swing. While my new neighbor rolled around in the snow holding his balls, groaning a most pitiful sound, I wrapped up the stiff meter maid in a old comforter. I was forced to call an ambulance, as she had slipped into shock. My neighbor, a nice guy it turned out, also required medical attention resulting in a second ambulance. The water company came and took the truck. The guys that came to get the truck not only appreciated the phone call but fully enjoyed the shear beauty of the humorous calamity. A story I’m sure was repeated to a wide collection of blue collar workers at bars and taverns for months to come.
Once the truck and ambulances had left, my attention went back to my three year old whom had successfully picked up and stored in our dry fish aquarium a half dozen of the now fully warm garter snakes. Several of which had escaped in the house with out my knowledge. My son was busy forcing the remaining snakes to stay in the aquarium when I found him. “Can we keep them? Can we keep them? Daddy please can we keep them?” That’s when the second scream of the morning came. A scream that was not affected by cold or shock. It was nothing more than a determined women making it known to her husband that there was a snake in her bathroom. This was the kind of scream that sent fear rapidly in to my courageous soul. It was flight fear that I felt. I was now the suddenly petrified catatonic recipient of the curse the snakes had brought that morning.
The blue eyed blond tornado was oblivious to the morning’s events, and was not especially curious as to where the snake had come from. She was all to focused on her time sensitive routine and just wanted the damn thing out of her bathroom. As I collected the now carpet lint covered snake she calmly ask me as she applied her eye shadow, if the boys were close to being ready. I sheepishly said no and before I could explain--Son-of-a-bing-son-of-a-bang. I was dead meat. She was completely unsympathetic to any thing that had happened. All she was concerned with was chewing my ass because we were all going to be late.
At noon that day the story had reached a local psychiatrist’s radio talk show which my wife listened to during her lunch religiously. She heard the story thought it was funny and called me to tell me about it.
“Honey, I heard the funniest thing on the radio today at lunch.”
Quote from "Charlie the Hat"
When the people of Ed’s Hat Factory made Charlie, they put him in a box. Charlie didn’t like being in a box.
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