Childhood Memories
Stories by Peter Stinson:
- "I Danced With A Girl With A Hole In Her Stockin"
- "She'll Be Driving Six White Horses When She Comes"
- "A Cow's Tale"
- "The Daring Young Man On The Flying Trapeze"
- "Don't Fence Me In"
"I Danced With A Girl With A Hole In Her Stockin"
Grandma Stinson had slid the kitchen window up, so she could put some loaves of freshly baked bread, on the sill to cool off, in time for supper. It was early spring, the ground was thawing, snow was melting, and the air was alive, with children's voices. She could hear her sons playing hockey, near the barn. The music that played on the radio, that day, drifted out the window, into the barnyard,
"And her heel kept a-knockin',
and her toes kept a-rockin."
Evelyn Stinson identified each son, by shutting her eyes, and listening to their laughter,
through her kitchen window. William the youngest, must have pulled the shortest straw, because he was in goal.
Goal would have been two overturned milk pails, against the barn, where the afternoon sunrays, threw long shadows.
She could hear Earl, the middle son, hollering with excitement, and instructions on how to play, were coming from the oldest,
Edward jr. Evelyn's late huband Edward Sr., was taken from her, in the prime of his life, and now was "in God's Keeping."
It was 1923, a full year had passed by, since the fatal bush accident, that had left her a widow, at 39.
"Things could be worse", she often said, "At least I have my health." She also had three strong sons she could be proud of,
and she had good neighbours to rely on. Tom Oswald and Jim Cloughly were both batchelors, and very true friends, of her late husband.
Let people talk if they wanted, "Some people have nothing better to do", she would often tell her boys.
Both batchelors had come by, to pay their respects, when they had learned of her
'tragedy'. They offered her help in any way, at any time. "Don't be afraid to ask," both had
said. The tune on the radio, brought her back to reality...... A tear grew larger in her eye
"I asked her if she'd have a dance,
Have a dance, have a dance,
I thought that I might have a chance
To shake a foot with her."
An assesment of Evelyn Stinson's net worth would have included a small farm, three sons not yet
grown up, her bible, a sense of humour, a small, very worn emerald coloured glass ring, her
husband had given her and her very own young, restless colt.
The young horse, she spoilt. I believe she named it "Dolly". She groomed it daily and hand fed,
her treats, like carrots from her apron pocket. Dolly and my grandmother were inseparable, often
had long conversations, and sometimes the horse let my grandmother dress her up in hats and various regalia.
Perhaps "Dolly" represented the daughter my grandmother never had. The only real work "Dolly" did,
was to pull my grandmother, back and forth into town, in a small, light carriage.
My grandmother woke up one morning, to discover she had lost her emerald ring. She was in a
cold sweat. She was devastated. There was a hollow, sick feeling inside of her. Like, this
connection, with her soul mate was gone, forever. It wasn't the monetary value of the ring,
because it really was, just cut glass. It was the sentimental attachment. The entire family,
searched and searched, but couldn't find 'hide nor hair', of that emerald ring. Grandma felt ravaged.
If memory serves me correct, grandma had told me, it was about two years later, when her sons
were playing hockey, in the early springtime, that something unusual had happened.
The three boys had set up goal posts, in front of the barn. William, or "Willie" she liked to
call him, the youngest, was in net. I don't know what they used for hockey sticks, probably
broken axe handles or shovel handles. I do, however, know what they used for pucks. There were
a lot of pucks around if you had horses. Earl and Edward, were taking slap shots, at my father
in net. My dad thought himself, quite the "athlete" in those days. No farmer's life for him,
he dreamed of some day, playing professionally.
Actually, Earl had had enough, he figured mom's little pet, was getting too "cocky" for his own
good. Earl wound up, and drove that turd with enough force, to put into orbit. Earl broke the shovel
handle and fell forward. My father couldn't stop the shot. As the turd went flying through the
air, sailing beween his legs, time froze. .....Everything stopped.....My father could see his brother
Earl falling, and his other brother Ed with his mouth wide open and looked like he was going to
swallow, that "Beechnut Gum" he was always chewing, and my dad could smell the fresh bread
from the kitchen window and hear the tune on the radio....
"As I was walking down the street,
down the street, down the street,
A pretty little gal I chanced to meet....
Oh, she was fair to see."
My dad checked behind him, Earl's shot went in, all right. The turd hit the side of the barn,
with such force, it broke open. The frozen lump fractured into a million crystals. The fading
sun, that afternoon caught a glimpse, of the most beautiful shade of green, you ever saw.
My daughter Evelyn, Grandma's name sake, still owns the ring till this very day.
THE END
P.S. Neither Edward, Earl or William went on to make hockey their careers.
"I stopped her and we had a talk,
Had a talk, had a talk,
Her feet took up the whole sidewalk
And left no room for me.
Buffalo Gals, won't you come out tonight,
Come out tonight, come out tonight.
Buffalo Gals won't you come out tonight
And dance by the light of the moon."
*I took the liberty, of giving my grandmother a 'radio', in the story.
The only 'thing' musical she would have owned, would have been, a church organ.
"She'll Be Driving Six White Horses When She Comes"
We moved to Webbwood from Dorset. I believe in the summer of '54. I was in heaven. I
loved everything about Webbwood. There was so much going on, so much for a 10 year old
kid to do, and never enough time. You had mountains, you had steam engines, you had a
motel under construction, you had an old jail there you even had an old silver mine.
It was a Saturday morning in July, I think. I had a date with Clint Martin. He lived
across the street from us on the east side of George Street. He had promised to show me,
how to play cribbage, that Saturday. I often watched him and his wife playing cards, on
their veranda, while I was sipping lemonade, that Mrs. Martin had made.
The radio was playing one of my favourites,......
"She'll be coming around the mountain when she comes
She'll be coming around the mountain when she comes
She'll be coming around the mountain, she'll be coming around the mountain,
She'll be coming around the mountain when she comes...."
I finished my "Rolled Oats" and was about to run outside, when mother asked, where I was
headed. I told her, I was going to Clint's. She quickly, but firmly said, "Oh no, you
are not." "Let the Martins rest, after all, it is Saturday." She replied. "Wait till
after 10AM," mother said."You know what 10 o'clock looks like, don't you." We had been
taking it up in school, how to tell time. "Yes, mother," I murmered. "Well, if you know
how to tell time, then you know, you don't have long to wait." She answered.
"Why don't we practise addition?" She asked. The old school teacher in her was coming
out. My sister had once warned me, mother had taught school, many 'moons' ago.
Before long, I was at the Martin's kitchen table, waiting for Clint to finish his coffee,
and his pipeful of tobacco. He had had breakfast over, before 6AM. Mr. Martin had been a
"Teamster" in the old days, but now he was retired. That explained why he got up so
early. I had asked, my Dad, what a "Teamster" was. He explained, there aren't many
around. Now-a-days trucks, haul the logs. Teamsters were men who had a "special way"
with horses.
I asked Mr. Martin, "What's the diffence, between a 'Teamster' and a 'Bullwhacker'"?
He exclaimed, "They are both, old and honorable professions, my good man." Clint had a
habit of pouring his coffee into the cup's saucer. (He had claimed, the coffee would
cool down, faster that way.) "A Bullwhacker refers to a man who handles oxen. Oxen often
had to be "whacked", to keep moving. A Teamster, refers to someone that handles horses.
Horses were usually gentler and easier to handle." He claimed, horses were smarter. Then
he'd carry on, about "skeads", which were short logs, placed under the fallen, limbed
trees, making it easier to drag them. Mr. Martin would continue about 'sooting', taking
a blackened cord, to indicate the depth of the proposed cut. Chopping 'Vs', every 3 or 4
feet, in the side of the tree was next. Squaring-up, was using a 'Broad Axe.' Sometimes
axemen engraved their names on the logs.
Finally, Clint's wife would put an end to the story, by implying that Clint was
'carrying on' and perhaps I wasn't all that interested. Nothing could have been further
from the truth. A boy of 10 uses his imagination every minute of every day. Everything
Clint told me, would stay in my memory, forever.
She'll be driving six white horses when she comes
She'll be driving six white horses when she comes
She'll be driving six white horses, she'll be driving six white horses
She'll be driving six white horses when she comes
Clint Martin must have been close to 80 years old, when I knew him. He had a small,
gentle, loving wife. She was very attentive, to Clint. You could tell she was used to
being alone, for long stretches at a time. She doted on Clint, he was her world. She was
always brushing, bread crumbs off his soft checkered shirt, and fluffing his pillow, in
his chair. Clint was as large as she was small. He was huge. A big man with massive
shoulders and a grip that would bring you to your knees. You never saw one without the
other. They were a team.
Yes, Clint taught me how to play cribbage, that summer of '54. He taught me my math, he
taught me history, he taught me manners and he taught how to laugh at myself. Clint was
a giant of a man, he had a weathered face, and the kindest demeanor you could imagine.
He had a ton of stories. Clint Martin, always had time for me. He was always there when
I wanted his companionship. You could count on Clint. I miss you Clint.
I ran across the street to go home. It was lunchtime and mother had promised to make my
favourite. Banana and peanut butter sandwiches. I threw open, the kitchen screen door.
Mother asked what I was humming.
Oh, we'll all go out to meet her when she comes
Oh, we'll all go out to meet her when she comes
Oh, we'll all go out to meet her, we'll all go out to meet her
We'll all go out to meet her when she comes
She'll be wearin red pajamas when she comes................
She will have to sleep with Grandma when she comes...............
"A Cow's Tale"
I moved to Webbwood, while I was in grade 4. It was 1954 and I was 10 years old. Boys
my age played with Roy Rogers and Davey Crockett stuff. Crew cuts, rabbits feet and
U.F.O.s were big items. 1954 was the year of Hurricane Hazel. Being able to walk to
school, was a big thing for me. No more busing it. I could even walk home, at lunchtime,
if I wanted. Another thing, I had the most beautiful teacher in the whole universe.
Her name was Miss Wanda Jelly. I think all the boys in grade 4 had a crush on her. Miss
Jelly was just like a movie star. She was tall, statuesque, and had the most luscious
long wavy red hair that you could imagine. It was like having the actress Maureen O'Hara
for your teacher. Us boys, would just sit there and moon, over her, no wonder we didn't
learn much. But seriously, she was much too old for us, after all she was probably middle
aged, she had to be at least 19 or 20yrs.
I had walked to school that first day in September with my cousin Eldon Stinson. I
can remember the events so well, probably because everything was new to me. Someone
called Douglas Beaudoin, had to stand in the corner with a dunce hat on his head,
because he was caught talking in class, and Stewart Belisle got the strap that day. At
first recess, Eldon introduced me to two of his close friends. Stewart Belisle and
Doug Beaudoin became good friends of min, also and we often played together, over the
next few years.
Doug Beaudoin, and I became particular close. His father owned a farm and my father, had
often reminisced, about growing up on a farm. Both farms were in the town of Webbwood.
Doug and I, played together, on the farm, near the railroad overpass on the western
outskirts of town. I could tell you a million stories, the birth of a calf, making home
made slingshots, playing in the hay loft, riding his father's horse, etc.
One hot summer day, we were exploring around the back of the barn. You could smell
familiar odours. I asked Barry, if he ever tried to ride a cow. Barry looked at me
and kind of grinned. He said, "Sure I have, but it's not as much as fun as you think.
It's not a real smooth ride, like on a horse. He warned, "A cow sort of, "goes nuts",
when something or someone, gets up on her back." So Barry made a suggestion.
Barry said, "Why don't you try hanging onto a cow's tail?"
I thought, what kind of a stupid, lame trick is that? It takes a dumb cow, all day,
to saunter across the barnyard. I had come from the city, but that didn't make me
stupid. I was looking for some REAL excitement. Barry finally agreed, "O.K, you can
ride one of our cows, if that's what you truly want, but you must show me first, that
you can hang onto the cow's tail, for at least one minute. I'm going to warn you, the
cow will not stand still."
I wasn't going home till I rode a cow, like they did in the westerns. But to satisfy
Barry, I first had to show him I could hang onto the cow's tail. So, I quietly snuck up
behind one of the cows and the closer I got the more I could see and smell that sweet a
roma of cow paddies. It was disgusting, at that end at least. Now I knew, what it was
like, not to be the lead dog, pulling the sleigh..
So, I gritted my teeth, held my breath, reached down and slowly but 'gently', grabbed the cow's tail with both of my hands. As I did this, I slipped, and jerked straight down, on the cow's tail. Time stood still. The birds stopped chirping, the rooster stopped crowing, even the chickens stopped clucking. Out of his mother's open kitchen window that lazy summer aftenoon I could hear the radio blaring a Rosmary Clooney tune. I think Barry's father, must have been home cause he was hard of hearing, the music was loud..
Kid you good lookin' but you don't a-know what's cookin' till you
Hey mambo, Mambo italiano
Hey mambo, Mambo italiano
Ho, ho, ho, you mixed up Sicilano
It's a so delish a ev'ry body come copisha
How to mambo italianoooooo!
UNH
The poor cow went "schitzo", literally confused and terrified, at the same time. She
let out a loud bellow, ears folded back, and her eyes almost turned around, in their
sockets. The cow took off across the farm yard, with long, gigantic leaps followed by
several quick, short bucking movements, dragging yours truly behind. We later measured
my footprints. They were more than 15 feet apart.
Back to the story, I lost both my running shoes and of course the unexpected happened.
"Unexpected" to me. "Expected" to Barry! The cow had a "movement". Oh yea, laugh if you
want to. It's funny now! But, to me, a 10 year old, coming from the city, it wasn't
even mildly humourous. The cow's running and jumping fast and erratically, now it's in a
frenzy because I've still got a hold of her tail!
Barry is bent over, actually he's laying on his side, in the grass, convulsing, he's in
hysterics. Barry's holding his stomach, with both hands. He can hardly breathe, he's
laughing so hard. I think he probably had a movement of his own. Barry yells at me
"You have to .......let .......go!,
you must...............let....................go!
Anyway, later on ,he finally did, stop laughing, long enough to turn the hose on me
and at least get the stink, off. I was thankful that he didn't tell anyone at school,
about the prank. Many years later, when I think about what happened, I feel greatful,
that he didn't let me get on the cow's back. I probably wouldn't be here to tell the
tale.
P.S. I never did find my running shoes. I can still hear the radio playing
Go, go, go you mixed up sicialiano
All you calabraise-a do the mambo like a crazy with a
Hey, mambo, don't wanna tarantella
Hey Mambo, no more a mozzarella
Hey mambo! Mambo italiano!
"The Daring Young Man On The Flying Trapeze"
I could hear sounds from the kitchen. It was barely light outside. It was the summer
of '54. The second Saturday in July to be exact. Mom had promised me "French Toast, for
breakfast." Why do they call it "French" toast? It's not toast.
I ran downstairs to the kitchen and almost ran into my dad. I was on my way to the
bathroom. First things first. After my pee, I made sure I washed my hands. I knew my
mother would check, with her "eagle eyes." I no sooner came out of the washroom, "Did
you wash behind your ears?" Jeesh! Sometimes you can't win. The radio was playing,
one of my Dad's favourites...
"Oh, he floats through the air
With the greatest of ease,
This daring young man
On the flying trapeze;
His actions are graceful,
All girls he does please,
My love he has purloined away."
I asked My Dad what "Purloined" was. "Ask your mother," he said.
"I'm busy right now," mom replied. That's what they did, when they didn't know. The
phone rang, and startled everyone. Mom said, "It's probably for Patricia, I'll
bet it's that Kennedy, boy again." My sister was still in bed. She could sure sleep,
when she wanted to. I'll bet she could sleep till noon, if she had a mind to it.
"It's for you," my Dad replied, "I think it's one of the Beaudoins." Sure enough, it was
Doug. He wanted to know if I could to go swimming, after lunch. I asked if I could
bring my cousin, Eldon and another friend, Stewart Thom. "Sure" he said, "The more the
merrier."
I couldn't wait to show these guys, what a good swimmer I was. I leaned how to swim,
last summer, at my Aunt Freda's at Lake Penage, near Whitefish. Dad said I could swim
like a fish. My mother's forehead, was all wrinkled. Now what, I wondered? She asked my
dad, if he thought it was such a good idea, me going swimming, and all. I remember his
saying, "The boy has to grow up, sometime." Mothers are such 'worry warts.'
I rounded up Eldon and Stewart, they both got excited over the idea. But first, they had
to check with their mothers. If everything was a go, we were to meet at Eldon's for 1PM,
with our towels. One o'clock, couldn't come soon enough.
Eldon led the way, Stewart next and I followed. Eldon had said, "It won't take long on
our bikes." The hardest part was pedaling uphill to get over the railroad overpass. We
finally got off the pavement, then we had to push our bikes down a winding path, the
bushes were thick, and the sun was hot. The path winded down a steep hill, finally
opening onto a small patch of beach. Not really, a beach. It was a stretch of blue clay.
The river was muddy and wide. So, this was what, everyone called, 'Birch Creek.'
It reminded me of Pea Soup. Barry Beaudoin was there and he kinda of took me aside.
"You haven't swam here before, have you?" He asked.
"No, but I can swim real good" I boasted. Barry pointed out the "eddies", and said, the
current was real strong. He said, he would stick close by me, till I got used to things.
I couldn't wait to show them, how good a swimmer I was. I watched everybody diving,
swimming, jumping. I could hear hollering and yelling. Man, this was a busy place. An
older boy I didn't recognize, was on the other side of the creek, standing on a
'makeshift' diving board. The board was about six feet above the water, and was maybe
18 feet long. He 'cannon balled' into the water, soaking some girls. The water was ice
cold but I still showed the boys how well I could "Dog Paddle." The current was stronger
than I thought.
I was shivering so much, Doug had trouble understanding me. I told him, I was going to
swim across the creek, to the other side. "I'll go with you," he said. I kinda felt, he
was trying to protect me. We both dog paddled accross. It was further than I figured.
Once on the other side, I noticed some girls, from our class at school. I told Doug, I
was going to go off the diving board. He seemed a little hesitant, at first then said,
"I'll watch for you."
As I walked to the end of the diving board, I could tell the board was well used. The
old plank was worn. Someone had tacked a towel, around the end, so you wouldn't slip
off. I sprung up and down, for few moments. It seemed like a long way down to the
surface of the muddy creek. I heard some girls giggle. One of the girls, was pointing up
at me. It was Rhea Maze, she was standing next to Bev Kennedy. I swatted at a horsefly
on my leg. I backed up a few paces, and thought "It's now or never." I suddenly,
understood, why some of my friends 'crossed themselves', before swimming or diving.
I raced to the end of the old plank, took a big hop, and hit the end of the board,
'on target'. I drove the board down, so far, I heard it crack, just a little. Then the
board started to make it's way back up. It catapulted me straight up in the air with a
mind of it's own. I couldn't believe how high I was soaring. I was getting light headed.
It must have been a combination of the speed I was travelling and the height I was
reaching. People were pointing at me. Someone said, "Is he crazy, he's going to kill
himself!" In my head, that crazy song was playing...
"Oh, he'd smile from his perch
On the people below
And one day he
Smiled on my love.
She blew his a kiss
And she hollered, "Bravo!"
As he hung by his nose up above."
I finally, started on my way down. The wind against my wet skin was making 'goosebumps.' Everyone was looking up, at me, mouths wide open. When I finally hit the water, it was belly first. Every last ounce, of air came out of me, I felt like a bullfrog runover by a transport. I reached down to make sure my bathing suit was still on. Barry grabbed me by the hair and pulled me a few feet, to the surface. And you know what he asked me. "Are your jewels O.Kay?" It was a few minutes before we swam back to the other side. My face was as red as my stomach. That's not exactly how, I had wanted to impress the girls. Stewart Thom's father, Jack, he like to be called, came over to me. "That was quite a show," he laughed. He made me sit down and wrapped a towel around me. Jack rubbed my feet and hands, trying to get the circulation going. He stearnly pointed out, 'You could have broken your neck, showing off like that." The guys felt, we should 'call it a day.' We had a steep hill to push our bikes up, before riding home. Eldon asked me what I was humming......
"One night to his tent
He invited her in,
He filled her with compliments
Kisses, and gin.................."
"Don't Fence Me In"
Did you know, if you have a picture of someone on your wall, and you walk by, the eyes will
follow you? Stewart Thom, showed me that trick. Him, his older brother Terry, his mother Mabel
and his father Jack, lived at the end of Nelson Street. They had a nice home. You always felt
warm and comfortable at 'Stews'. His mom was always cooking, and I mean always. Everytime I
went near their place, I could smell something from the oven. That's why I went over so often.
I had a dachund, (dash hound, weiner dog). 'Boots,' we'd named him. He was all black except
for his brown feet. Boots was a friendly little guy. You'd could tell when he was happy, by his
tail. It would wag like crazy. Sometimes he'd follow me around. Sometimes he wouldn't. Now that
I had a bike, he found it hard to keep up. He preferred staying stay home, close to my mother.
It was the first weekend in August '54. I was over at Stew's petting his new dog. Actually it
was an old dog. Half 'German Shepherd', half 'Police Dog' with a little 'Timber Wolf' mixed in.
That's what Stew told me at least. He should know.
Why, does the stupid radio, only play songs, you can't get out of your head? All morning the
thing was repeating itself to me....
Oh, give me land, lots of land under starry skies above,
Don't fence me in.
Let me ride through the wide open country that I love,
Don't fence me in.
Let me be by myself in the evenin' breeze,
And listen to the murmur of the cottonwood trees,
Send me off forever but I ask you please,
Don't fence me in.
"Are you listening to what I'm telling you!?" Stew asked.
"Yes," I replied, "Your dog is part wolf."
"No, I said he looks like he's part wolf. I don't really know, for sure. My Dad found him,
abandoned, on the Ramsay Road."
Stew seemed to look at me, as if I had something wrong with me. I could tell, the dog was old,
by his white whiskers. His head, was covered in scars. Old marks, that told us he didn't loose,
very many fights. Stew's mother came out of the house, some flour on her face, a dish towel
over her shoulder. I could smell fresh bread baking. "Your mother called, she wants you home
for supper." She smiled.
Over the supper table, my mother asked me, what was new with Stew? She laughed at her own rhyme.
I told her about Stew's amazing dog. My mother explained, "Sometimes, when an animal is in
'the wilds' for a long time, it changes it's ways." I defended Stew's dog, "He sure is friendly
to me, at least."
"Just be careful," mother said, a little more, firmer now. "That's all I ask. Is that too much?"
I told her, I had been asked by Stew's mom, if I wanted to have lunch, with them tomorrow. "Just,
remember what I told you." She replied. I guess that was as close to a yes, as what I was going
to get. My dog kept whining at my feet. When I bent down, he started licking my fingers.
My mother must of noticed, "Maybe, he wants you to use those fingers, on that piano." I hated
playing that thing, none of my friends had to take music lessons. I knew, I had that song
someplace. I found it amongst some 'sheet music' of my sister's. So I started playing..
Just turn me loose, let me straddle, my old saddle
Underneath the western skies.
On my Cayuse, let me wander over yonder
Till I see the mountains rise.
After I had 'wolfed' down breakfast, I tore off for Stew's. When I got there, he was just
sitting in our tree, feet dangling. They had a tree in their front yard that was, just made for
boys. The tree kinda went straight up for maybe 4 feet, then it forked. One branch continued
straight up, the other ran parallel to the ground. You could easily jump up and just sit there.
That's where Stew was sitting that morning. I leaned my bike up against the tree and jumped up
beside him.
"My mom's making your favourite," he said.
"Well, what are we waiting for?" I asked. I loved butter tarts. As we entered the back door,
his new, old dog growled and sniffed me. I cautiously petted him, after he smelled me. I
remember my mom's words, "Just be careful, that's all I ask."
With our bellies full, we were sent back outside. I scratched the old dogs ears. "You'd better
get used to me, old fella" I said, "I'm here all the time." When you felt his coat, you could
feel him tense up, for a few seconds. The dog was all muscle, under that fur. He wore a wide
collar, made of dark leather, like it was from an old harness. The collar had four rings,
around it, made from brass studs. Stew said "That's to protect the dog from wolves." I thought,
the wolves would need protection from him. How many wolves would it take to bring him down?
Anyway we wandered off, a little ways, cause Stew wanted me to see his bottle top collection.
He kept it hidden, near the wood pile. We were standing, a hundred feet, or so, away from the
house.
My heart stopped. There was 'Boots', following my scent, into Stew's yard. He was running from
the base of the old tree to the back door. I whistled at him. He turned to the sound of my
voice. That's when the old dog grabbed him. He sunk his teeth in deep. Right at the back of my
dog's neck. The old dog knew what he was doing. This was 'for keeps'. He'd done it before, too
many times.
I froze.
The old dog started to swing his prey, in large circles, over his head. I knew what was going
to happen next. He was getting prepared, to snap Boot's neck. Out of the corner of my eye I
could see Stew moving in slow motion. He was picking up a block, off the top of the woodpile.
Stew slowly, brought his arm back, and made the perfect 100 yard pass, with, good follow through.
Life stood still. Somebody's radio was playing. I could hear.....
I want to ride to the ridge where the west commences
And gaze at the moon till I lose my senses
And I can't look at hobbles and I can't stand fences
Don't fence me in.
No.
Don't fence me in.
The old dog ducked his head, or the block would have killed him. I guess, you get to be old,
by being smart. But, he dropped his grip on my dog. Little 'Boots' didn't have to be asked
twice. He was gone.
Stews mom, was standing at the back door. She had seen everything. She didn't scold the old dog.
She didn't go over to Stew and say he had done the right thing. She came over to me.
She put both her arms around me, and whispered.........
"I think, you better go home, and make sure your dog is okay."