THINGS THAT GUYS JUST DON’T DO!

A while back I marched into Bader Aagie's Western Wear & Hat Emporium with the sole purpose of becoming the proud owner of a brand new hat. The reason for the new lid was to replace the slightly-worn one resting atop my head; the one my wife claims, "Isn't fit to wear to a hog scaldin'." This clever nugget of wisdom coming from a woman, who back in the sixties, donned a headband, moccasins, and a tie-dye shirt sporting a hand-painted peace sign on the front, and whose entire vocabulary was usually accompanied by profound pearls such as, "Groovy," Far out," and "Peace."

At any rate, I spotted the back of Bader's bald noggin over against the far wall performing inventory on a shipment of new jeans that had just arrived.

"Hey, Bader," I said, making a beeline for the hat section.

"Hey yerself, Tom," drawled Bader, continuing his inventory.

Bader had more hats on his wall than pimples at a prom. As I scanned the wall I was immediately able to discount three-quarters of the seventeen-gazillion hats. That would be the ones that were, brown, blue, fuchsia, yellow, green, or any of the other colors that weren't either silver belly, or black.

I stared at the hat display Bader had handsomely arranged on the wall and upon a fair amount of serious studying it became apparent to me that something was terribly wrong.

"Bader," I hollered. "Got a minute?"

"Whatcha need, Tom, somethin' off that top rack," he asked, parking his pencil behind his ear and grabbing the hat pole?

"Not exactly, Bader." I said, unsure how to broach the subject. You see, Bader is proud as a rooster in a hen house of his huge inventory of western hats. In fact, Bader's motto is, "If we ain't got it, you don't need it!"

"Need somethin' in a different size, do ya," he asked?

"No… no, not exactly," I said.

"Well, what then?"

"Where's all your hats, Bader? This can't be all of 'em, is it?"

Bader's eyeballs momentarily resembled the wheels on a slot machine, and when they stopped rolling, they went straight to the wall. Bader's neck slowly craned as he followed the wall of hats fifty-feet to the left, and then his eyes drifted fifty-feet to the right. Peeking over the top of his Ben Franklin cheaters, Bader then looked back at me like I was nuttier than a port-a-potty at a peanut festival.

"Bader," I said, matter-of-factly. "I'm not goin' to a rock concert or a love-in. No self- respecting cowboy in the world would be caught dead wearin' one of those monstrosities."

Bader bowed up a bit and you could see his hackles rise. "Just whatta ya mean, Tom? What's wrong with my hats?"

"What I mean, Bader, is that I think there's a whole community of peacocks runnin' around naked somewhere. Some of those hats up there got more feathers on 'em than a Chinese pillow factory, and I've seen fewer buckles at a straight-jacket convention. Except for the Pilgrams, who puts a buckle on a hat anyway? I just want a hat with a ribbon on it, Bader. Just a plain, old, simple, unassuming ribbon!"

"Well Tom, this is all they send me now-a-days," Bader said, scratching his head. "I reckon nobody wears a hat with a plain, old ribbon on it anymore? It's just not the fashion."

"Well I do, Bader. Just a plain, old-fashioned ribbon is all that needs to be on a hat. I don't need feathers, I don't need snake skins, and I don't need conchos, glitter or sparkling buckles. I don't want to look like Elton John, John Travolta, or Waylon Jennings, and I'm not auditioning for American Idol. I don't need to grab the attention of incoming aircraft in a fog, I don't need to stop traffic, and I'm not planning on visiting San Francisco any time soon. Bader; some of those hats up there have more conchos on 'em than a Mexican parade saddle. Ain't no self respecting cowboy in the world would wear one of those hats up there, Bader. Can ya order me one without all the jingle-bobs, or not?"

Bader said that he would, but that it might cost me a bit more due to the fact it would be a special order. I then confided to Bader that while I wasn't exactly Donald Trump, I really didn't care what it cost, and that I'd shave my fanny, paint a happy face on it and walk backwards before I'd wear one of those fancy-Nancy-hats up there on his wall.

"Okay, I'll get one ordered for you, Tom," said Bader. "Can I interest ya in a pair of jeans? They just come in, all the way from France?"

On the drive back home I couldn't help but wonder what was happening in this world? I was noticing a disturbing trend around me that didn't stop with cowboy hats. As I walked into the house I was as bothered as a penned-up mule when his buddies ride out.

"Honey," I hollered, storming into the house.

"Yes, dear, what is it," she said, meeting me at the door on her way out?

"What the heck is happening to men these days? Are they all getting female hormone injections, or something," I said?

"Oh heavens; you didn't know," she said?

"Know what," I asked?

"It's a government mandate. I take it you haven't received yours yet?"

"Very funny, smart-pants. It's just that guys these days seem to be turning into Nancys, they're getting soft, fu-fu'd, and feminized. A fella can't even buy a cowboy hat now-a-days without it lookin' like some country singer who wouldn't know snot from superglue wore it on his east coast tour."

"Oh dear; I'll alert the media. What's the matter, can't find anyone to go fishing with you today?" she said, as I thought I detected a slight note of sarcasm.

"You don't understand, do you," I said? "Guys these days seem to be turning into… I dunno, soft I guess. You know, sissy types, all girlied-up."

"Hmmm, too bad. Okay, well I'm going to run into town; want anything?" Cathy said.

"You just don't get it, do ya, dear? Twenty years from now there won't be any real guys left; they'll all be wearin' make-up and knitting doilies," I explained.

"Oh, by the way," said Cathy, opening the door and stepping outside. "Lecil called and wanted to know if you wished to go with him to wrestle a mountain lion with your bare hands? He says it's been spotted near his cows."

"Really, he did," I said?

"No, just kidding. I'll be back later; bye!"

As my indifferent bride drove out of the gate, I began thinking that something must be done. Somebody should stand up and make a last ditch effort to save manly-mankind from fading away and disappearing with the Umbrella tent, single-shot .22, and the Popeil Pocket Fisherman. I decided right then and there that it was up to me to do something to save manlyism. I had to get the word out to save manly-men worldwide from falling into the trap, so I came up with a partial list of things guys just don't do. I call it: Things guys just don't do!

To begin with, aside from the cowboy hat stuff, guys don't wear jeans with swirly-curdles on the back pockets, or some Frenchman's name embroidered across the fanny. Wranglers, Levi's and the like are fine manly-man jeans. So are Dickies, but they really should change their name to Dick's, Bob's, Cliff's or something!

Guys don't wear their ball caps with the bill pointing east/west, trying to look like one of The Little Rascals or Snoop Doggie-Doo. And unless you're a major league catcher, guys turn the bill of their caps in the direction they're going in life, not where they've been.

Guys don't text. Cheese and rice; if you've got time to finger type all that schtuff, why not just call me and tell me. Guys don't Twitter, either. Let's face it; Twittering is just texting that sounds gay.

Guys don't use lol in a sentence; EVER! They don't use emoticons and they certainly don't do Farmville, Mafia Wars, or any of those other silly games people with no life do. Guys hunt, we fish, we climb mountains, we hike, we drink beer, and we do a hundred other manly-man things our wives don't approve of, but we do them anyway because we're manly-men!

Guys don't tote around man bags, fanny packs, shoulder bags, satchels, or murses. No matter what you call them; they're still purses, you foolio, and that's your wife's job and a long established tradition that identifies you from your spouse or girlfriend. If ya can't carry it in your pocket, your hand, or the case it came in; leave it at home.

Guys don't gather around the water jug at work to discuss last night's episode of Dancing with the Stars, American Idol, or any program where the main character is a vampire. Football, hunting, or vasectomies, however, are appropriate subjects as long as there is a certain amount of blood or personal injury involved.

Guys don't get manicures or pedicures. Our paws are supposed to look like dry-cured hams because we're outside doing manly-man stuff, and our feet look like chunks of locker meat because we're clumsy. If a guy's feet look nice, he's probably a ballet dancer.

You should have at least one visible scar someplace on your body, and another, preferably located in an area where you need to roll up a sleeve, pant leg, or whip off your shirt to show it off and brag about the gruesome details of how you acquired it. "Yep, got this baby when a chainsaw snagged and kicked back on me."

Guys don't use mousse, frost their tips, or pay twenty dollars for a haircut either, unless you live in San Francisco. And unless you're six, guys don't wear Mohawks, mullets, color their hair, or do comb-overs. If you're going bald and it bothers you, get over it, that's what ball caps are for. It happens to all of us unless you're Dick Clark, Paul McCartney, or Ronald Reagan. Deal with it or shave it off.

Guys don't drink lattes, peppermint mocha
frapachooties, or diet sodas. Guys don't drink Cosmopolitans, fuzzy navels, or drinks they can't pronounce, have fruit in them, or anything else that requires a blender or has a paper parasol in it. "Do you think these Wranglers make my butt look fat?" will probably not be a statement heard by a group of guys mounting up to go out and look for strays.

Rabbits, horses and tree sloths are vegetarians. Guys don't eat quiche, tofu, or anything with the name soy in it. Soy milk? HELLO; its soy bean juice, you numbskull. We are hunters and gatherers and we eat meat! Hamburgers, steaks, ribs, and pork chops are the order of the day, with lots of gravy on those potatoes, please! Turkey is eaten on Thanksgiving, and not in the form of turkey burger.

Guys don't wear earrings or get piercings. Unless you are employed as a sideshow attraction at a circus, or are a pirate, piercings are for women's earrings and a small group of natives stuck on a remote island near Borneo somewhere who are simply amazed when they see a tourist pull a Bic from his trousers and torch off a cigarette.

Well, that's about it for now, I guess. Hopefully there's still a chance for manly-mankind to save itself, and the Oprahs of the world won't get us all. I know I'll go down fighting!

Whew, I'm tired; that took a lot out of me. Guess I need to wind down a bit and relax before I blow a gasket. Gee, I wonder where Cathy keeps that electric, hot-wax foot massager of hers.

 

Doctor Doogie; patients waiting in room 2, 3, 4, and 5!

Despite evidence to the contrary, in an effort to verify to my employer that I am indeed still alive, I am required to have a yearly physical. My boss claims he doesn't really know just what my job title is, and on those rare occasions I don't stay out of his sight, he claims he doesn't actually observe me doing anything. Apparently he has astute observation skills. Apparently there is some sort of rule somewhere that requires that I actually do something.

"You're...whatshisname, uh, uh...?" he said one day, fumbling for a name?
"Yep, that's me," I said.
"Well, uh, uh, uh... do something," he said, flicking his finger at nothing in particular and starting to walk away.
"I am doing something," I told him, "I'm pacing myself."
"Pacing yourself," he said, "for what?"
"I have to conserve energy so I can stay up past eight tonight for the season finale of Desperate Housewives!"

At any rate, today was my scheduled physical. Getting a yearly physical is traditionally a day that young men dread. They tremble in fear and angst over the getting to know you stuff; the turn your head and cough, the snap of a latex glove and the fickle finger exam, you know, the fun stuff. It is also traditionally a day that young doctors develop facial ticks and tremors of their own when old farts like me come in.

I arrived at my doctor's office at eight o'clock sharp, having requested the first appointment of the morning. Now I'm sure you've noticed that no matter what time your appointment is scheduled for, you never actually get in to see the doctor for at least an hour and forty-five minutes; usually longer. Glaciers have melted in less time.

First, there is the signing in, the co-pay ritual, and the ever enjoying search for the most isolated chair in a crowded waiting room to avoid contacting the disease of the week from one of the coughers, hackers, wheezers, or sneezers. I figure if I schedule my appointments for first thing in the morning, then all I have to really wait for is the doctor to show up for work on time. He arrived at 8:55 a.m.

"What kept ya, there Doogie, you're late; your Big Wheel get a flat?" I asked him, as he frowned and searched each of his twelve pockets for a pen.

I have nicknamed my physician Doogie Howser and he hates it. I call him Doogie Howser because I have hemorrhoids older than him. Doogie is youthful and barely out of puberty, I think, and wears one of those scruffy beards so popular with the young crowd. It only makes him appear like he's got the lead in the school play as Abraham Lincoln.

"Well, let's get to fun stuff," I said, unbuckling my pants, turning around and bending over. "Make sure ya wear protection," I added, peeking between my legs and smiling.

Doogie's slight facial tick began twitching; the one he develops when he's under stress. The one he acquires when I show up.

"I think we can skip this part," he mumbled, searching for his elusive pen.

"Darn, I was looking forward to that cigarette afterward," I said, buckling my belt and reaching over plucking his pen out of his top pocket and handing it to him. Doogie's facial tick began to quicken.

"Dare I ask," he groaned, "So what complaints do you have for me?"

"You mean aside from illegal immigration, the deficit, enviromeddlers, Diane Feinstein, my hens not laying, the...?"

"Yeah, aside from the obvious," he mumbled, his tick quickening a bit.

I rattled off my list of annoyances that each year, as I grow older, seem to multiply. I concluded with stating that I needed a re-fill of Vicodin and muscle relaxers.

"And what do you take those for," he asked?

I explained that I wasn't yet willing to give up those passions of mine that I pursue. The trail work projects, packing, hiking,fishing, and hunting, and that I was willing to tolerate the arthritis, bone spurs, and everyday aches and pains that go along with those endeavors, but, that from time to time, especially during hunting season, there are times when I need a Vicodin to keep from being hauled out by a search and rescue team. I then went on to explain that the muscle relaxers were used at night, mostly during hunting season to keep my sudden vaulting out of bed in the middle of the night when my leg cramps up and begins playing pranks on me as my heel attempts to touch the back of my head. "My screaming annoys my wife," I explained. "It interrupts her sleep," she says.

"You hunt," he asked, peeking up at me from his lap top?

"Yes, I hunt a lot," I answered.

"What do you hunt,"He asked," picking up his pen and setting it on his prescription pamplet?

"Mostly deer", I said, "I'm a deer nut."

""Really?" he said, "I hunt deer as well; I'm a bow hunter."

"I use a bow myself," I said. "I rifle hunt too, but I bow hunt mostly."

For the next forty-five minutes Doogie rattled on about deer hunting. His facial tick subsided and he was in the moment, talking about his passion to the point I began to think I might be spending the day there. He asked where I hunted, what broadheads I like best, and how I hunted. It was at this point it suddenly hit me; this is the reason why the waiting room is always so crowded. This is why the folks in the other three patient's rooms had by now read at least two People Magazines, the last six months of Better Housekeeping, a three month old issue of Journal of Medicine Today, and a Jehovah's Witness pamphlet.

Doogie finally filled out my prescriptions and presented me with a list of referrals to other doctors to address my various other complaints and promised me he would like to come out next season and spend some time at my deer camp. This, after I pointed out to him he probably had another patient or four waiting in one of the other rooms.

So it looks now as if next deer season I'm going to have some new company. Guess I'm gonna have to stock up on Snapple. Somehow I think I'd feel guilty contributing to the delinquency of a young genius by sharing my beer with him.

























, despite little to no movement to the contrary on my part at work,

The Wilderness Experience (Re-defined)

Well folks, you'll be happy to hear that The High Sierra Hikers Association and some of their extremist partners are at it again. The HSHA has filed suit in San Francisco, no less, to require the Government to set aside the Sequoia and Kings Canyon General Management Plan adopted in 2007. And aren't ya just dying to know why?

Well, it appears the High Sierra Hikers Assoc. wants to dictate to you how you are to have your next Wilderness experience, and that those pesky stock people are at the core of the problem, as one might expect; they are an evil bunch, you know. It seems they aren't having a true "Wilderness Experience." It seems that when they visit the backcountry they are having entirely too much fun, not to mention, too easy a time. This disturbing fact doesn't sit well with the group and this apparently makes the HSHA mad enough to kick a hog barefooted.

Among the documents that lump all stock users as the villains for their alleged "devastating impact", they wish included in their lawsuit a letter from a disheartened hiker that states, in part, and I quote: "Three men who had packed into a campsite a few hundred feet away were enjoying the comforts of a full-sized, two burner Coleman stove, a folding aluminum camp table and cold beers, among other things." The quote goes on to say, "These people aren't having a Wilderness Experience, they are moving the city into the backcountry."

I know, I'm shocked and flabbergasted as well, but wait, there's more. The wizards of wilderness follow up those statements with, "The character of the Wilderness Experience that we can usually count on when three or four days from the trailhead is completely destroyed when a large group of people, (remember, they said three people) camp in the area with all the comforts of home, including alcohol and radios." Carrie Nation, where are you when we need you?

How dare those nasty, inconsiderate horse folks rely on a Coleman two burner stove. Everyone knows Campchef is a better choice; they have a four burner model! Then these inconsiderate stock packers had the unmitigated gall to have a beer and enjoy themselves. How greenhorn is that? They could have had a cocktail, for crying out loud! Must have been newbies? And if I know packers, (and I do) I'll bet they probably brought long a Rib-eye steak and the makings for a salad to boot. I ask you, what has this world come too?

At first I thought that maybe these poor souls with the HSHA were either simply jealous of the stock users, or didn't know chalk from cheese. After all, they were forced to subside for days on end dining on freeze-dried gruel, cardboard-flavored granola bars, and purified Iodine flavored water, all having about the same palate-ability as sea sponge. They were used to huddling around the soft glow of a flickering candle, singing Cumbaya and Blowin' in the Wind all evening. Then, attempting to drift off to sleep snuggled a two-ounce sleeping back that provides about as much warmth as a mortician's smile, it allowed them to feel the finite nuances of every pine needle, pebble, and pisant beneath them while they no doubt shivered the night away like a dog passing a peach seed. Who wouldn't be pissed after an evening of "wilderness experience" like that?

Then it hit me. Maybe I was just being cynical, and possibly these John Muir wannabes were onto something. Maybe we really do need to get back to having a genuine "Wilderness experience?" Maybe we should get back to basics and become one with nature. So I have proposed a set of guidelines I will submit to the Forest Service and other agencies next week to enact immediately for all folks wishing to travel into the backcountry. A series of guidelines to help each of us to truly have a "wilderness experience."

To begin with, there will be no more of this light-weight, hi-tec, Gore-tex stuff to keep you warm. No more stuff to that'll whisk away moisture as you're trudging up the side of a 10,000 foot peak and coughing up a lung. No more loading up on comfort items stuffed into your 12,000 cubic foot Hike-A-Matic 6000 backpack. Think buckskin!

Yes, we need to get back to wearing buckskin clothing like our forefathers before us. If it was good enough for Sacajawea and Jim Bridger when they went camping, it's good enough for you. Not only will you aesthetically blend in to your surroundings much better after slapping on some animal grease to break in your new duds, you can probably get to your out-of-the-way destination considerably faster while outrunning that curious bear who's been following your waft and who's considering inviting you for supper.

There will be no more of those light-weight, pop-up tents, either. Just tote along a good old fashioned axe, chop down a tree, and build your own shelter for the evening. Remember, trees are biodegradable and in twenty or thirty years no one will ever know your shelter was even there. If you're not Bob the builder, you can even sleep in a hollowed out log for protection, that bear won't mind.

You'll also need to sling "Ol Betsy" over your shoulder when you head out for the high country because you are going to have to eat. No more delicious dehydrated tofu burgers, processed cheese product, or tasty freeze-dried shrimp scampi; we're gettin' back to basics. Shoot a deer for supper, then jerk the remainder for trail snacks. Jerky is certainly healthier than granola bars and tastes far better than soy and raisin trail paste.

Not into venison? Just take aim and pop a squirrel off one of those high pine boughs with your old flintlock, they'll be tenderized after that second or third bounce, and after lunch you can make a fashionable hat out of the hide. And hey, those cute little chipmunks make for tasty after dinner delights; you can even plunk 'em with a wrist rocket. In case you're marksmanship isn't exactly of Annie Oakley caliber, you might want to bring along a couple of beaver traps, just in case. A dip into those icy creeks and rivers before breakfast really helps to work up an appetite.

Make sure you bring a flint along with you to get that roaring campfire going. No more citified matches, or those light-weight mountaineering stoves fueled by propane. You'll be tired as Jessica Simpson taking S.A.T.s after three hours of banging on a rock with your flint and blowing on wet tinder to get a flame.

Starting to feel that wilderness experience yet? You will when you discover you'll now have to practice your navigational skills by the stars. Yep, no more of those gawl-fangled GPS gadgets. Just pay attention to where the moss grows and you'll learn that the green stuff grows on the north side of trees, mostly...often...well, sometimes! And flashlights? You can leave them at home too. Talk about killing the mood of a wilderness experience. Ever awake in the middle of the night to nature's call and prematurely mess your britches on your way to the latrine when you encounter a bear? Not to worry, though, you're camp mates will laugh hysterically when you explain the next morning how the bear was really just a tree stump!

Well, there you are, folks, just some of the changes forthcoming so you too can enjoy a Wilderness experience you'll remember for quite some time. The way I figure it, if someone can dictate to you what a wilderness experience has to be, it may as well be me. Until next time, Happy Camping!

YET ANOTHER HEARTWARMING CHRISTMAS STORY

Once upon a time, tucked away in the snow-covered Rocky Mountains in a land called Utah was the small town of Misery, and there, in a little, two-room shack, almost hidden in an isolated canyon, lived a wonderful little boy named Tiny Tom.

Tiny Tom lived with his grandmother, a crazy, old bird who was constantly picking on him and ordering him about. "Put on clean underwear," she'd holler. "Wash behind your ears," "Eat your brussel sprouts," "Feed the chickens," "Wipe your feet before you come in," "Do your homework." "Pick up your clothes." And on and on it went for poor Tiny Tom.

But Tiny Tom wasn't discouraged. When he wasn't being relentlessly picked on by his grandmother, Tiny Tom trudged two-miles, uphill, both ways, in the snow to and from school. Tiny Tom knew the value of a good education and studied hard so he could someday be a mountain man, or professional baseball player. Tiny Tom's teacher, the evil Ms Ridenhour, had different ideas. Apparently she thought Tiny Tom should be an astronaut because she was always telling the angry Principal Oger that all he did at school all day was take up space. Tiny Tom eventually won the battle and didn't become an astronaut after all, but that's another story.

At any rate, the evil Ms Ridenhour had it in for Tiny Tom. "Thomas, you never end a sentence with a preposition," she'd scream, pulling on her hair. "Thomas, you didn't carry the six!" "Thomas, what's the capital of New Jersey?" "Thomas, wake up!" "Thomas, who discovered Slogvania?" "Thomas, in what year did Queen Victoria have a hysterectomy?" And on and on it went for poor Tiny Tom.

But still, Tiny Tom wasn't discouraged. Sometimes Tiny Tom would day-dream while sitting at his desk (but only during recess) that someday he would be able to buy a brand, new, Daisy model 25 pump BB gun for his granny. Never once did it occur to Tiny Tom to replace his own aging, rusted, dilapidated Red Rider, a tired hand-me-down given to him by his uncle.

Every day after school, Tiny Tom would gather his twelve-hundred-and-sixteen homework assignments and hurry off to his job, working for a miserly jackass who went by the name of Ebenezer Zane Grey, a mean spirited, senile, old mule who owned the town's stable. Zane Grey was always gruff and grumpy, speaking in a New York accent, which was odd not because he was a mule, and talked, but because he was actually from Bishop, California. At any rate, Tiny Tom had to work every day from 3:30 in the afternoon until midnight, day in, and day out; a nearly super-human feat to be certain. But still Tiny Tom was not discouraged.

Sometimes Tiny Tom would inadvertently be late for his job. This was because the evil Ms Ridenhour had given him detention for some minor indiscretion of no consequence. Tiny Tom's tardiness tended to tick-off the terrible tyrant who tended to take tardiness too personally and would make the miserly mule even more mean, mingy, and cantankerous than he normally was. (You try it; it's not as easy as it looks!) Because of this, his stingy, tight-hoofed employer would call Tiny Tom horribly cruel names, and burden him with more and more chores to do; almost more than were humanly possible to do. "Bring me more alfalfa dare, boyd-brain" "Muck my stall dare, Squoit" "Bring me some donuts, dare dimwit!" "Put away dem saddles, pinhead!" "Tote that barge, dare punkinhead!" "Bring me more alfalfa, dare knucklehead." And on and on it went for poor Tiny Tom.

As the days leading up to Christmas approached, Tiny Tom would put the nickel he earned from Ebenezer Zane every day into a small, leather pouch he kept in his pocket. Ever closer to his goal of having enough money to buy the Daisy for his elderly grandmother, Tiny Tom would count his nickels every day.

"Almost," he'd say to himself, as he counted out the last five-cent piece. Finally, Christmas Eve arrived and Tiny Tom was about to burst from excitement. He needed but one more nickel and he'd have enough to buy the BB gun for his beloved Granny.

Tiny Tom arrived at the miserly mule's stable on time, for a change. This was because all of the children were out of school for Christmas break. Even the evil Ms Ridenhour was away somewhere, probably riding her broom over Salt Lake trying to scare all the children, Tiny Tom thought.

At any rate, Tiny Tom worked late into the evening that Christmas Eve. Finally, glancing up at the clock on the wall he saw it was 7:45pm. Usually, Tiny Tom had to work till midnight, but realizing Stedem's Hardware Emporium, Feed Store, and Bowling Alley was open only until eight, he decided to ask Mr. Zane if he could leave early so he could get to Stedem's before they closed.

"Ah geez, ya might as well take off, dare cabbagehead, ya sure ain't got yer mind on yer woyk," growled Mister Zane, as he shook his huge head in disgust and turned away. "But be back here da day afta Christmas at seven sharp!"

"Thank you Mister Zane," Tiny Tom replied timidly. "Excuse me, sir, if you don't mind, I just wonder one more thing?"

"WHAT?" Zane yelled, obviously agitated.

"Well, sir, I just wondered if I might get paid for tonight? You know, for my work?" asked Tiny Tom. "I'll make it up the day after tomorrow?"

"WHAAAT? Are ya tryin' to bust my…"

"No sir," interrupted Tiny Tom. "It's just that, then I'd have enough to buy the Daisy Pump BB gun that my grandma has always wanted, and Stedem's closes in five minutes. If I hurry, I can make it."

"Humpff," said Mister Zane as he gave a grunt and begrudgingly flipped a nickel on the ground in front of Tiny Tom, not an easy thing to do considering the beast didn't have the advantage of opposable thumbs.

"Thank you Mister Zane," he said excitedly, as he snatched up the nickel and put it in his leather pouch.

"Humpff," was the reply.

Tiny Tom raced to the door and opened it as he glanced up at the clock on the wall. 7:56 pm

"I can still make it," he thought to himself as he opened door. Then suddenly he stopped and turned toward Mister Zane.

"Merry Christmas, Mister Zane," said Tiny Tom, smiling.

"Fah-get-about-it," said Mister Zane, with emptiness in his eyes. "Christmas ain't nuttin' ta me," he added. As the miserly mule turned and stormed away, Tiny Tom could hear him mutter, "AWW-FA-BUNG-HUG!"

"Boy, will Granny be surprised," thought Tiny Tom, as he bolted out the door and raced down the street toward Stedem's Hardware. Racing faster than a turpentined cat, Tiny Tom was but a blur rocketing down the street.

As Tiny Tom rounded the corner he flew onto the wooden porch leading to Stedem's, and pushed on the door. In one fluid motion, he gave a mighty shove on the door, so hard that when it didn't open he was sent reeling backward, landing on his keister. The door was closed tighter than Mister Zane's coin purse.

"CLOSED," read the big sign hanging in the window, and below it, "Merry Christmas!"

"How could this be," thought Tiny Tom. "Hark, whatever shall I do?"

Yes, people talked funny back in those days, but Tiny Tom was heartbroken none-the-less. Now he'd have to come back the day-after- Christmas to get the Daisy Pump for his poor, aged grandmother.

The long walk up the dark canyon to his house would be an agonizing one for Tiny Tom, mostly because he'd have to avoid being eaten by a Bigfoot, Boogeyman, or any one of the dozen or so, horrible monsters who lurked in the shadows along the way to his house up in the dark canyon.

Back at the stable, Mister Zane was getting ready for bed. The old, grey miser put on his night cap, crawled into his large, four-poster bed, and quickly drifted off to sleep; but not for long!

As the clock struck 10 pm, Ebenezer Zane was awakened by a strange sound. Pffft! It sounded strangely like someone passing gas, Zane thought to himself. He then closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep.

Pffft! There it was again.

Zane rolled over to see what was making the sound, and there next to his bed was a ghostly apparition in a worn, dusty, black cowboy hat.

"Sorry 'bout thet, Ah had some chili fer lunch and it's a talkin' back," said the ghost.

I can't tell you exactly what Ebenezer Zane said next because the censors would just bleep it, but to paraphrase, Zane asked the apparition, "Who are ya, and watta ya doins' in my bedroom?" only much more colorfully.

"Ebenezer Zane, ya was suppose ta get visited bah three ghosts tonight, but 'cause a time constraints, the angel strike, and dis bein' a short story and all, ya only gets two, and Ah'm' a standin' in fer 'em. So tonight ya gets the ghost a Christmas past, an Christmas future. So let's get a move-on, Ah got thangs ta do." And with that, Ebenezer Zane found himself flying through the air, high above the clouds.

"Leh-me, leh-me down," screamed the frightened old mule!

"Pipe down, Ah gots a announcement ta make. In the event of a sudden drop in cabin pressure, ya'll turn yer head around an kiss yer ass good-bye. Get it, get it," chortled the ghost of Christmas past. "Get it; mule, ass, ass, mule? Aw well, jes a lettle ghost joke ta pass da time. We's dare now, look down, Ebenezer."

Ebenezer Zane cast his eyes downward upon a beautiful, lush, green pasture. "Where are we at, dare Flash Ghouldon, this place looks familiar," he asked, as they settled into a holding pattern and began circling the meadow where several yearling mules were running about.

"Ah'm serprized, Ebenezer, Ah thoughts you was smarter than thet," said Lecil.

"Whatta ya mean," Zane asked, truly puzzled.

"Ah thought ya know'd better'n ta end a sentence wit a preposition," replied Lecil.

"Yer right, dare Super-fly, now where are we," asked Zane, overlooking the pasture below?

"Thet's you, thar, Ebanezer Zane, a playin' wit yer friends on Chistmas Eve as yer momma looks on," said the ghost.

"Ahhh bologna! It's Christmas Eve and I'm right here, wastin' it by flyin' around with you, dare Chuckles," answered Zane.

"Guess ya ain't payin' attenshun," grumbled the ghost. "Ah splained Ah was da Ghost-a-Christmas PAST, as in a long time ago. Got et?"

"Yeah, yeah, okay, I got it, dat soytainly is me, but what's my ma doin' over dare," he asked?

"She's a knittin' ya a warm pair a size 16 ear-socks fer Christmas."

"Oh yeah, I remember doze tings," Zane answered, and for the first time in a long time he was smiling.

"Yep, you was a happy camper back in them days," drawled Lecil. "Now look at ya; yer so mean and nasty thet a sheep dog couldn't get along wit ya."

Suddenly the scene below became fuzzy as clouds drifted in. Ebanezer was a bit surprised when he found himself back in his room, snug in bed. Believing it was but a bad dream, he quickly drifted back to sleep, but not for long!

Once again, Ebenezer Zane was awakened by a loud noise. CLANK, BANG!

"Sorry 'bout thet, guess Ah had a bit more egg nog at da Christmas party. Anyway, et's jes me. Ar ya ready fer Christmas future?

Before Ebenezer Zane could say Jack Robinson, he was again whisked away and sailing high above the clouds.

"Now where are we goin', dare Cowboy Corpses," asked Ebenezer Zane?

"Ah told ya , ta Christmas future; look down thar," Lecil answered, pointing to a hole in the clouds.

As Ebenezer Zane looked through the hole in the clouds he could see an old, boney, grey mule standing out in front of a building. The mule was sitting on his haunches bracing himself, as two sinister looking men dressed in BLM uniforms were struggling to push the old, grey mule through the door. GLUE FACTORY said the sign above the door.

"Whatta dem guys doin to dat mule down dare," asked Zane?

"Thet mule down thar is you, Ebenezer Zane. Et's you in the future, and you've outlived yer usefulness. Ya got's no one ta take care of ya on account a ya bein' so mean an miserable, so them fellers is a fixin' ta fix yer wagon, if'n ya know what Ah mean," said Lecil.

A sober look washed across Ebenezer Zane's huge, anvil-shaped head.

"Well, mah job's done here, Ah recon. Ah hope you learn't a valuable lesson, Ebenezer Zane," said Lecil. And with that, he disappeared.

Ebenezer opened his eyes and peeked over the thick, quilt comforter that covered him. He was shaking as his eyes scanned the room for the ghost of Lecil. Realizing the ghost was nowhere to be found, he gave a sigh of relief as he lay there, contemplating whether or not to go back to sleep.

Then Ebenezer Zane's eyes got bigger than saucers and Ebenezer Zane bolted up right in bed. "It's Christmas morning," he exclaimed to no one around.

The old grey mule jumped out of his bed and quickly got dressed. He slipped into his four boots and headed for the door. "It's Christmas morning, it's Christmas," he exclaimed, excited as a puppy on new carpet. He did this because this is a fairy tale and it is no more unbelievable than a frog kissing a princess and becoming a prince.

As Tiny Tom sat down with his granny at the table to eat the Christmas goose his grandmother had prepared, an amusing thought came to his tiny little head. "My goose is cooked," he thought to himself. It didn't take much to amuse children back in those days because kids weren't spoiled rotten with video games, computers, and X-Boxes.

Suddenly there was a loud knock on the door followed by a booming, "Merry Christmas!"

Tiny Tom looked over at his granny with a confused expression like he'd been dealt five aces.

"Whoever could that be this snowy, Christmas Morning," Tiny Tom said to his granny.

"Quit talkin' like that or I'll slap that nose of yours up next to your ear," replied Granny. (Granny was quite the cut-up.)

Tiny Tom got up and opened the door. It was Ebenezer Zane and he had a large present in his arm.

"Merry Christmas, Tiny Tom," he said, brushing past and into the kitchen. "And Merry Christmas to you, Granny."

"What-ev-er," said Granny, as she grabbed a broom and dust pan and stood behind Ebenezer, just in case.

"Here, Tiny Tom, this is for you," he said, handing a large, long Christmas package to the bewildered youngster.

Tiny Tom's little eyes welled up with tears and a huge smile came across his face. "It's got to be my Model 25, pump BB gun," he thought to himself, about to burst? "What else could be in this long, slender package?"

As Tiny Tom began carefully removing the wrapping paper a smile of contentedness washed across the old mules face. Even Granny's pearly-white store-boughts were glowing, as she and Ebenezer Zane stood in the kitchen, anticipating Tiny Tom's reaction.

With the festive Christmas wrapping paper but a heap on the floor, Tiny Tom removed the lid to the cardboard box. The precious look of surprise on his face said it all. Why, you could have knocked Tiny Tom over with a feather. His little mouth opened wide enough to put a foot in, something Tiny Tom did frequently over the years, and his eyes were as big as hubcaps. Yes, it was all his, a shinny, brand new manure shovel!

Over the coming years, Tiny Tom would grow out of his tininess. He would develop a facial tic that enhanced his often odd behavior. The AK-47 assault rifle he carried around with him certainly didn't help Tom's social life either, and years of therapy would do nothing to reveal the underlying cause. Eventually he was able to control his odd behavior, but to this day, the words Merry Christmas send Tiny Tom into a frenzy. His facial tic returns and Tiny Tom spends an inordinate amount of time talking to his mules. Neighbors usually stay away until Easter.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

 

Any resemblance to people living or otherwise is purely bull-malarkey. Offer is limited to citizens of these United States only. (See fine print for details.) Offer void in Puerto Rico, the Dominican Republic, and Pecoma, California. Could cause diarrhea, shingles, whooping cough, tonsillitis, or sudden death. If you show signs of any of these symptoms, please consult the advice of a gynecologist. We do reserve the right to refuse service to anyone, regardless of age, race, religion, or your driver's license picture. Should headaches continue, take two aspirin and call me in the morning

 

 

 

The "Grave"

       It probably slipped your mind this year, but don't worry about it too much, it almost got past my radar as well.  Just in case you weren't aware I have this little nugget of information to share with you, (and as Yogi Berra once said, "You could look it up".), November 1st through the 7th was National Give Wildlife A Break Week.  Yep, I can't make that stuff up.
       Ironically, this year's NGWB week happened to fall when I was deer hunting in New Mexico, and for step-son Jason Hower, the anti-deer magnet Ed Goosecock, and myself, New Mexico was not very good to us this year, and maybe that's as it should be.
        I did a lot of hiking during my futile search for Bambi's father, and during the process of wearing out a perfectly good pair of boots, giving my GPS more colorful names than Zsa Zsa Gabor, and discovering blisters can indeed grow atop other blisters, I found myself studying my USGS topo map about as often as a goose goes barefoot.  In fact, had my wife, Cathy, been along she would have had yet another of her grand mal fits of fearful excitement and commenced to jumping up and down like an ostrich on hot pavement while proclaiming louder than a Richard Simmons Hawaiian shirt to the entire Gila National Forest's Flora and fauna that I was lost........again.  Fortunately she wasn't, so we'll stick with the term I prefer to use during situations such as these; logistically challenged.
      At any rate, I discovered a curious entry on my topo map marked "grave".  This interested me greatly in spite of my near-death experience at the haunted camp at Lewis Stringer in the Sierras a couple of years ago. 
       I should probably explain that Tom doesn't do well with ghosts, Bigfoot, bears, tree stumps that look like bears, screams in the middle of the night, horror movies, spiders, skunks, and small, furry creatures in my bedroll at 3 a.m., or brussel sprouts.  This would mostly be due to the fact that all of the above scare the crap out of me except for brussel sprouts.  They make me toss my cookies.
       Anyway, for only the second time in a single day, according to my GPS, and the fact I had absolutely no idea which direction camp was, imagine my glee and mirth to discover I was again logistically challenged.  If I were reading my topo map correctly, (only a slightly better than odds chance) I calculated I might be in the same canyon as the "grave", and since I was lost anyway, and I thought I might be lost in the neighborhood of the "grave", I figured I might as well look for it while was here.
       After an exhaustive search of the area and turning up nothing I was ready to toss in the towel and give up, but miraculously, upon stumbling backward over a pile of rocks someone had carelessly left stacked out in the forest, miles from nowhere, BINGO; I had found the "grave".

       The mysterious "grave" had no markings or plaque to identify it as such, nor was there anything to identify the tenant occupying the space beneath the 5'x4'x3' high pile of neatly stacked stones.  And who was the occupant?  Had he been a cowboy killed in an accident when his horse threw him up being startled by a rattlesnake?  Or was it an old rancher who'd simply lived out his life to a ripe old age?  Was he a miner, or possibly an old prospector who'd had a heart attack on his way out of the mountains to file a claim on the mother lode he'd secretly discovered in the area?  Perhaps he was a marshall who'd been ambushed by an outlaw, or a trapper who'd been mauled by a grizzle bear?
       Maybe, just maybe he was an alien being from a distant universe who'd crashed his spaceship in these mountains and walked away only to wander aimlessly in the maze of rock canyons, hopelessly lost until some Indians found him and made him their chief until he had a brain aneurysm from smoking some toxic locoweed.  But wait a minute; that would be silly.  Certainly an alien would know how to use his GPS and wouldn't have gotten lost in the first place; unlike SOMEBODY!
       At any rate, what was interesting about the "grave" was that on top of the pile of rocks someone had placed a large jar; like that of an old pickle jar.  And the jar's top was badly rusting away allowing water to seep into it through the rusted holes in the lid.  Inside, the jar contained ashes; the ashes of someone else!  But who was in the jar?  Could it have been the remains of......oh never mind.  The point is that next year's deer season, upon returning to New Mexico, I shall seek out a local rancher who no doubt can tell me the story behind the "grave".
       Now, if I can just find my way back to camp; Gol da%# GPS!  Now let's see, the sun comes up in the east, or is it the north?  No, it's the east, and then it travels past the Little Dipper....

                     





       
                       

Now Where Did He Get That Silly Notion?

Ed Goosecock is a city boy.  In Ed's world, hamburger comes from McDonald's, Potatoes are made at the supermarket, and everything else a person ever needs is at a Walmart.  Unless Ed is fast asleep, he almost always has one of those fancy Rasberry III HD, 3-D, DDT cellphones in his hand.  If Ed isn't talking, texting, or checking his e-mail on his marvel of technology, he's downloading, uploading, or Twittering on it.  I'm not sure I've ever seen Ed's left ear.

Ed has never ridden a horse.  In fact, he's never so much as climbed atop a twenty-five cent drugstore pony ride. The closest he's ever been to to a real horse was sitting behind a barrel of popcorn at the movies when he took the family to see Tombstone, so you can imagine Ed's trepidation in coming along on a pack trip with Ladd Stokes and I.

Ed will be going with us for eight days.  We leave on Sunday.  It will be a week of firsts for the suburbanite from El Monte. This is his first pack trip, and not only will it be the first time in his life he has parked his fanny on a slab of leather in the form of a saddle, but that saddle will be on the back of an honest-to-goodness anvil-headed,doodle-donkey.  Ed is scared to death.  Actually, he is terrified; and he should be!

I have decided to put Ed atop Zane Grey. Not because Zane is my most trusted and seasoned mule.  Not because he is bomb-proof.   And not because Zane has the footing of a sherpa, is as safe as baby aspirin, and could care less who's driving.  No, I have decided to mount Ed atop Zane because Edward Goosecock is under the strange impression that the trip we are to embark upon is thirty-six miles over some of the most challenging, dangerous, and precarious trail ever crossed by man or beast, and that we should reach camp sometime around midnight if we can get on the trail by sun-up.  It is also Ed's belief that Zane Grey is frightened of chipmunks, and will buck, spin on a dime, and run the other way at the mere sight of one, but that he shouldn't worry; there hasn't been a sighting of a chipmunk in the southern Sierra's since 1938; the year before they became extinct.

 I'm not entirely sure where Ed got these crazy notions, especially the one about not looking a mule directly in the eye because it makes them furious, and how they will charge and stomp a person to death who dares to make eye contact, but I think that at least until we reach Kern Flat and get our deer camp set up, a vivid imagination is a healthy thing to have.

At any rate, I certainly hope Ed wears plenty of his wife's perfume, and knows all the words to "She'll Be Comin' Around The Mountain".  For some strange reason he is convinced they help to calm the disposition of nervous mules on a long, dangerous trail ride!

KATHUMP!

       Mule deer are my thing.  They are perhaps my greatest passion in life, and while elk, antelope, turkey, and the like are all enjoyable to hunt; for me, nothing beats pursuing big mulies in rough, rugged country.  Studying and hunting these magnificent creatures is what makes me tick, and truth be told, one of my greatest fears is reaching that point in life when I am no longer able to physically hunt them.
       Last month, (August) I drew an archery tag for the famed Kaibab on the North Rim of the Grand Canyon.  The Kaibab is long famous for producing record book mule deer bucks of unequaled size and I was as excited as a puppy on new carpet to be going, and when I arrived a couple of days before the opener, and on my very first scouting venture came onto two incredible bucks, I knew this was going to be a good hunt.
       My first day hunting, I parked my fanny in a thick grove of quaking aspens I felt was prone to traffic headed to and from a bedding area.  Less than twenty minutes later, as the sun began creeping up the east side of the ridge, my senses were awakened with the sound of snapping twigs approaching from a thicket of aspens to my left.  Into view stepped two bucks; a respectable 3x2 in the lead, followed closely by a smaller forky.  Having already ranged certain spots around me, and fairly certain where the lead buck would step into a shooting lane, I drew my bow back and waited.
       As the buck stepped into view, he stopped broadside and attempted to get the wind.  At that point I realized I'd come a fair distance for the opportunity to take something more substantial home.  I gently let off on my bow string.  The young buck took this as a cue to quit the country before I changed my mind, and I immediately began wondering if I'd done the right thing as he beat feet for the next county.  You know, a bird in the bush...
       That evening, following a brief phone call home to inform my bride of the day's events, Cathy confirmed any suspicions I may have had and removed any and all doubt as to the question, was I a dumb&%!?  Apparently I was.
       "You did what?" she said, sounding like Dr. Phil.  "It's a 3x2; it's bow season, are you outta your ever-lovin' mind?"  And so our entertaining session went.
       The next eight days went by tortuously fast.  I was seeing bucks, a lot of bucks; but not big bucks, or even anything like the 3x2 I'd passed on.  Worse than that, I wasn't even getting a shooting opportunity.
       Finally, with only three days left before we had to return home, a group of deer came tromping into the area I was set up in.  Leading the group were two, 160 class or better, 4x4s.  "Good enough for me," I thought.
       The wider-racked buck, the one I wanted was leading the parade of four other, lesser bucks, three does, and the Jackson Five spotted fawns running around like squirrels in a peanut factory.  At the first opportunity I drew my bow on the wide 4x4 only to realize I hadn't taken a yardage.  Gently I let off on my bow and slowly lifted my range finder.  Thirty-five yards!
       At this point, the buck had again moved.  The thick grove of quaking aspens I was in prevented another try, so I ranged the next opening I though he might step into and waited silently (except for that incessent pounding of my heart.  KATHUMP, KATHUMP! Twenty-four yards!
       Amazingly enough, with deer surrounding me as close as twenty yards, I still hadn't been detected by the scattered troupe who seemed almost to have me surrounded as they hurriedly ate while walking.  Then the buck stepped into the shooting lane and paused long enough for me to draw my bow string.  KATHUMP, KATHUMP!
       I was certain the magnificent buck could hear my heart pounding as he looked directly at me and raised those giant ears.  All I needed now was a tuba, sax, and a trombone and I could give the USC marching band a run for their money.
       The buck suddenly, and instinctively turned his head and looked right at me.  KATHUMP, KATHUMP!  He stomped a front hoof on the ground; a sign he knew all was not right in River City and he was about to leave Dodge.  KATHUMP, KATHUMP!  I squeezed the release and let the arrow fly.
       The entourage jumped in unison and scattered out of the thicket to the far side of a small meadow some seventy yards away.  There they resumed dining as if nothing had happened and continued on their merry way as I watched in despair as my newest wall mount disappeared.
        What just happened, I wondered?  When I walked over to the narrow shooting lane where a dead buck should have been lying, I discovered the problem.  There, squarely in the middle of a branch defiantly sticking up from a dead and downed aspen tree was my broadhead arrow.  I knew it was mine because it had my brand on it.
       I have decided to write a stern letter to the U.S. Forest Service concerning their poor maintenance program of cleaning up branches in the forest.  They should be ashamed of themselves and taken to task for their poor housekeeping principles.
       At any rate, I reviewed the shot several hundred times in my head, gathered my gear, and decided to make a wide swath around in the general direction the bucks were headed to see if I couldn't catch them again.
      I had hiked about half-a-mile when I came to a gently sloping, meadow-like area that opened up.  As I crept along, still in stealth mode and trying to step quietly on the died twig-mined slope, I could see the entire area was there for a stock tank.  A stock tank is simply a natural area where a berm is built to contain water run-off and store it for stock or game during the dry months.
      Now I knew where the bucks had been headed!  Silent as a fence post I crept toward the low spot a couple of hundred yards below me where the water would be, and hopefully a bruiser of a buck.  I tried to stay concealed as best as possible sneaking silently from small pine tree to pine tree.  It took me nearly ten minutes of painstaking stealthiness but I was nearly there.
       As my eyes studied the topography out a head of me, scanning every possible place for the outline of a deer's body, I couldn't help but notice a strange resistance as I accidentally brushed up against a small, five-foot pine overlooking the water hole.
        Instinctively I glanced down only to observe a small window in the pine tree.  WINDOW?  In the window were a pair of legs sporting a fine pair of Realtree camo hunting pants.  KATHUMP, KATHUMP!  It wasn't a pine tree, it was someone's hunting blind.  I had committed a cardinal sin.  I hadn't just walked into an area where someone had a blind set up.  Nooo, that small sin can be excused; even forgiven.  No siree Billy-Bob, I hadn't walked into an area where a blind was set up; I walked into the blind itself!
       "Oh my God, I am soooo sorry.  Please forgive me, I didn't see your blind," I whispered, apologizing pathetically like a nurse dropping a newborn. 
       I calculated that the gentleman in the blind was probably near the boiling point and no doubt counting to ten to control his temper from his lack of response.
       "Oh jeeze, I am so sorry, I'll get out of your area, SORRY!" I whispered.
       It was at that point the hunter's legs stiffened straight out and the blind began to shake.  As the pair of legs began violently kicking out in front of him, the concealed gentleman also began emitting sounds much like a chainsaw trying to be started on a cold day.  He had been asleep!  KATHUMP, KATHUMP!
       "Oh great," I thought to myself.  "Now I'm gonna have to give mouth to mouth to some Bubba 'cause he's gone into coronary arrest from me scaring him to death.  KATHUMP, KATHUMP!
       "I'm soooo sorry; didn't see ya here. Please, please forgive me," I said, backing up like a pup on a porcupine.
       I am pretty certain I heard the hunter mutter something like, "That's okay," but to be honest, I was making tracks and covering some ground.  While I'm sure the hunter no doubt had a good story to tell back at camp that evening, it's probably a good thing I didn't stick around to chat with him.  He probably needed time to be alone so he could change his shorts.  KATHUMP, KATHUMP! 





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