Uncle H – Wild Horses part 1



Is that Uncle H???

Catching a wild horse was a childhood fantasy of mine. When I was a small child my father bought a wild colt from my Uncle P, caught in the Sawtooth Mountains of Idaho. As a boy I had images of racing through large mountain meadows, a herd of horses ahead, browns, blacks, pintos, and of course the beautiful appaloosa, all there for the taking. In my dreams I always closed in fast. My rope would circle the head perfectly of the lead stallion; he always had wild eyes as he would twist and stare back at me, his captor. Then I would throw on the binders setting my horse back on his haunches stopping the stallion in his tracks. He was always coal black and had perfect lines. Fantasies are great that way. You can ride the fastest horse, throw the perfect lasso, be the real deal, be the Marlboro man. Hmmm… that sounds really wrong.
What was just a fantasy for me was a reality for several of my uncles, including Uncle H. The blond mane of the golden palomino waved in glory as it bounced and waved in the wind along the outstretched neck of the tall stallion. Ginger was a truly fast horse and his gallop would eat up real-estate faster than a land tycoon.
A group of wild horses were ahead and Ginger had been given his rein. With Uncle H on his back the two were soon leading the charge. Two brothers now eating dust urged their horses on, doing their best to keep up. Across the rough terrain they went dodging lodge pole pines.
Uncle H was moving in close and began working a loop into his rope. The loop hung low as he streaked toward his prey and in an unfortunate moment the rope snagged a piece of brush. Immediately the rope began peeling out taking with it pieces of flesh caught between the saddle horn and Uncle H’s fingers. Blood dripped freely down and across the saddle horn.
The rope now whipped about slapping Ginger across his rear flank, startling him. Fully spooked with ears bent back, and nostrils flared, Ginger took off in a panic. Uncle H hung on and realized quickly, reining Ginger in was impossible.
The hot sun shined bright, highlighting the drama. Bright yellow desert flowers streaked by in a blur, while Ginger held a full throttle. Madly they raced down the mountain. Ginger was wild with fright trying to escape the long snake nipping at his back side. Uncle H knew his only hope was to hang on, as all efforts to rein in Ginger went for not.
Down the mountain they flew in a storm of dust, with the wild horses leading the way. They were gaining fast on the brood and it wasn’t long before the two slid past the wild bunch smoother than butter. Desert brush tore at Ginger and whipped at Uncle H’s legs, tearing skin and britches.
A field of loose shale could be seen ahead. Uncle H left a prayer in the dust, in hopes that Ginger could keep his footing. They hit that field at full tilt and sure as anything the footing was lost. Ginger reacted by collapsing his rear legs. The ground look closer to Uncle H then he wanted with the sharp shale now up close. Down they slid. The shale sliced a long gash in Ginger’s belly. The field came to an end and the prayer must have been answered because Ginger was once again up and off at a full sprint.
His neck stretch long as his legs pounded the ground. The invisible demons had not given up the chase and the terrorized horse skidded around the edge of a ravine making his escape. He followed an old trail along a rock overhang. Turning hard he launched down the mountain like a locomotive. Together they ran jumping small ravines, fallen logs, and boulders. In a flurry of dust they came down the mountain. After some time they finally hit level ground. Ginger began to ease up, near exhaustion. His wet withered sides carried a layer of foam and his great chest expanded taking in large volumes of air. He had finally run himself out and Uncle H was allowed to rein him in. They eased to a stop both spent from the race. As Uncle H dismounted to check Ginger’s condition he was never happier to get off a horse. The wild horses escaped capture that day and Uncle H had the arduous task of back tracking the miles they had just covered, coaxing along a still frightened, tired, and wounded horse.
Not all of Uncle H’s trips ended in futility. He tells of another time when he had lassoed a wild colt and again Ginger was in a running mood. It is a sad tale. Few details were given, only that Ginger about drug that poor colt to death before Uncle H could rein him in. In the end the colt healed up and Uncle H had a nice colt.

To be continued…

Uncle H the Early Teen Years

Teenage years bring big changes. The body goes through a metamorphosis. The mind begins to actually have rare moments of rational reasoning. Lessons of cause and effect are in constant bloom and the opposite sex shapes a whole new world. Uncle H was no exception to these changes but other changes were in the works for Uncle H during his early teen years. It was 1949, he just had his 13^th birthday, school was out for the summer and his younger sister had come down with rheumatic fever. This illness caused the family to move to Arizona. The doctor said a warm dry climate was needed for his sister to get well.

 A work opportunity was open in a saw mill in Oregon, where an older brother lived. So, off Uncle H went to his brother’s for a summer of working in a saw mill at age 13.

Child labor laws were not completely non-existent at that time. The 1938 Fair Labor Standards Act stated that children under the age of 16 could not work in manufacturing and mining. It seems a loop hole was jumped through or more likely a law ignored that allowed my Uncle H to be employed at such a dangerous job. Child labor laws at the time were rarely enforced and the biggest deterrent to child labor violations in American history was the political and societal attitude change that all youth should receive an education, at least up to eight grade. Truancy was easier to monitor than child labor violations. So, when children were in school they were not working. Machinery inventions and improvements in production methods also helped reduce the demand for child labor. The Great Depression was another deterrent because for every child working caused an adult to be displaced from the work force. Resistance to changing the child labor was argued by employers because they found children easier to control, less likely to organize into a union, and required minimal wages.

Uncle H describes his time at the mill. “I went to Oregon to work in a portable saw mill. I lived at my brother’s place. I do remember that someone had to pick me up each day for a ride to work.  The mill was in the forest and they would saw the bark off of the logs, leaving a square log called a cant.  My job was to stack the cants onto the trucks.  The mill was on a platform leaving the trucks at a lower level. The cants were too heavy to lift, but when rolled out onto conveyor rollers, I could get them almost balanced in the center, pivot them and then shove them onto the truck bed.  I remember that it rained almost every day.  Not hard, but a slow rain which would get my shirt soaking wet.  I learned to take two shirts to work so I could have one hanging by the engine, which was under a canopy where it could dry. I would keep changing shirts when the one I was wearing became too wet.  Most of the timber they were working on was not too large, so I could handle it okay.”

All through my Uncle’s writings there is an absence of ‘poor me.’ Note his last line in the above paragraph, ‘so I could handle it okay.’ He was creative and somehow able to handle what he should not have been able to handle.  My uncle was small for his age. He writes of being less than 5 feet tall upon completing the eighth grade. It baffles me that a kid less than five feet tall, probably weighing about 80 – 90 pounds could be doing a job like this. Uncle H was an amazing young lad.

When that summer was over instead of heading back to Idaho, Uncle H met up with his Mother and sister in Arizona. The move did not leave enough money for a cow or maybe the desert meant buying feed year around, so Grandma bought a goat.

‘I wasn’t crazy about drinking goat milk, but I had to learn.  At least there were only two teats to milk instead of the four as with a cow.  Of course, I much preferred to make a pet of the goat and she was soon so tame that whenever I was out she would follow.  I took that goat on hikes up the mountain behind our house, and she would follow just like a dog with no leash.  We had a good time together.  One time when I was pulling some weeds in a ditch by our house she decided to take a bite from my straw hat.  I just reached up and tapped her back a couple of times until finally she gave me such a butt in the head that I fell smack on mine, ‘butt’ that is.  I guess she liked being a pet better than giving milk also and you know what that meant with Mom.  An older brother was in the area at that time, so Mom tapped him to come and help me butcher the goat.  I wasn’t about to help with that and took off on a long hike up the mountain.  Brother was never too happy with me for running out on him, but I just couldn’t do it.

Mom always had a way of finding me a job.  That first summer in Arizona I worked in the melon fields, driving tractors again.  I had to get up at 3:00 A.M. to catch my ride to where they stored the tractors.  We would fill our tractor with gas, check the oil, etc. and then head for the melon fields that were usually several miles away.  We started work at daylight so we could be finished by about 3:00 in the afternoon, since it got so hot.  I remember getting hit in the back of the head by someone who threw a cantaloupe at me while I was pulling a trailer down the field.  I guess I was getting some of my own medicine back for the throwing I had done in Idaho.  Anyway, they thought it was funny, I didn’t.’
Junior high boys are possibly the most merciless breathing critters on earth and Uncle H found himself on the brunt end early teen teasing. He was small and tough and the teasing resulted in more than one fight. His last name easily manipulated to contain the derogatory term ‘shit.’ Thus this was the curx of most of his fights.

He loved basketball and played on the school team both his seventh and eighth grade years. While in eighth grade he played on his eighth grade team, but because of his small stature he often played on the seventh grade team also.

Uncle H’s early teen years were much different than mine but his small size I can relate to. I was never hit in the back of the head with a melon, nor did I ever have to eat one of my pets. Thank goodness, I think cat meat would be horrible.

To be continued…

Uncle H – A Childhood

I don’t know if I am just a lazy writer or that I enjoy my uncle's own words best. This post are all excerpts from my uncle's writings. This first vignette comes from his early years and seems to me like it could have come right out of the show, ‘The Little Rascals.' You will see in this post Uncle H was a little rascal at times.


"When I was in the first grade I received my first kiss from a girl. I came in from the playground after recess and just as I came into the classroom Constance jumped from behind the door and planted one on my cheek in front of the whole class. I was embarrassed to death. Little did I know the role her family would play in my near future. One day while playing outside during a school recess we were sliding down the slippery slide, running around and crawling to the top as fast as we could and repeating the process. Just as I got to the top and was about ready to slide, I got pushed from behind. Unfortunately, it was to the side and not down the slide. I fell off of the top and landed face down onto a rock knocking all of my front teeth out. The one that had pushed me was Constance’s brother. We all went running to the teacher and she immediately told us to run to the doctor. It just so happened that the doctor was the father of Constance. We all took off running for the doctor across town. As we rounded a corner there was a truck parked in front of the hardware store and just at the last second I noticed a pipe protruding from the back. I ducked just in time to avoid a collision but one of my friends did not. The pipe caught him just under the chin and decked him. Now the doctor had two patients. I will never forget that experience at the doctor’s office. He was a doctor who had served in foreign countries and apparently was used to doing his thing with no pain relief. He swabbed my wounds with something that stung like hell and proceeded to stitch me up with no pain killer at all. That hurt!


“Even though we were quite poor, we always had food to eat. Sometimes it was only bread and milk. We also ate a lot of popcorn. Actually, we had bread and milk quite often. Mom always baked the bread we had at home. By the end of the week, when it was about time to bake again and when the bread was fresh, we would have milk and bread for dinner and that was about the best way to eat it. Mom also made butter and cheese. Her homemade cheese is still some of the best I have ever eaten.


"We always had a garden so Mom canned a lot. Of course we all had to help in weeding and caring for the garden. Nothing seemed to go to waste around our place. During the Second World War many things were rationed. So, Mom acquired some honey bees and we ate honey instead of sugar. She acquired an extractor to remove the honey from the comb. The caps of the comb were cut off and the comb with the honey was placed into the extractor where it was spun to fling the honey out and into a container. My brother Floyd and Mom were the main bee keepers. They would wear face protectors and long clothing to try to avoid the stings. Sometimes they weren’t careful enough and I remember seeing Mom with her lips all swollen and one time her eye was nearly swollen shut. They had a smoker, this was a device that could hold a smoldering fire in which when the back part was squeezed it would force smoke out. The smoke caused the bees to be docile and allowed them to be handled more safely. Floyd was pretty good with bees. He would find swarms of bees catch them and bring them home to place in the extra supers. The honey that was extra Mom would sell to get some money. We all got our share of bee stings.


"Our garden was a large one. There were so many vegetables that Mom couldn’t can everything so she sold the extra to bring in some money. I always liked the vegetables to eat and still do to this day. Shelling the peas was a dull task. To make it faster we would run them through the ringer of our washing machine. When the pod was placed into the ringer, stem side first, the peas would just come popping out into the container. We all got to help put peas into the ringer.


"Since our garden was so large, Mom bought a rototiller. I suppose she figured the tiller should be put to good use and lined up other gardens for us to till. When any of my older brothers weren’t available, I was the one to run the tiller onto the trailer and Mom would haul me to various gardens and I would plow while she waited to haul me to the next one. I still wasn’t old enough to drive a car. We could get our license at 14 years old then.


"I had a bad habit of throwing things when I was a kid. I loved to throw tomatoes at passing cars and at the neighbor’s house. Mom would go get a branch from a tree and blister my butt. I even crawled into a large tree on the corner of the road and would drop green apples onto passing cars. Can’t believe no one caught me for that. I also had fun by tying an old wallet to a fine string and placing it at the side of the road. I would then get back into the garden and lie down between the rows of potatoes and wait while I held onto the end of the string. When someone stopped to pick up the wallet, as they usually did, I would pull it into the garden away from them. Most people laughed and took it for a joke but one time it really made a man mad. He took off after me and I lit out for the barn. I was faster then he was thank goodness. As I rounded the barn I dove into the field of sugar beets we had there and hid between the rows. He looked and looked from but never found me. I think he thought I had gone into the barn. After saying a few choice words he finally left and went back to his car. I was a little more careful after that.


"I was sandwiched in age between two sisters. Above us were four older brothers, all in a row. It seemed like I was never old enough to do what my brothers were doing. It was always, ‘When you get older, you can do this, or when you get older you can participate.’ It seemed like I was never old enough. They would go on hunting trips and I could never go along. I remember one time when they all went pheasant hunting, and of course I couldn’t go. I was determined to have some hunting too. So, while they were gone Ruth and I dug out the 410 shot-gun and we took off along the edge of the corn field that was nearby. Sure enough, a pheasant flew up and I nailed it. I was so proud of myself for getting my first pheasant. I went up and grabbed it by the tail, put my foot on its head and proceeded to pull its head off. The only problem was, I pulled all of his tail feathers out instead. Talk about someone being embarrassed. I had to take my prize home with no tail feathers. It is interesting that Mom allowed us to have guns at home, but I guess it added up to having more food on the table. I do know that we ate lots of rabbits, pheasants and ducks because of the guns. I don’t know how old I was at that time. I was probably ten or eleven and in the fifth or sixth grade. I think we all learned to shoot at an early age and guns were around, but there were never any accidents because of them."


To be continued…

Uncle H - The Beginning

Recently I received an email from my Uncle H. Attached to the email was his memoir. I was anxious to read these pages and peer deeper into the heart of my Uncle. I did not tell him I had a selfish reason for wanting to read his story but I did. I knew he had gone through several tragedies during his life and I was curious how those experiences had impacted him. His story did not give all the details I had hoped for but when the story was read in its entirety, the composite of the man shouted volumes to me about the man’s integrity and my respect for him grew. It is my hope to give you a bird’s eye view of this man and I also hope his story inspires you as it did me.


Uncle H had a rough go starting out. He came into this world in 1936. At the young age of two, child number ten, he watched helpless as his family fragmented. His father left the home abandoning the family after siring child number eleven. I don’t know all the reasons the marriage failed but repeated infidelity was certainly a big part of the break up. At the time the family was a member of a conservative Mennonite community. For the time, 1938, a failed marriage was rare and even rarer in the strict Mennonite community. Great shame was attached to the family and all in the community knew something dreadful had gone wrong. Every quilting bee, every met up in the market or at the feed store released gossip and suspected evils were soon turned into truths real or not. The cloud of inward and outward shame hovered over the family. Little Uncle H, recalls being referred to as, “Oh, you are from that broken home.”


In today’s society where divorce is said to touch every extended family and occurs in one of every two homes; the tendency is to often gloss over and minimize the individual significance and the accompanying damage. We humans are interesting that way, we quickly attach more significance if something is rare but if the rare becomes common we tend to discount the damage both to the individuals affected and to our society as a whole. The cost to my Uncle was significant. He states in his writings that he never once in his life ever received a single correspondence from his father. I am not totally clear how this loss affected my Uncle but it is clear the loss carried with it obstacles. As I read his memoir the theme I kept reading was he overcame. This became a poignant trait throughout his life and maybe it is what I admire most about him. One thing is for certain, the man he became was great, nothing like his father.


In a family of eleven children I suppose it would be easy to lose track of a child now and then. My Uncle’s own words illustrate this best. “I don’t know how old I was, but I was pretty young. After church one Sunday evening I found myself alone at church and all the rest of the family had gone home. Mom had gathered her brood and gone home without me. There were so many in the family that no one even knew I was missing. I had to walk the two miles home from church in the dark. Needless to say, I was an unhappy camper. They were all eating pop corn and having a high old time. Until I came in, I hadn’t even been missed.”


The absent father did not send any monies to help support the large family and to say they were poor would be an understatement. Uncle H being the youngest boy was way down the list for hand me downs. At times his britches had more patches then pants. My Grandma was a master at stretching clothes.


Bath time was also an interesting affair and you got a bath once a week whether you needed one or not. Again my Uncles own words: ‘Every Saturday night we had to take our bath. I guess to be cleaned up for church the next day. We had a wash tub that was placed in the kitchen and Mom would heat water on the stove to pour into the tub. I remember one time Mom told me to get into the kitchen and take my bath and I really didn’t want to. It was mandatory, so I went in and just stuck my feet in the water and swished them around. When I came out, Mom said there was no way I could have taken a bath that fast. She said she would go check the water. When she came back she said, “well, I guess you did, the water is dirty enough.” Creativity is a strength my Uncle employed his whole life and you can see he came by the trait early.


To make ends meet all were expected to help out. There were many hours of working the family garden, caring for the chickens, and many other duties that Uncle H did at a very young age. The mother, my grandma, was vigilant in finding work for her boys and at the end of my Uncle’s third grade year, Grandma found him work driving a tractor. Uncle H was too small to reach the brake so he had to jump off the seat when he needed to brake. The gas was a manual throttle and employed a hand clutch, thus my uncle was able to do the work.


Today this could never happen because of child labor laws. But, the life my uncle experienced somehow grew him into a man of high integrity and I believe it was in no small part to these early lessons of hard work and doing his part to help his family.


To be continued….

Going to a Wedding

Are you ever surprised by someone you meet but in a great way? Let me introduce you to one of my Uncles, Uncle H. My discussion of my Uncle H might take more than one post because I have a lot to say about him. If you have read my blog much, you might remember I come from a large extended family. I have certain aunts and uncles that when I see them, I have to say to myself, ‘now think Grayquill, what’s her/his name?’ Uncle H almost fit into that category because I can count on one hand the number of times I have seen him in my life. The biggest reason my Uncle H does not fall into the group of ‘what’s his name’ is because of what you will read next. This experience printed an indelible impression in my brain of him. Another reason I can remember his name, I was named after him and my Grandpa. So, to protect Grayquill, my Uncle’s name for these posts will remain Uncle H. Relax, I am not telling you my real name. Some might say, shouldn’t you be concerned for your uncle’s anonymity? The folks that have such thoughts just don’t know me well enough. If they did know me, they would have already accepted, that Grayquill cares mostly about himself.

My first memory of Uncle H, was when I was two years old. My Aunt Ruth, Uncle H, my mother, and myself were traveling to somewhere. If another person was along I cannot confirm yay or nay because I was only two years old and I don’t really remember. My mother tells me we were traveling to Uncle H’s wedding in Kansas, which may or not be true because I was only two years old and I don’t really remember a wedding.


But, I do have one memory. Apparently after traveling all day, we stopped at a hotel or maybe it was a motel, I was only two years old, so I don’t really remember. In the room or rooms there were only two beds. I should add this one other tid bit of information. It is possible that my Uncle H’s fiancée was also with us but I have been unable to confirm this because I was only two years old and I don’t really remember. But, I do remember my mother wanted me to sleep in the same bed as my Uncle H. I hear the reason was they needed the space for the women. I would have nothing to do with that craziness. She says, I screamed and threw a fit that equaled and possible exceeded any two year old’s fit that has ever been thrown. I doubt this to be true because even though I was only two and I don’t really remember, that would be so unlike me to throw a fit. In defense of my mother’s version of the story, I hear two year olds can throw significant fits.


After much bribery, adult manipulation and possible threats of personal bodily harm, my mother was unsuccessful in convincing this two year old to sleep with Uncle H. I end up sleeping in the bed with my mother and my Aunt Ruth. I was only two years old and I can’t remember everything but I can remember looking out from under the covers to see if Uncle H was going to come get me. I stayed awake for a long time just to be sure that I was safe.


Some say, because of my angry two year old fit, Uncle H and his fiancée ended up that night sleeping in the same bed. But I am sure that is not true because even a two year old knew conservative Mennonites would never do that. I am sure Uncle H slept in the car, or on the floor, or some other appropriate place but I was only two years old and I don’t really remember.


So, if my memory is wrong and church rules were broken that night and great sins were committed – it’s not my fault, after all I was only two years old.


I am sorry, Uncle H if I told any secrets but that is exactly how I remember it.

Those Creepy Spiders

Yesterday I did some pressure washing on my house.  I hate painting so years ago I had vinyl siding installed. What I did not know, vinyl siding builds up static electricity much like when a person who still has hair runs a comb through his nest. As a result dust is attracted to the vinyl. I don’t have to paint but I do have to wash.

While washing it seemed spiders were everywhere. Mostly those big brown ones with giant hairy legs – that tells you a lot – I suppose all spiders seem big, brown and hairy. It doesn’t really matter for the story, so let’s forget I even brought up the whole spider type thing.  As I was pressure washing, I was blasting spiders off the wall left and right, wiping spider webs off my face and it seemed I was continually flicking the creep creatures off my shirt, neck and arms.

The whole spider invasion thing was creeping me out. Have you ever felt that light scampering of spider legs clicking across your skin? It is almost a tickle but not really, it is a one of a kind sensation. Well, I had now moved well past itching and now was firmly planted in the world of feeling real and imaginary creepy skitterers dashing across body parts. The trouble with spiders, they are everywhere. You know they are there but you can’t always see them. You just can’t be sure if one is hiding in some crease or fold of your clothing just waiting to bite you.

Here is the problem, itching and swatting at imaginary hair legged spiders at the top of an economy brand extension ladder is a bad idea. I was constantly fighting the urge to itch. I had to let the real and imaginary critters run up and down my arms, across my neck, and over my ears. I guess the fear of a twenty foot fall was for the most part a sufficient hindrance to keep from itching and swatting because I made it off the ladder safely.

By the time I was finished I was totally soaked. Still itching, I headed straight for the shower. As the water began coursing over my head – take a guess how many spiders I saw take a ride down the drain?

Did you guess three? Two? Four? Well I am here to tell you, you are way wrong. Not a single spider came off me. I just wondered if that question would creep you out. One spider did go flying off me when I peeled off my wet shirt in the wash room but let’s not tell Mrs. Grayquill. She is not like me who doesn’t mind spiders and is never really bothered by the hair creatures. You see, she is afraid of the little monsters. I wouldn’t want her to know that hairy creature are somewhere in her laundry room, alive, lurking, and waiting to pounce.

Are you beginning to itch? Don’t worry they only bite a little.

Rock in my Backpack

“Grrr….Who put this rock in my pack? Dad, did you do it?” B began stomping around mad as a hornet trying to find out who put the 4-5 pound rock in her backpack.
After a three mile hike to the ocean and another two miles up the beach, my twelve year old daughter B was unloading her pack and discovered the extra weight. The last two miles particularly had been a bit hard trudging through the deep sand. Carrying that extra weight had bent B's disposition into the red zone. The rain had drizzled on and off for most of the way. All of us were a bit heavier from the damp clothing, and I couldn’t blame B for being mad. I was a bit ticked myself.
As soon as we hit the sand my five year old son refused to go any further, so to keep him walking, his backpack was hoisted on top of mine. A half mile latter I inherited my eight year old daughter’s backpack. My friend Buck had also inherited his youngest daughters backpack and these extra loads were now bungee corded to the top of our packs. As we slogged down the beach, Buck commented, “Do you feel a bit like a mule? Yip that’s all we are, mule dads.” The view must have been similar to two high rise buildings waddling up the beach. I dared not stoop or bend to far forward because the balance was askew and my core was doing everything to keep my top heavy pack from toppling me over.
It seemed longer than it was but we finally arrived at our campsite. We soon had all the tents pitched. Buck laughed at me for bringing my huge family dome tent. I reminded him I had brought me family. I found a nice log to rest a minute which was awesome.
The remainder of the trip was uneventful and this is where I should probably consider making up some lies to keep the story interesting. I read once that when the author feels his story begins to lag, it is a good idea to kill off one of the main characters. Well I have not introduced any characters in this story yet that I would be willing to kill. Maybe if B was writing the story she might feel differently.
That first night brought out a hoard of raccoons which of course forced me to accept the mission to kill at least two. Sadly, I was unable to kill even one. Is the story getting more interesting now? Not? Hmmmm…. I know raccoons just do what raccoons do and they can’t help it. I know it’s not really their fault God created them the way He did, but I really wanted them to go somewhere else and to do their raccoon’in behavior. Some would argue that I was the one invading their space. Now don’t get all new age’y on me. Remember I’m the guy who thought it was a good idea to shoot a rooster because I wanted a taxidermy subject. Scavengers during the night are what raccoons do but doesn’t that simply translate into being just lazy. Who respects that?
Sure the little bush balls are as cute as scaditch but who can see them at night? It’s dark out! Let’s think about this a minute. I know it is wrong to question God because I am just a mere human and being created myself but why would he make a cute animal and then make it nocturnal. If I was god I would keep all the ugly animals as the nocturnal ones. Maybe I shouldn’t be too hard on God after all He did get it right when he made the rat, the bat and the possum nocturnal. Gee, I wonder if God feels better that I at least partially approve.
The rain stopped and the sun came out but it never warmed enough for bathing suits or water play. I did abscond a few muscles from a rock formation at low tide. They made a nice treat for dinner one night. One more highlight was the pictographs up at the north end of the trail. I suppose they were made by the Makah Indian Tribe in times past. I found them a little less wonderful than the advertisement described.
Upon repacking to head home B was in for justice but it just did not seem possible. Buck kept repacking his pack and each time finding a huge rock hidden amongst his stuff. The sun was out and with our packs a little lighter, leaving a food offering for the night scavengers, we headed back up the trail. Everyone was in great spirits and laughing could be heard up and down the trial amongst the children. It took us a couple hours coming out to make it back to our vehicles. We had driven separate vehicles so we caravanned down highway 101 out of Forks. Being in the jovial all around good mood I made the decision to use an area designated for slower vehicles to zoom past Buck and wave bye bye. He of course within the next 10 miles did the same thing to me. B informed me that she didn’t think Jesus would have done such an illegal thing.
Pulling into Sequim I needed a quick stop at a mini-mart and being a rule breaker, YES! there were lots of open parking spaces but I pulled into the lone Handicapped space right up front. B informed me once again she didn’t think Jesus would do such a thing.
No other events worth mentioning happened on our return trip. The next day I talked with Buck and he laughed at that little B’ster because somewhere somehow when he unpacked his backpack, way down at the bottom was a huge 5 pound rock. I of course asked B if she thought Jesus would have done such a thing - - - no I didn’t - - - but I am pretty sure He would have.