Brother, Can You Spare That Pigeon?

There is a lively discussion going on between two groups of firefighters just outside station 24. The discussion centers on those pesky pigeons that inhabit the neighborhood.

Pigeons are landing in the middle of the street and then taking off at the last instant before being struck down by passing cars. One group of firefighters is proclaiming loudly that you can drive down the street at sixty miles an hour and still not be able to hit one of the pigeons sitting in the middle of the street. About this time, as if on cue a passing car, speeding by, strikes one of the pigeons as it attempts to flee the street. Feathers fly and the now luckless pigeon flies straight up in the air about twenty feet and then does a swan dive into a pile of dirt by the side of the road. At arrival back on terra firma he is dead as a doornail.

There is dead silence for a moment and then the catcalls and the hooting start from the group of firefighters who, up to this moment, had little to argue about. The other group retreats into the station to get away from their jeering comrades. Their only salvation is the loud clanging of the call bell.

A Winter Wonderland

My grandfather has his home built outside of town. He and my grandmother have lived most of their lives in town. Maybe they just tire of living in town, not that our town is all that large. I imagine that when he found this spot of land he must have concluded that there was no other place as beautiful to build a home. Weeping willow and quaking aspen trees line the left side of road that leads to his home. There is even a tree that produces plump blueberries in the summertime. There is a rich meadow with tall grass that fat deer can graze on, and then quench their thirst in the stream at the edge of the grass. All fed by a meandering stream of cold clear water that flows from a myriad of bubbling springs high in the “Hills.” On the right side of the road there is solid rock peppered with “fools gold” or iron pyrite that sparkles brightly in the sunlight.

It has been 50 years this month that our home burned along with all the treasures within.

Scott

Once you believe in something magical it is hard to let it go.

My sister and brother convince me that bottles of cola grow in the cold spring water that bubbles up in a meadow near our home. Being six years old and very gullible I don’t need a lot of convincing. On a visit to that meadow they point out the bottles of cola they have placed in the spring and then they tell me those bottles of cola grew in that very spring

Repeated visits to the spring however yield not one cold bottle of cola to quench my parched throat. Finally, my mother makes them stop telling me that bottles of cola grow in those bubbling cold springs of water. The news does not stop me from occasionally running off to that meadow to search for that elusive bottle of cola that grows wild in cold mountain meadow springs.

Some years later my brother will ask my nephew if he wants to go down to the creek that runs past our home and look for watermelons. They go down to that creek and sure enough there is a watermelon that my brother has placed there. Together they bring it up to the house. Years later when a story about watermelons growing in a patch is being discussed in the classroom my nephew will vigorously defend the position that watermelons grow in creeks, not in patches, much to the amusement of his classmates and the instructor.

A Monument to Teddy Roosevelt

School is out!

Finally. I can stand no more instruction this day. I am out the school door and run down to the library where I make a sharp left up Denver Avenue and then trudge past the rows of houses that line the avenue. Finally I reach the end of the pavement where Denver Avenue ends and Roosevelt Road begins. I am now free of the town. The air begins to clear and I can breathe a little easier now. I walk up a gentle slope to the first turn where on some days I feel the need to relieve myself. A great worry is that someone will drive past, but this has not happened yet. By the time I get to the second bend in the road the creek that runs past our house becomes accessible. Now is time to make life miserable for the water bugs skittering about in the creek by pelting them with gravel from the road. I make a stop at a small pasture just past the willow trees, called the Red Jacket, to pump some water from the old hand pump. The clear cold water cools my fevered brow. The winter winds have yet to begin to blow.


A monument to a great President.

The road that snakes past my home ends up at a great stone tower that is dedicated to our late president Theodore Roosevelt. I love to travel up this road. It winds around sharp steep curves, up through thick forest and then bursts out of the trees and levels out. At long last you can see far down into lush green valleys heavy with thick pine trees. From this point you may be able to glimpse sight of the great stone tower. Finally the road forks and you take the left fork to the tower.

The tower stands about 40 feet in height and sets on a massive stone base at least 7 feet high and 15 feet wide. It is cylindrical in shape and there is a narrow staircase inside the monument that winds around the outside wall. You can stop along the steep steps and peer out the openings provided. Once on top supposedly on a clear day you can see four states. It is great fun to make the long trek. My friends and I often pack our cheese and bologna sandwiches and strike out for the tower. It is a great way to spend a summer day. Our address on this road is simply, 9 Roosevelt Road.

My Grandfather's home is now my home.

There is no chill wind that can penetrate these walls. Winter winds can rage against these mighty timbers, but they cannot prevail. Inside these impenetrable walls there is only warmth and light. Three stories high and sheltered on three sides by the surrounding hills our home makes a mockery of the cold winds that attempt to steal in. The heart of this mighty fortress is in the basement. It is a huge gas furnace that comes on with a roar and then sends hot air on its way through great pipes that warm each and every room. No cold allowed here.

The attic of my mighty fortress home is a wondrous place. My brother's bedroom quarters occupy the front half of the attic. His bed is old and sags pitifully, but I would gladly give up my bedroom to sleep up here. I spend endless hours up here lying on his bed and cocking and recocking his old beat up lever action Winchester rifle. I have killed many a bear from that position. The back half of the attic is full of treasure. There is an old steamer trunk full of furs that the ladies of an earlier era draped around their necks. Some of the furs have eyes on them that make them resemble a weasel. There are porcelain chamber pots and lots of pictures of men with handlebar mustaches. The pictures of the ladies are equally strange as they are unsmiling and grim faced as if they were in some pain caused by the strange clothing they are wearing.

My grandfather has these splendid paths built through the forest on the opposite hill from where his home stands. You can walk for miles on these paths with only the company of an occasional squirrel scurrying overhead in the treetops. There are large yellow and black striped honeybees buzzing around a tiny purple and violet flower that has pushed its way up through the forest floor. There is a blue-black horsefly that swoops down on you, makes you duck your head, and then departs for more fragrant targets. Tiny brown sparrows are ever present, always chirping, always pecking at the forest floor, always fluttering about. Red-breasted robins who nest in the forest canopy, high above the forest floor, seek to pluck the plumpest worms from the earth for their nestlings dining enjoyment. Sharp-eyed hawks circle lazily overhead, ride the warm air updrafts and wait for some unlucky mouse to show himself.