Ranching

 

When I was 15 I got my first real job.  French, Sweaty and I got a summer job on a Horse Ranch.  We made $100 a week.  I thought I'd hit the big time.  I also thought I'd get to meet, and hang-out with all of the girls that boarded their horses at the ranch.  Turns out they weren't too interested in the guys that did all the shovelling...not at all.  French and I did the bulk of the stall shovelling and Sweaty would wheelbarrow it out behind the barn.  One day the boss had us paint the fences with creosote.  Every black splatter of paint burned in the hot summer sun.  Soon I missed shovelling horse shit in the barn.  We only got a bit of a break when there were riding contests.  We'd spend the day setting up the course and directing traffic.  

A few years ago we hadn't heard from French in a few months.  He finally answered our texts to let us know he'd been in Wyoming working at a Dude Ranch.  French spent a season herding cattle, and taking tourists on trail rides on the weekends.  He said that "it was a hellavuh a lot better than our first ranching gig".  Yeah wide open skies, fresh air, and beautiful mountains on the horizon.  Plus he got to keep these sweet Ely Cattleman shirts!  

Now I know why French loves that line from the movie Rushmore: "I ain't even here right now; I'm in Cheyenne Wyoming".  We made this idea into a poster.

He has it hanging above his snowblower in the garage.

Big Sur

 

French was the one who introduced me to Jack Kerouac.  He "made" me read On the Road, and Dharma Bums in senior year.  He had a copy of Big Sur as well.  French started it, but said "fuck this...I'll read it when I get to Big Sur".  

Many years later he finally did it.  The year before Covid locked us all down he drove his van down from B.C. to California.  On the way he bought a bottle of Highland Park 18 year old Scotch.  It was an expensive dram, but it was smooth sipping as he read through the novel.  

The novel takes place over 10 days, but French is a speedy reader.  He read the novel over a weekend sitting close enough to hear, but not see the Ocean.  

I asked him about the trip.  "Shoulda just read that goddamn book in High School! Reading Kerouac in one's teens, versus one's forties is...a different experience.  The scenery and the the Scotch were top shelf, yah top shelf".

stop praying

"Stop praying for me.  Freaks me the fuck out."

These were the rarest of words for French to say to Rose.  His harsh tone revealed how he felt.  Rose had told him that she'd been praying for him to get a new job.  Within a week after saying this to him he'd gotten three different job offers.  This spooked him to be sure, and he'd actually not followed up on any of them; even though he hated his current position. 

French had avoided Rose for well over a month, but he showed up tonight for Sunday Dinner (a standing offer).  After dinner he said: "Sorry Rose.  You can go back to praying for me.  Just nothing specific okay?"  Rose smiled and nodded to French, and poured him a small glass of Bowmore.

10 year plan

French's grandfather, Smitty, got snowed in last weekend.  A shear pin broke on his snow blower.  We pulled it out and the three of us changed the oil, replaced the pin and the spark plug as well.  Smitty fired it up and plowed out his double wide driveway while we shovelled his frontlane and porch.

Afterwards he brewed us up some strong coffee with a solid dash of Canadian rye.  Smitty started talking about his 10 year plan: new perennials, staining his deck, new roof on his shed, and some new outdoor lighting for starters.  Smitty also wanted to "get back over to Dublin at some point".   He had a Lonely Planet: Ireland travel guide on his kitchen table.

Smitty, more or less, shooed us out after our coffee was done.  He said: "Thanks lads.  I'm off to bowling. Gonna beat that goddamned Scotty Macfarlane today".

I asked French how old Smitty was.  French said "bout 96...give or take".

Regrets

Bruce Fish rolled up in his truck.  Jumped out of his cab and said: "you boys got any regrets?"

French and I were trying to get the water going at the cottage.  He grabbed a cold Old Style Pilsner from the cooler and said: "yah just one.  You lads better grab a cold one."  He tipped his hat back, smiled and told this little tale:

Remember when we were at the fair when we were just lads?  That old guy came up and said: "you all look like you need an adventure.  Well head out past that big broken tree at the end of the park.  Behind it there is a gap in the fence.  Head out straight as an arrow about 50 yards or so. There is a case a beer buried under some long grass.  It is yours if yah want it."  That old fella just wandered away, and we hit the midway.

Well shit.  "Why'd we never go looking for it?  That is my regret."

Bruce laughed and said: "fuck that'd be some skunky beer if its still there."

Fiat Lux

   

 Fiat Lux is a prety odd greeting, but my old buddy Bruce Fish always calls (more like yells) that out to me when he sees me.  He'll often add "let there be light".  I've come to really appreciate it.  I drove into the county dump that he runs last week, and I couldn't see him.  I finally heard him rumbling around behind a huge recylcing bin.  He yelled out a truly hearty "fiat lux" then emerged from between two dumpsters.  He said "come see this shit",  and walked over to a picnic table.
 
     Bruce had a sun shade contraption that he'd rigged up over the table and a few choice items that he'd saved from the heap.  There was a microwave, two radios, and a broken guitar.  I'm pretty sure he'll be able to fix them all.  He showed me a small park bench he was working on; it looked great.  Someone had brought it in on the weekend, and tossed into the pit.  He'd pulled it out, sanded it down, repainted the metal, and stained the wood.  "Damn Bruce - this is fine work".  He told me that he'd used paint, stain, and even brushes that people had thrown away.
   
     He had a few drinks in a cooler that his wife Rose packed.  So we chatted for a bit about his other projects, and about his family.  We finished the drinks, and I sorted out my own reclyclying. I came back to close the back hatch of my van, and the newly refurbished park bench was loaded up.  I looked at Bruce and he said: "I did that for you brother".
   
     He smiled and ran off to deal with a big pick-up truck loaded with cottage trash.  I heard him yell "fiat lux" again as I drove off.

Smitty II

Smitty had a big list of jobs, so he asked us to pitch in for the day.  French and I launched into Smitty's list: smashing up an old concrete deck, pulling nails out of some wood he wanted to burn, and repainting his garden shed.  It was quite something to see a 90+ year old man taking a few swings with the sledge hammer.   I've also never seen a man paint to precisely.  Smitty didn't waste a drop.

After the work was done he said: "The place doesn't look half bad eh boys?"   He grilled us up some homemade burgers and we sat around a little campfire.  We had a few beers and swapped a few more tales.

When he got dark he said, "You boys wanna see something?"  Smitty took us down a path out back of his place.  We walked for about five minutes to his "gunge pile".  He dumped some of his non-compostable food in a pit under a huge white pine.  Smitty shone his flashlight up into the branches. There were seven pairs of eyes up in the tree.

French said: "Damn thats alotta racoons!"

Smitty said: "No wait.  Check this out."  He shone his flashlight up even higher.  There were one more pair of eyes...bigger eyes.  Smitty explained: "That there is a fisher, smaller cousin of the wolverine; those racoons are goners."