Below is a story I wrote several years ago for my own amusement. Time got away from me this past weekend. Danny and I went to the postcard show on Saturday.
Next thing I knew, it was time for another article. Caught short, I didn’t have an article, so I submit this imaginative tale. It’s a true story, full of lies, embellished by me.
Charlie was an old man known for telling tall tales. You couldn’t believe a word he said. Boys liked to go to his house, play checkers, and listen to his stories. We sat mesmerized as Charlie described how he fought off a giant bear with just his jackknife.
Deer and bear heads hung on the walls. Antique rifles stood in corners, further setting the stage. Oh, the stories he would tell how he got the bear. Here’s one of Charlie’s tales:
A traveling salesman, on his regular route, frequently stopped overnight in Chester and, as there was nothing to do in the evenings, fell into the habit of attending the usual gathering at the general store. There was often an old Indian there who had quite a reputation as a gunner. Over time, the salesman got to know him well.
After an absence of some time, the salesman finally made his way back to Chester, and, as usual, went to the store for the evening. The old Indian was there and this question naturally was asked: “How’s the gunning this fall, Uncle?” The old Indian shook his head in a dismal sort of way and answered.
“Not very good, but I did have a little luck the other day. I took the old gun out and saw a fox lying beside a rock. I pulled up the gun to fire, and damn if another fox didn’t come out and lie down on the other side of the rock. I fired at the sharp edge of the rock, split the bullet, and killed both foxes.
The gun kicked so hard that it knocked me over into a brook behind me, my right hand landed on a muskrat and my left on a beaver. When I got up out of the water, my trousers were so full of brook trout that they burst a suspender button and it flew and killed a partridge.”
Another story Charlie told was about the coldest winter on record. He was working in a logging camp on Stratton Mountain in the 1920s. The story went like this:
Charlie told how bitter cold it was in the woods that winter. This particular winter was so cold that when the men spoke their words froze in mid-air. No one could hear the others speak. It was spring before it was warm enough to thaw out the words. As Charlie said, “All of a sudden the woods come alive with the winter’s conversations.”
While you couldn’t believe Charlie’s tales, there is one story he told that was probably true. Charlie had a son. His son, like Charlie, was a hunter, trapper, and woodsman. It was in the 1930s or ‘40s when Charlie’s son, now a grown man, decided to move out Montana way and hunt big game, grizzly bears, buffalo, and elk.
Well, so it was, the son went to Montana. Charlie never heard from him again. Even as late as 1960, there was no word.
Charlie was an active member at Chester Rod & Gun Club and attended many shooting matches. He was one of the better marksmen in the area and quite often came in first or second.
Charlie would take his .45 caliber muzzleloader to these matches. The recommended amount of black powder was 80 grains. Charlie knew his muzzleloader well. He used 90 grains of black powder and used the same weight bullet used with 80 grains.
The result was a higher muzzle velocity and increased accuracy. The bullet travelled faster, farther, and flatter with the extra powder charge. Charlie experimented with different loads of black powder and discovered any more than 90 grains caused the bullet to tumble and lose accuracy. At 100 yards, with open sights, Charlie could put nine out of ten rounds in a three-inch diameter bulls-eye using his 90 grains of black powder.
Henry always liked visiting Charlie. They got along well.
I need someone to roto-till a very small garden for me. A walk behind tiller would be perfect. Know anyone?
This week’s old saying is from Lee Decatur: “Life is easier if you plow around the stump