About seventeen years ago, when Roseau County Road 8 was under reconstruction, my cousin Billy and his wife from South Milwaukee, Wisconsin, were ‘uphome’ with his folks, Clifford and Delores, visiting our relatives in Roseau. I was alone out here on the farm and knew he and his little woman would probably want to get away from the old folks for awhile, for a cold beer or two, so I invited them out.
Pleading his case that he was now an adult, with a teenage child of his own, and no longer the careless infamous youth his father remembered him to be, Billy assured his folks that he would be so very careful with his dad's sleek new black Chrysler sedan, pointing out the fact that he would be accompanied by his loving wife, who, as she told everyone repeatedly, had a lick more sense than Billy had about all things. Despite that, with tremendous trepidation on his part, Clifford allowed the two to take his beloved (Did I mention flawless?) car to Palmville.
Only minutes after they left our aunt’s house in Roseau, Clifford began calling me to find out if Billy had arrived, a ploy which I suspicioned had Billy arrived, would indicate he drove the 20 mile distance at excessive speed, but to which I honestly and calmly answered, “No” several times over the next forty-five to fifty-some minutes, a timely matter that in itself could (and as it turned out, did) suggest Billy had met trouble enroute.
My cousin was only a few years younger than I was at the time, making him about forty-four or forty-five years old, a decent enough age when, typically, everything in youth has been all figured out, and we have our life lessons in tow that enable us, now as mature adults, not to make wrong decisions anymore like ignoring ROAD CLOSED/ LOCAL TRAFFIC ONLY signs, preceding miles of muddy, water-filled rutted roads that I didn’t even tackle in my old Ford F150 pickup, choosing the well-marked southern detour instead.
As were his two older sisters, had Billy been born in Minnesota, Billy’s common sense would’ve kicked in and made him hesitate, but because he had been born in Wisconsin, he allowed his wife to goad him into the attempt by saying that the road didn’t look that bad and she thought he could make it -- and he did, the two miles west of Highway 89. Pausing somewhat exhilarated, after the hard fought Baja battle to the junction of County Road 33 and 8, Billy’s confidence soared. It was his wife, whose lick of sense was, by then, totally aroused, who tried to stop resumption. The road looked worse going south. If they’d turn north, they wouldn’t get to the farm, but they’d still be mobile. Going south was obviously impossible ...
“What? That’s nuthin’,” laughed Billy, his eyes bright behind his tinted Air Force airman’s glasses. “We just came through the worst of it. It’s only another mile. We can make it! And if we can’t, Steve’ll pull us out with his tractor.” Unknown to him, my tractor was broke down that month. It was the biggest reason I chose to take the detour.
Billy got stuck by the Palmville Cemetery road, spinning down in a deep rut near a bulldozer that was sitting there waiting for him to maybe get by. Motioning to the operator to come closer, Billy asked the man to pull him out of his current sticky spot. Snatching a chain from his rig, the operator and Billy hooked the chain hook onto ‘something’ under the car-- and succeeded to only pull the bumper loose. Seeing what he had done, the dozer operator quickly climbed back onto his machine and left Billy and his wife there, still stuck.
In the meantime, Clifford had been calling every ten minutes or so since Billy left Roseau to see if he got there yet. He was obviously very angry and told me to tell Billy to get back to town. He seemed rather anxious that Billy was driving his car for some reason ... I presume Billy had permission?
Ennaways, there they were, still stuck and now the bumper was boogered too, when one of the Palmville neighbors came by on a dirt bike i.e., 'off-road motorcycle' and saw their dilemma. He said he'd be right back with his tractor, after he drove into my place to tell me about them being stuck by the cemetery road. (This was before cellphones) I heard the house phone telephone ringing as I left the house in my truck.
The neighbor lived south of the schoolhouse a couple miles and was back within ten minutes or so. He knew what he was doing and where to hook his chain, and got Clifford's car pulled out, lickety-split. (There's a word you just don't hear anymore...) "Lickety-split."
Well, Clifford was fit to be tied--"What? Fit to be tied?" (I got a million of them) and was really worried by now. It had been almost an hour and Billy hadn't called him--and I didn't know where he was either. Then our Aunt Irene got on the phone, all perturbed like.
"Didn't you tell Billy about No. 8 being all tore up?"
"Well, no, I guess I didn't," I said, sheepishly.
“You’ve known about it for months!” she angrily responded.
"I figured he’s a grown man and would figure that out when he sees all the "ROAD CLOSED/LOCAL TRAFFIC ONLY" signs. The road’s obviously a mess. The detour is plainly marked." I said, with a growing edge to my voice too.
Well, that didn't go over well....
A minute or so later a very worried Billy and his little woman came driving in behind me. He seemed anxious for some reason. I had began to wonder if it ran in his family.
"Hey Billy," I said. "Hey Billy's little woman," I added, not remembering her name. "Your pa's been callin' here for ya every ten minutes and he sounds really pee-ohed (pissed off) and anxious. Did you steal his car?"
Billy went on to quickly explain his driving history with his dad and how he came to be using Clifford’s car--did I mention Clifford’s 'flawless car?'-- “The last one I’ll ever buy!” Billy said his dad repeated about his new car, almost daily.
I think Billy may have said, "I am really boogered now. Look at Dad's car. The bumper .. He's so going to kill me and I don't mean maybe. Booger, booger, booger!" (Or words to that effect).
Ennaways, I looked at it (Hey, if there's goin' to be a hero in this story, it might as well be me.) and I thought a minute.
"You know, Billy," I may have said. "I think we can fix that reasonably well and to the point Clifford'll not even notice it."
Billy, on the other hand, was not amused. He may have said, "Geesus man, if you can't say something helpful, keep your trap shut! I'm tryin' to think here."
And as his sister in Australia, would quickly point out to him today--although it's been seventeen some years ago-- "Geesus Bill, you shoulda started thinking back where you read the sign that read, "DIS HERE ROAD IS CLOSED!"
"No, I'm serious, dude," I may have said, my hand to my bearded chin in thoughtful repose.
"If your woman there, (still couldn't think of her name) can help us, you and I'll will pull this side of the bumper out a little more ... and she will bend the bumper back inside this panel to where these plastic pins match up, see? Then we'll let go and give it a push right here ... and snap 'em back in where they came out. It doesn't look damaged really. And if he can't look at both sides of the bumper at the same time--and he can't-- there's no way of tellin' this sides been boogered up. What do you say, cousin?"
Billy and his woman talked, briefly. She balked, until he may have said,
"Would you do it for a Scooby snak?" (I may be making this up.)
So that's exactly what we did and it worked perfectly. ‘Scooby’ did her part and we did our part, and it didn't come apart. Perfect. Looked great. Soon Billy and Scoob were on their way back to Roseau and the car wash, hoping to pull another one over on Clifford. The story could've ended there, but it didn't.
Just a few minutes after the Wisconsin love birds left in their ‘stolen’ car, our cousin Jared, from Bemidji, drove in on his way to Roseau to see his Wisconsin cousins and his gramma Irene and great uncle Raymond.
I told him about Billy and Scooby’s adventure with Clifford's car and all the anxiety surrounding it, when the lightbulbs went off in my head and (Hey, if there's goin' to be a villain in this story, it might as well be me.) I said to Jared,
"I just got a great idea. HA!. Billy doesn’t know that you know the whole story, and as horribly anxious as he is about Clifford finding out about the bumper getting pulled out, you could ‘notice’ Clifford’s car out loud, as I reckon it’s parked in the driveway. Then begin walking and talking around it, stopping to look at one side of the bumper, then walking around to look at the other side of the bumper, and give him shit til he implodes ....”
Jared’s eyes lit up all the way to Winnipeg! “OH YEAH!!” he laughed, all the mischievous gears turning wildly in his head.
And so it was.
Pleading his case that he was now an adult, with a teenage child of his own, and no longer the careless infamous youth his father remembered him to be, Billy assured his folks that he would be so very careful with his dad's sleek new black Chrysler sedan, pointing out the fact that he would be accompanied by his loving wife, who, as she told everyone repeatedly, had a lick more sense than Billy had about all things. Despite that, with tremendous trepidation on his part, Clifford allowed the two to take his beloved (Did I mention flawless?) car to Palmville.
Only minutes after they left our aunt’s house in Roseau, Clifford began calling me to find out if Billy had arrived, a ploy which I suspicioned had Billy arrived, would indicate he drove the 20 mile distance at excessive speed, but to which I honestly and calmly answered, “No” several times over the next forty-five to fifty-some minutes, a timely matter that in itself could (and as it turned out, did) suggest Billy had met trouble enroute.
My cousin was only a few years younger than I was at the time, making him about forty-four or forty-five years old, a decent enough age when, typically, everything in youth has been all figured out, and we have our life lessons in tow that enable us, now as mature adults, not to make wrong decisions anymore like ignoring ROAD CLOSED/ LOCAL TRAFFIC ONLY signs, preceding miles of muddy, water-filled rutted roads that I didn’t even tackle in my old Ford F150 pickup, choosing the well-marked southern detour instead.
As were his two older sisters, had Billy been born in Minnesota, Billy’s common sense would’ve kicked in and made him hesitate, but because he had been born in Wisconsin, he allowed his wife to goad him into the attempt by saying that the road didn’t look that bad and she thought he could make it -- and he did, the two miles west of Highway 89. Pausing somewhat exhilarated, after the hard fought Baja battle to the junction of County Road 33 and 8, Billy’s confidence soared. It was his wife, whose lick of sense was, by then, totally aroused, who tried to stop resumption. The road looked worse going south. If they’d turn north, they wouldn’t get to the farm, but they’d still be mobile. Going south was obviously impossible ...
“What? That’s nuthin’,” laughed Billy, his eyes bright behind his tinted Air Force airman’s glasses. “We just came through the worst of it. It’s only another mile. We can make it! And if we can’t, Steve’ll pull us out with his tractor.” Unknown to him, my tractor was broke down that month. It was the biggest reason I chose to take the detour.
Billy got stuck by the Palmville Cemetery road, spinning down in a deep rut near a bulldozer that was sitting there waiting for him to maybe get by. Motioning to the operator to come closer, Billy asked the man to pull him out of his current sticky spot. Snatching a chain from his rig, the operator and Billy hooked the chain hook onto ‘something’ under the car-- and succeeded to only pull the bumper loose. Seeing what he had done, the dozer operator quickly climbed back onto his machine and left Billy and his wife there, still stuck.
In the meantime, Clifford had been calling every ten minutes or so since Billy left Roseau to see if he got there yet. He was obviously very angry and told me to tell Billy to get back to town. He seemed rather anxious that Billy was driving his car for some reason ... I presume Billy had permission?
Ennaways, there they were, still stuck and now the bumper was boogered too, when one of the Palmville neighbors came by on a dirt bike i.e., 'off-road motorcycle' and saw their dilemma. He said he'd be right back with his tractor, after he drove into my place to tell me about them being stuck by the cemetery road. (This was before cellphones) I heard the house phone telephone ringing as I left the house in my truck.
The neighbor lived south of the schoolhouse a couple miles and was back within ten minutes or so. He knew what he was doing and where to hook his chain, and got Clifford's car pulled out, lickety-split. (There's a word you just don't hear anymore...) "Lickety-split."
Well, Clifford was fit to be tied--"What? Fit to be tied?" (I got a million of them) and was really worried by now. It had been almost an hour and Billy hadn't called him--and I didn't know where he was either. Then our Aunt Irene got on the phone, all perturbed like.
"Didn't you tell Billy about No. 8 being all tore up?"
"Well, no, I guess I didn't," I said, sheepishly.
“You’ve known about it for months!” she angrily responded.
"I figured he’s a grown man and would figure that out when he sees all the "ROAD CLOSED/LOCAL TRAFFIC ONLY" signs. The road’s obviously a mess. The detour is plainly marked." I said, with a growing edge to my voice too.
Well, that didn't go over well....
A minute or so later a very worried Billy and his little woman came driving in behind me. He seemed anxious for some reason. I had began to wonder if it ran in his family.
"Hey Billy," I said. "Hey Billy's little woman," I added, not remembering her name. "Your pa's been callin' here for ya every ten minutes and he sounds really pee-ohed (pissed off) and anxious. Did you steal his car?"
Billy went on to quickly explain his driving history with his dad and how he came to be using Clifford’s car--did I mention Clifford’s 'flawless car?'-- “The last one I’ll ever buy!” Billy said his dad repeated about his new car, almost daily.
I think Billy may have said, "I am really boogered now. Look at Dad's car. The bumper .. He's so going to kill me and I don't mean maybe. Booger, booger, booger!" (Or words to that effect).
Ennaways, I looked at it (Hey, if there's goin' to be a hero in this story, it might as well be me.) and I thought a minute.
"You know, Billy," I may have said. "I think we can fix that reasonably well and to the point Clifford'll not even notice it."
Billy, on the other hand, was not amused. He may have said, "Geesus man, if you can't say something helpful, keep your trap shut! I'm tryin' to think here."
And as his sister in Australia, would quickly point out to him today--although it's been seventeen some years ago-- "Geesus Bill, you shoulda started thinking back where you read the sign that read, "DIS HERE ROAD IS CLOSED!"
"No, I'm serious, dude," I may have said, my hand to my bearded chin in thoughtful repose.
"If your woman there, (still couldn't think of her name) can help us, you and I'll will pull this side of the bumper out a little more ... and she will bend the bumper back inside this panel to where these plastic pins match up, see? Then we'll let go and give it a push right here ... and snap 'em back in where they came out. It doesn't look damaged really. And if he can't look at both sides of the bumper at the same time--and he can't-- there's no way of tellin' this sides been boogered up. What do you say, cousin?"
Billy and his woman talked, briefly. She balked, until he may have said,
"Would you do it for a Scooby snak?" (I may be making this up.)
So that's exactly what we did and it worked perfectly. ‘Scooby’ did her part and we did our part, and it didn't come apart. Perfect. Looked great. Soon Billy and Scoob were on their way back to Roseau and the car wash, hoping to pull another one over on Clifford. The story could've ended there, but it didn't.
Just a few minutes after the Wisconsin love birds left in their ‘stolen’ car, our cousin Jared, from Bemidji, drove in on his way to Roseau to see his Wisconsin cousins and his gramma Irene and great uncle Raymond.
I told him about Billy and Scooby’s adventure with Clifford's car and all the anxiety surrounding it, when the lightbulbs went off in my head and (Hey, if there's goin' to be a villain in this story, it might as well be me.) I said to Jared,
"I just got a great idea. HA!. Billy doesn’t know that you know the whole story, and as horribly anxious as he is about Clifford finding out about the bumper getting pulled out, you could ‘notice’ Clifford’s car out loud, as I reckon it’s parked in the driveway. Then begin walking and talking around it, stopping to look at one side of the bumper, then walking around to look at the other side of the bumper, and give him shit til he implodes ....”
Jared’s eyes lit up all the way to Winnipeg! “OH YEAH!!” he laughed, all the mischievous gears turning wildly in his head.
And so it was.
Great story, Shaggy!
ReplyDeleteNo matter the age, this story proves you can't take the boy out of a man.
ReplyDeleteWhat do you mean? Never got stuck only high centered!
ReplyDeleteWe don't say high centered in these parts. That's something that happens in the mountain states.
DeleteWe sink into the gumbo.
I think Steve is too hard on Billy. Steve lures him in to his lair with offers of free beer without telling him it's a Really dad? Detour.
Most road closed notices are not real. You can make your way through by following a local.
And never ever ever let a bulldozer pull you out. Never.
Wait for the kid on the motorbike.