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Bacon Busters

“You boys get off that hog! You’re running all the weight off,” dad shouted from the back porch just as the hog turned and headed toward the fence line. I tightened my grip and hung on for dear life, and I remember thinking; “Dad’s gonna kill me, if the barbed wire fence doesn’t get me first.”

That big old sow was smart; well, kind of smart anyway. She kept falling for our rodeo chute tricks, but then she certainly knew how to throw us off once we were mounted. The challenge was to see how long we could ride before she eventually started down that razor-sharp fence row and we bailed off. As far as I know, Dennis still holds the record at the Pearl Street Corral. He hung on for a full nine one-thousands. But hey, that was mud aided, so I think there should be an asterisk in the record books for that one.

I don’t know how, but somehow that old sow knew that our skin wasn’t as tough as hers. She had found this one spot along the fence line where the wire was strung tightest and the barbs all pointed inward at just the right angle and she would grunt and scratch there for hours on hot summer days. But when we were along for the ride, that spot had a different purpose for her. It was like a game of chicken she played with us. It was like she was saying to us; “So boys, just how much do you want to ride today?” Well, let’s just say that sow was no chicken!

It usually started late in the afternoon, after we had become bored with all other outdoor games. Needing or wanting an adrenaline rush we would sneak into the pig pen from the north side, through the E Street gate. The houses all faced south, and the pigs would be inside them by now, scooched back as far as possible from the entrance to avoid the hot glaring sun beating down on them. It was usually so hot by then that the mud had started to dry out and thicken, which was important for getting a good grip with your toes.

Whoever got there first, without alerting that mean old sow to our presence, would get the honors. The winner had to climb up the old dead tree next to the house, then shimmy out onto the limb and slide down onto the roof of the A-frame shed, all without giving away our plan. It wasn’t easy, but we had mastered it over the summer.

Once safely ensconced atop the A-frame house, we would straddle it like a cowboy atop a bucking bronco in a rodeo chute. And as quietly as possible, we would scoot out to the edge of the house making sure not to burn or cut ourselves on the old tin siding. Then, just like a veteran cowboy ready to ride a wild stallion, we would throw a hand up in the air, tighten every muscle in our body, and wait for the moment to pounce.

Seeing that signal, the other buckaroos would hit the back side of the tin shed with a baseball bat so hard that you could hear the bang all the way over to Gladys Street. The bacon-buster atop the shed would leap down just in time to straddle the bolting hog and the thrill ride would begin. Over the summer, we had learned how to time our jump just perfectly. “Wait for the squeal, but jump before the snort,” we would tell each other. Jump too soon and you got run over, too late and you missed the ride. But, if you timed it just right, you were in for one heck of a thrilling ride. You only got one chance a day to do it, so you better bring you A game to the pin!

Squeezing with your legs, leaning forward at the waist, and grabbing for ears was about all you could do in the split second you had to establish yourself atop that hog. You see, pigs don’t have manes and their hair is rough but it’s too short to grab. So, you grabbed whatever you could and hung on for dear life, for as long as you could. Or, at least until she turned and ran for the fence line!

Hey, we had to make our own fun on Pearl Street, and fun that was. You would think the pigs would get wise to us after a while, but they never did and before the end of the summer the whole neighborhood gang had a chance to ride. I promise you that no animals were harmed in the process. Slimmed-down, maybe, but not harmed.

Anyway, we must have lost track of time that day because Dad wasn’t supposed to be home for another hour, or at least that’s what we thought. Usually, the hogs had all calmed down by the time we brought out the dinner table scraps. But not tonight; tonight, we got caught riding the hog. We got caught bustin’ the bacon, if you will.

I remember feeling kind of sheepish sometimes when dad would walk out to the pen with us after dinner to “slop the hogs.” He would look over the fence and say, “I guess we need to feed them skinny hogs more corn.” Dennis and I would just look at each other and smile. Well, we weren’t smiling so much that night, as we made our way over to the willow tree.

Obviously, the gig was up, we wouldn’t be riding those skinny hogs anymore. At least not anytime soon, and certainly not without some padding.

Stay tuned for more Chat Rat Chronicles. In the meantime, you can find other Adventures of the Dirty Little Glover Boys by following these links: Chat Rat Physics, Go-Kart Mischief

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Go-Kart Kamikaze

We had been taking turns driving the go-kart all day long, without any problem, but then Dennis decided he wanted more than his allotted 5 laps. After blowing by me for a couple more laps, I finally decided to stand in the middle of the muddy track and flagged him down. He stopped, but he wouldn’t get out of the seat. So, like a fool, I climbed on the back, straddled the engine and grabbed ahold of the roll cage, thinking it would slow the kart down enough that he would give in and let me have my turn. Wrong!

He made the turn at the end of the yard and headed down the backstretch like the leader of the Indy 500. He had the gas pedal stomped hard to the floor of that homemade go-kart and he wasn’t letting up. The ten horse Briggs and Stratton engine was screaming like a banshee and I thought it might throw a rod any second due to the extra load. Dennis wound it up tight and revved the engine to the max. We had to be doing twenty mph or more, and it was all I could do to hang on!

Then suddenly, without warning, he stomped on the brakes so hard that the pedal nearly snapped off at the base. Instantly I flew high into the air, head-over-heels, clearing the roll cage like a world-class gymnast launching from a pommel horse (but much less graceful). I can still see it all in my mind’s eye, in super slow motion.

Like an Olympic champion I was looking for a soft-landing area, and that’s when I saw it, dead ahead, ground zero for my eventual landing. It had rained “cats and dogs” the night before and our yard was a mess. Frankly, so were we at that point. Covered from head to toe in mud, it had been a great day at the track. So, it was no wonder that Dennis had hand-picked that spot in the yard to make his move.

Directly ahead of me and ten feet below me now was a massive mud puddle that had formed in the yard overnight from the heavy rains. We got vicious thunderstorms in Oklahoma during those days and one of them had rolled through our neighborhood the night before, dumping torrential amounts of rain. So much rain in fact that the ground was saturated, especially in the lowest point of our yard, which just so happened to be the epicenter of my impending landing. By design, Dennis had lined up the crosshairs on that puddle and pulled the trigger on me, without even a flinch. Perfect execution!

I must have flown 20 feet through the air, totally out of control with my hands, arms, feet, and legs flailing away hopelessly like Scooby Doo on ice. Grasping at thin air with everything within me and desperately trying to steady myself in flight. I remember wishing I had wings so I could foil his plans and shout, “nana, nana, nana, you missed me.”  But it was not to be.

Somehow, I found a way to roll over in mid-air enough to avoid an inevitable face plant in the muddy water. Landing instead on my back, feet forward. I hit the soft mushy ground with more of a squish than and thud, and water splattered everywhere. It was like the best cannonball splash ever. I must have slid ten yards across the mud before hitting dry ground and rolling sideways for another ten. Unfortunately for me, giddily for Dennis, I ended up perpendicular to track.

I only had a second at most to catch my breath before the fun resumed. The engine revved to full throttle again in an instant and a mischievous laugh could be heard faintly above its roar. The go-kart slipped on the wet grass for an instant then gained traction and lurched forward in my direction. There I lay, prone in the yard, flat on my belly, licking my wounds and wiping mud from my face. A bit dazed and energized simultaneously by the experience.

In my peripheral vision I caught a glimpse of something moving and when I turned to look, I suddenly realized it was too late, that machine and its wild-eyed driver were bearing down on me. I did the only thing that I could do and quickly dropped flat faced back into the mud and braced for impact. “Surely, he won’t run over me,” I thought. “Surely, he’s just trying to scare me,” I hoped and prayed. “He’s going to turn away at the last minute and spray me with mud and water,” I imagined. “Yeah, that’s it, he’s going to cover me up with his rooster tail.” Even that thought was unappealing, but it was better than being run over with black racing slicks, no matter how well-worn they were.

Nope, it was not to be.  All of my hoping, thinking and praying added up to naught as the kart grew closer and closer to me and I could see now that he had a look of glee in his eyes. Yep, he was going to do it. There wasn’t any doubt in my mind. So, I did the only thing that I could, I braced for impact. I exhaled, got as small as I could and contracted every muscle in my body to become as hard as possible. I pressed my left shoulder blade hard into the soggy wet ground, rolled my hips and side toward the kart. Then I exhaled one last time with all my might, turned my head and eyes away from the speeding kart, pushed my cheek to the ground, and waited.

It happened so quickly that I barely felt it at that time. Thankfully, the kart was light and the load lighter. My attempt to get small on the left side caused my back to arch a bit at a low angle, forming a perfect human ramp. The kart raced across my back and launched into the air with ease, leaving two perfect stripes across the back of my T-shirt. We didn’t generally wear shirts while playing in the yard during the summer, but that day I happened to be wearing one of my favorites. It was my Batman shirt!

I can still hear the cackling sound of Dennis’ laugh as he and the kart landed at the end of the puddle, splashing water in all directions. He immediately slammed on the brakes, causing the kart to spin 180 degrees, and for the second time I could see his eyes, which were wide with excitement and terror all at the same time.

He bailed out of the kart faster than a NASCAR pit crew crosses the wall and dashed toward me, yelling; “Are you alright?” Barely pausing to hear my response before letting out a big old belly laugh and saying, “Let’s do that again!”

I’m not sure which one was sorer the next day, my ribs or my pride. But neither hurt for long and we were on to the next big adventure. Now the Batman shirt was another matter though. It was indelibly marked with the forensic evidence of that fateful day and there was no denying it. My mom scrubbed and scrubbed on that shirt, but the wheel tracks simply were there to stay. No harm though, I wore that shirt with pride until it was thread bear and falling apart at the seams. It was a true badge of honor that all my neighborhood friends envied, but none wanted to earn.

I’ve told this story innumerable times over the years, including to my son and my nephew, who would love to have had a go in that kart themselves. It never gets old and it always brings a big smile to my face, because it cements a once in a lifetime memory with my best friend. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him; even though he threw me head over heels from the rear of that kart and ran over me without hesitation. Because, given the opportunity, I would have done the exact same thing to him!

We played hard in those days, but oh what stories we have to tell now. Stay tuned for more adventures of the Dirty Little Glover Boys.

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Chat Rat Physics

“You guys almost killed me,” he shouted in a booming voice that echoed off the cinder-block walls like a cannon shot. Drawing from the hip like Wild Bill Hickok, he shot out his right hand at lightning speed, twisting at the hip and dipping his right shoulder as he did, as if to dodge return fire. He nearly crushed my hand with his calloused cast-iron grip. His beaming smile mischievously framed by a thick, bushy, salt-and-pepper mustache. Decades had passed, but he was unmistakable; even with long black curls replacing the burr. Ronnie Yankowski, big and burly like his Ragsdale uncles, was a far cry from the scrawny boy who grew up across the street.

I snuck a quick peek to my right and that was all it took; it was game over, instantly, with no way to stop it. That Cheshire cat grin on my brother’s face triggered the flashback faster than lightning in an Oklahoma thunderstorm. Suddenly, without warning, it was 1975 all over again!

We stood there, shoulder-to-shoulder in the backyard, gasping at the scene before us. Our mouths gapped open wider than the Grand Canyon. All we could say was, “Oh, crap, Mary is going to kill us!” Trust me, we thought worse, but we weren’t allowed to cuss at 511 North Pearl. At least not within earshot of mom.

It was a hot and muggy summer day in Picher, Oklahoma. The heat was oppressive, well over 100 degrees, and the humidity was so thick you could cut it with a knife. But then that was normal for August in northeast Oklahoma and we had grown so accustom to it that we didn’t even realize it. As was often the case in those days, sweat ran down our backs like a winding river, gathering dirt and dust as it went, leaving us striped like zebras by days-end. Yes, we played hard in those days; and our play was all outdoors. Decades before the advent of black mirrored glass and silicon wafers, we spent every daylight hour outside.  Skirting trouble while seeking excitement and adventure. We weren’t’ called the “Dirty Little Glover Boys” for nothing, but we didn’t dare go inside without hosing off first.

Enough musing for now, back to the story of the day when we almost killed little Ronnie Yankowski.  There we stood in the backyard flanking Ronnie on both sides as he straddled that brand spanking new Honda Z50 minibike. With its big fat knobby tires, ginormous seat, chrome handlebars and trail light it was a sight to behold. Its color, green, was indicative of the shade of our jealousy as we envied his bright shiny new toy. I remember the scene as if it were yesterday. Us in our cutoff jean shorts, no shirts, no shoes, and certain no fear. Him all decked out in his riding gear, new boots, new shirt, new pants, new helmet, new gloves, and new goggles. A walking, talking commercial for Honda motorcycles. He looked the part as much as any 8-year-old ever did.

“Sure, it will hold you,” we said. Talking about the makeshift ramp we had assembled some fifty yards away. We had been using it all day, flying our beleaguered bikes high into the air after racing across the yard at top speed, navigating the narrow plywood ramp and launching from the stacked cinder block platform. “Just like Evel Knievel,” we joyfully shouted.

Yeah, I forgot to mention that part. Chat Rats have vivid imaginations too, or at least we did. We were always trying to replicate some unimaginable feat seen on TV, which wasn’t easy given that we were taking note while watching a 19” black and white RCA with rabbit ear antennas. Why did all the good stuff have to be on channel 16, that fuzzy UHF channel where one of us had to hold the antennae while pointing north toward Joplin just to see ghostly images on the screen. Well, I digress. Back to the story.

Ronnie was still not convinced so we each made another pass across the yard on our bikes and up the ramp, setting new individual and world records for height and distance. Truth be known, Dennis had me beat by a few inches but there was no way I was going to concede the title to my little brother. Oh, I forgot, you haven’t met him yet. Dennis, eighteen months my junior, was my constant companion and faithful sidekick. Where I went, he went, and where he went, I went. Sometimes we fought like sworn enemies, but you better not pick on one of us alone or you would have both of us to deal with. Anyway, it was Dennis who finally convinced Ronnie to execute the maneuver that would go down in history as the greatest minibike jump in Pearl Street history.

Goaded and cajoled to no end, Ronnie finally backed up his minibike to the end of the yard, tightened his helmet strap, cinched up his gloves, and lowered his goggles. With a look of determination on his face he gunned the throttle, a little puff of smoke belched from the exhaust, and across the yard he went. That little Honda motor revved to the max sounding like an air raid siren clogged by a bird’s nest. If I concentrate carefully, I can still hear that high-pitched, shrill noise today as the Z50 gained speed. Ronnie had it lined up perfectly, right down the middle of the ramp. He hit the ramp at a zillion miles per hour, up that narrow-inclined strip he went with the plywood bending under the weight of the minibike. Ronnie gripping the handlebars with all his might braced himself for the launch. And then it happened.

The Honda Z50 weighed 108 pounds dry and 115 pounds ready to ride. The average 8-year-old boy weights about 57 pounds but hey Ronnie was a Yankowski, his uncle played for the St. Louis Cardinals in the NFL and his dad Ed was a giant. Hey, we were pre-teen boys in Picher, what did we know about physics.

We witnessed first-hand examples of Newton’s first and second laws of motion. “A body in motion, will remain in motion unless it is acted upon by an external force,” and “force is equal to the change in momentum…” Sure enough, both laws are true. What we learned that day would stick with me forever.

Halfway up the ramp that 30-inch-wide piece of five-eighths plywood snapped like a toothpick. That big, knobby, front tire, instantaneously covered the intervening three feet and made forceful and direct contact with four cinder blocks that we had so carefully stacked up to support the ramp. We had launched from them, countless times, without fail, but not Ronnie. His mini-bike slammed head-long into the blocks and launched him over the handlebars and high into the air, with gusto!

He didn’t get many style points, but he clearly and unmistakably established a new world record. Blowing past my mark with ease and leaving Dennis’ mark in the dust too. He flew so far that he should have wings. Landing hard he rolled head over heels, time and time again, and ended up upside down in a yellow honeysuckle bush at the edge of our yard. What happened to the minibike; well let us just say it had an equal and opposite reaction.

For what seemed like an hour, we held our breath thinking he was dead. But a few seconds later he rolled over, and with glassy eyes said, “I’m telling mom!” “Oh crap, don’t tell mom we thought,” she’s a Ragsdale and they’re even tougher than the Yankowskis.

Well, as they say, the rest is history. In the end, Ronnie was alright, but I can’t say the same for that shiny new Z50. And, his mom (Mary) didn’t kill us after all, but she sure gave us the “what for.” Now our mom on the other hand, Anna Lue, let’s just say it wasn’t the first time nor would it be the last time we would find ourselves waiting anxiously on the porch when our dad arrived home from work.

And so, here begins the story of Eric and Dennis Glover, simple chat rats from the small town of Picher, Oklahoma. Ornery as the day is long perhaps, but fearless in their quest to manufacture fun, fueled by an insatiable desire for adventure.

Pull up a chair, grab a cold one, and settle in. You won’t believe the stories we have to tell you. 

 

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