Countin'
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Many, many moons have passed , more than a few faded calendars discarded. And both men in this true story have long since finished their earthly labors in this troubled world and gone on to reap their heavenly rewards. Professor Brown reached retirement age and, while not wishing his life away, was overjoyed by the fact. He’d spent most of his academic career on campus at VPI, devoting more than 30 years plus lotsa’ worry, aggravation and headaches at that hallowed institution. Brilliant, suave and urbane, quite often the good Professor paused and pondered: “My contributions to society haven’t amounted to a hill of beans. The nuts attending this school are more interested in cramming their stomachs with goldfish than cramming their craniums with knowledge.” This was the 1930’s, and “goldfish swallowing” was the rage at every college in America. Ditto for long beavercoats, a rather silly looking wearing apparel which stayed soiled from dragging the ground ( two very worthwhile endeavors, and because of those ennobling fads our world has benefitted greatly. The life of every person on earth, from that day till this, has been “enhanced and made so much richer” because of beavercoats and the swallowing of live marine life ). Well at long last Professor Brown could put all that damned foolishness behind, disassociate himself from college-town Blacksburg and the wacky quacks who came there for “the furthering of their education.” The school administration expressed heartfelt thanks for those many years of dedicated service, treated him to a cheap dinner, gave him an even cheaper watch, and a dime-store plaque to hang on his bedroom wall. Mr. Brown, immediately following that solemn ceremony, tossed four suitcases and a pile of other junk into his trusty Model A- Ford and got the hell outta’ town. Driving west over the mountains, he pulled over at the crest, turned his head for one final look at the cow college and muttered: “Hmmph, beavercoats…goldfish! Never, never shall I return!” A resolute vow , honored till the last gasping breath of his existence. Mr. Brown, some years prior to retirement, had purchased some acres on Wolf Creek just a few miles west of Narrows. Beautiful grazing land, and the college man had a definite purpose in mind for those gently rolling hills and lush meadowlands. The good fella’ had long held a secret dream, a reverie he shared with no one. Professor Brown, even while standing 30 years in front of a blackboard with eraser in hand, had fancied himself a big cattle baron. Roundin’ up stray dogies, branding mavericks, drivin’ vast herds north to the railhead, suppling life-sustaining beef to every hungry American east of the Mississippi…stuff like that. Concurrent with Mr. Brown’s career in the classroom, an old fella’ named Deweyhad been building a reputation in Narrows as a “character.” Widely known throughout the area , this man was the ultra non-comformist, a true eccentric who marched to the beat of his own drum. This old world has known many unlikely alliances, improbable partnerships between people from entirely different backgrounds. A learned Professor, and a “character.” The two were on a collision course …and would meet…
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Professor Brown’s tenure in classrooms, as both student and instructor, exceeded 55 years. Dewey’s tenure in classrooms wuz somewhat less. Well doggone it, considerably less. He enrolled in the first-grade, stayed until the bell rang for morning recess, departed the school grounds at that moment and never returned. About one and a half hours constituted Dewey’s formal education. As a result of his abbreviated stint in ye olde classroom, Dewey never became an expert at readin’, writin’…or countin.’ For counting, you see, is the very gist and focal point of this story. Or, more aptly stated, one persons inability to count. The Wolf Creek “ranch” belonging to cattleman Brown had one glaring fault, a serious flaw demanding immediate attention and remedial action. The damned place wuzn’t fenced! Any second-grade school boy can vouch for the following fact. Barriers must be erected to prevent cattle from straying, else them there critters will wander off to where the grass is taller and greener. Bulls and cows alike, unless otherwise deterred , will go munchin’ their way across 22 counties, contentedly chewin’ a cud, lowering massive heads to threaten pesky dogs along the route. Cattle will not pay attention to where their meanderings might have led. Responsible ranch owners know the importance of good fencing, a really high priority if their vast land holdings are to turn a profit. Unless wire is stretched around that outer perimeter the silly bovines will go roamin’ across the range to no tellin’ where. Maybe into the next state. A variety of dire fates await herds of unguarded cattle. These defenseless animals must, at all times, come under the protective guardianship of caring herdsmen. Savage attacks by roving bands of wily coyotes will keep the young calf population at a bare minimum. Full grown cattle face constant danger from rustlers and amateur thieves alike. Any hoofed critter steppin’ in gopher holes and breakin’ a leg is a goner for sure: hungry wolves are slashing at vulnerable throats within seconds. Even non-ranchers can make a quick determination from this combination of facts…open rangeland just ain’t no place for cows unless accompanied by cowboys! The former VPI man was most anxious to get grazing stock on his Ponderosa but, being a realistic sort of fella’obeyed the time-honored rule,”first things first.” Thus a vast fencing project became his top concern, taking precedence above all other considerations. Professor Brown made three weekly trips into Narz for the purpose of layin’ in supplies and provisions. Dewey made dozens of trips into town each and every day, the purpose of which no man ever ascertained. Oh, I suppose a few old-timers said they knew the motivating forces that drove the colorful Dewey, but such claims are extremely doubtful. A scholarly educator and would-be cattleman in desperate need of a fence…a town “character” who wuzn’t good at countin.’ An unlikely pair who hadn’t yet met, but shortly would. All fencing projects begin with holes in the ground. Good, neat round excavations are an absolute must. Which brings into play that greatest man-killer of all tools, the dreaded post-hole digger. The scene was the A.M. Wheeler Hardware Store. The two subjects of this story were in there one morning at the exact same time. Professor Brown took one look at Dewey and muttered: “Ahh, the means toward an end.” Thus the connection was made, and would lead to a deep abiding friendship that would endure many, many years…
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Professor Brown, long accustomed to diplomacy and protocol, adroitly introduced himself and, using the tact of a career ambassador, set Dewey’s mind at ease. Then the pair launched into a prolonged conversation about weather, war clouds forming over the European continent, and the rapid progress of the many WPA projects around Narrows. Actually, a wide range of important matters were discussed. Both agreed that Washington, possibly for the first time since 1776, had finally become involved in something worthwhile. The WPA wuz puttin’ hot vegetable soup on lotsa’ tables ( not much beef, mind you, but a helluva lot of soup ). An astute judge of men and their ways, the former schoolmaster listened with great interest as Dewey offered some rather peculiar thoughts on a variety of subjects. Never had the Professor heard such odd slants, angles , opinions and viewpoints. After careful study, however, the scholar came to realize there just might be substance in Dewey’s off-the-wall philosophies ( textbooks teach some stuff that is helpful for survival in this life. But hear me podnuh, books sho’ ‘nuff don’t teach everything one needs to know. At least 40 times each day ugly problems arise to confuse, befuddle, addle, besiege and send ya’ sailing off into that place where steering is haphazard at best, the fearsome and much-ballyhooed “sea of bewilderment.” Don’t expect help from the people at Prentiss-Hall and other publishing firms when confronted with such puzzles. Hell man, answers to dilemmas ain’t found in their books! The bottom line…one must know how to make on-the-spot decisions…instantaneously. Learn this valuable lesson early in life and save yerself a whole lotta’ woes. One added note concerning the aforementioned “sea of bewilderment.” I’ve been adrift on those murky waters for 20 years, can’t find my way out. The sudden appearance on Earth of several new lifeforms, “flower children, beautiful people, gurus, hippies, yippies and yuppies” caused me to get lost. And I’m really not certain I want to find my way back to shore. Think I’ll just spend my few remaining years out here on these choppy waves. ). Dewey went on to tell the curious Mr. Brown how he’d recently risked death in a face-to-face confrontation with a gigantic den of venomous snakes in Clendinin Hollow ( see my book, “Narrows And It’s Characters.” ) The deadly reptiles, supposedly guardians of a thriving huckleberry patch, hadn’t performed their duties well. The ingenious Dewey had simply donned a coat of armor fashioned from joints of stovepipe, then ventured boldly into the writhing masses and picked those vines clean ( an outstanding example, I think, of innovativeness and on-the-spot decision making ). “Well.” The good Professor mused. “If nothing else this man is different . Quite different.” The observant educator made a quick evaluation in his rating Dewey. “Hmm, this fellow is a welcome breath of fresh air, certainly far-removed from my former associates. Maybe no formal education, but he’s at least the equal of the intellectual nitwits over in Blacksburg.” The ex-tutor of Gobblers sought verification of his assessment by inquiring of Dewey: “Have you ever swallowed live goldfish?” A rather silly question to which Dewey responded: “ Nope, I like my fish cooked well done with all bones removed.” Professor Brown knew his point had been well proven: “Yeah,” said Brown. “This fella’ has far more sense than college students”…
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With each passing minute the former VPI bigwig found himself liking this new acquaintance more and more. Dewey, all by his lonesome, provided ample proof to the good Professor that at long last the durn “rat race” was finally behind. Mr. Brown had no desire to reminiscence about his long career on campus. He didn’t want to recall those years of frustration, anxieties, pullin’ his hair, wet nursin’ a bunch of pampered young adults, enduring all sorts of foolish pranks by unruly students. In Narrows the good man found a somewhat slower lane in which to travel. Here he could pursue a lifestyle at the very best pace of all…one-third snail speed. No longer would he waken in the night tossin’ and turnin’ while sweating profusely, throwin’ pillows across his bedroom, detesting the prospect of even one more day teaching numbers, symbols and formulas. Yessir, he now lived alongside Wolf Creek, and that rippling stream had a calming effect on his shattered nerves, promised peace and contentment for a man so richly deserving. Quite a contrast from those hectic years in Gobblerland where he’d accepted employment in 1902, had taught during World War 1, and was still at it when all the world’s banks failed and came tumbling down. “Know anything about pi?” the mathematical wizard asked. Maybe he wanted to know if the two of them shared any common ground. Dewey, having known this gentleman for but a few short minutes, hardly knew what to think of such ungodly questioning. A mite suspicious of strangers by nature, he liked to “take the measure” of strangers before “gittin’ in too deep with ‘em.” So he answered in a tone none too friendly: “Listen here Mister, and hear me good. I don’t know what you might be gittin’ at, but I’ll tell you this here much, I know all I need to know about ‘em. Lemon has always been my favorite.” This sort of back and forth conversation would continue unabated for many, many years. The professor’s question had pertained to circles, circumference, diameters and ratios. Deweys answer had related to baked goodies. Aha…the perfect partnership. Their initial sidewalk gabfest lasted an hour, after which the two were Talking on a first-name basis. From thereafter it would be “Dewey,” and “Perfesser.” ( Dewey’s rendition of the scholar’s title ). Mr. Brown thought the moment was ripe for getting to the subject uppermost in his mind; herdin’ cattle, and fences. Or rather the lack of fences. “Dewey, I’m looking for a good man to do some work on my property. Interested?” Earning an honest dollar in the mid-1930’s was almost unheard of. Many well-to-do people had been wiped out financially, were reduced to selling apples on street corners and standing in soup lines. Ole Dewey perked up. “Might be Perfesser, what ya’ got?” The soon-to-be herd boss explained how he’d hired a firm to stretch wire around his acreage. But a lotta’ diggin’ was the first priority: “I need someone to dig some post-holes. Many, many post-holes. At least two months work, maybe more.” Dewey didn’t hesitate: “Alright. But I’m tellin’ you one thing. I git my pay at the end of every day. Too many shysters have left town in the middle of the night owing me money!” “Fine, no problem.” Mr. Brown could almost hear cattle bawling in the meadow, envisioned dust clouds raised by vast herds on the move. “Your check will be waiting each day at quitting time.” Hearing that statement made Dewey see red. “No checks! Cash on the barrelhead!” Dewey sounded most emphatic on that point. Maybe he couldn’t count real well. But the man had a damned good head for business. “Okay, cash on the barrelhead. When can you start?" Mr. Brown inquired. “Tomorrow morning bright and early”…
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