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People living during the Great Depression couldn’t lay their lazy butts in bed all day long. Innocent victims of terrible times, our ancestors had to awaken ere the rooster crowed. Their days began by toting a basket of apples to a suitable street corner and hoping a few neighbors would come strolling along with a few nickels in their threadbare pockets to buy some fruit.

At 5:00 A.M. on that long-ago morn Professor Brown rendezvoused with Dewey at a Narrows shoe-shop where Mr. Clayton Bowles had repaired a million pairs of brogues. A plan of action had begun which would soon have Giles County challenging Texas as the cattle-raising center of the United States.

The A-Model performed magnificently in the brisk morning air, perked along smooth as silk on the return trip up Wolf Creek. Incredibly, only one “water stop” was required, at which time 4 gallons of liquid was added to a thirsty radiator and over-heated cooling system. Them thar doggone A-Models used a heckuva lotta’ water, especially on grueling uphill runs. Owners were wise to carry 10 extra gallons in the olde rumbleseat.

One hour later Brown and Dewey were dining on a breakfast consisting of country ham and eggs, an unheard of menu during those awful years of the Great Depression. Town folks and other non-farmers didn’t have it quite so good. These penniless paupers were sitting down to a no-frills breakfast made from just two ingredients…grease rendered from fat-back meat and three quarts of water. These were blended to make a bland gravy…not very tasty, but better than being hungry.

And yet a paradox is here. That watery fatback gravy of 55 years ago was so much more appetizing than this gooey mess served in fast-food restaurants today. People in the food industry should take note of this obvious hint…my goodness, use the grease rendered from fatback to make yer damned gravy!

Those woodenhead experts out there keep tellin’ us how we’re becoming so much wiser: “Man, we’re eat up with smarts,” these chumps are saying.

I disagree completely, 360 degrees worth. Hellsfire people, the fact that we’ve lost our knack fer makin’ a good skillet of bubbly gravy sends a clearcut message to me…we’re gittin’ dumber! What have we gained by rocketing to the moon if we can’t enjoy a decent bowl of gravy while on the lunar landscape? ( Many methods are available fer jazzin’ up a skillet of gravy. Stir in a tad of beef broth fer added zest. A few drops of Kitchen Bouquet sauce will give the doggone stuff a beautiful shimmering color. Drat it , Mr. Chef. Be imaginative back there in the kitchen! ).

Their scrumptious meal finished, Dewey pushed himself back from the table, looked over at Brown and remarked: “Well Mister, I believe you hired me to dig some post-holes.” Aha!! The very crux of this story…holes in the ground…and countin.’

The fencing project was indeed a huge undertaking. Miles of wire were needed to ensure Brown’s cows didn’t go tramping thru vegetable gardens and other valuable properties belonging to neighbors. A herd of bovines rampaging through flower beds, chompin’ on every green thing in sight, and leaving a hundred “calling cards” on immaculate lawns is not a desirable sight for home-owners to wake up to. Tends to make folks somewhat testy, gets ‘em madder than a flock of drenched hens.

Being new to the Wolf Creek area, the ex VPI man didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot by raising the ire of rural folks who lived nearby.

Doggone it, he need a fence…

No doubt about it, podnuh. Diggin’ post-holes is hard, back-breakin’labor. The Good Book says one can shorten his days on this earth by indulging in taboo activities. Biblical interpretation has never been my forte, a full grasp of the Scriptures is not mine. But this I know…diggin’ postholes on a frequent and regular basis can abbreviate yer tenure here among the living!

Diggin’ holes in the ground!? These circular excavations are vital to our world’s survival. Lets dwell on this all-important topic fer a moment, have ourselves an in-depth discussion about a matter which receives far too little public consideration.

Impoverished people who toil in this area are a forgotten segment of our society, find themselves totally unrewarded for a priceless contribution to humanity. Still, I’ve always regretted I didn’t pursue a career in this field, lamented the fact I didn’t become a “professional post-hole digger.”

Certainly our modern-day world needs more of these types, grimy men who fear neither dirt, sweat nor long hours of tortuous labor. By the same token, a world in turmoil could function far more smoothly , be much more productive if we had far fewer “computerists” and “cell phone talkers.” Hopefully the near future will see these screwballs following the route of the dinosaur…that infamous road which leads to extinction! Then we can all settle back, relax, and proceed thru life at a more leisurely pace.

People today are “regulated robots,” continually searching for ways to shave seconds from each little daily chore ( wind `em up and watch `em go ). Insane…sheer madness!

And then wonder why a doctor looks `em over , frowns and voices his deep concern: “You’re a time-bomb looking for a place to explode!” The medical folks call this lunacy “peer pressure, management stress.” Regardless of the wording, it remains insanity, pure and unadulterated. The doggone stuff is getting millions covered with cold clay at an early age. Their tombstone epitaphs should read: “A Fool Lies Here.”

Machines made of flesh and blood. Gadgets that breathe and have a barely discernable pulse…gadgets that were formerly human!

Individualism…gone the way of the dodo bird. Ugghh! I’ve never understood this thing called “role models.” Parents actually suggesting to their children they should be “copy-cats.” I’d prefer my own to be him or herself, totally unlike any other person .

A man with a fondness for precision is a true description for would-be cattle baron Brown. He doted on the stuff, and would not tolerate one bit of sloppy workmanship on his Wolf Creek rangeland.

That’s why the erstwhile teacher plodded miles around his property toting several balls of fodder twine, letting it trail behind as he trudged o’er hill and dell. A fella’ wants his fences looking neat, aligned in perfectly straight rows. Nobody likes to see crooked fences, crazy patterns of wire that go zig-zagging every whichaway.

Yessir, Brown’s ranch would be a “showcase.” Cattlemen from Texas, the Big Sky country of Montana, cowboys from South America and cowpokes from the Australian Outback would soon be coming to Giles County to look over his operation…

I’ve always kept a safe distance from organizations, and for good reason. I believe all of ‘em are capable of making irrational decisions, resulting in equal amounts of harm for each public service they might accomplish . An unenviable fact, due to a single source of nourishment…nearly every organization has close ties with and is sanctioned by some branch of government. Whether at the local, state or federal level…bad, bad news.

I sho’ nuff’ don’t want any government agencies advising me how to manage my meager household budget. But let’s suppose I’m a stubborn cuss who likes living dangerously in high-risk situations, do the unthinkable and allow the following horrific to happen: “Welcome, you government people. Come right on in here and make yerself feel right at home.”

Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve just committed the biggest no-no in all of recorded history. A larger or more inexcusable blunder just ain’t possible.

The landlord would evict me within a week after turning over my financial affairs to a government entity. Heaved out bodily on my head. This embarrassing scene would unfold after all my utilities had been disconnected because of non-payment. Other accumulated debts might have the water rising above my head. Not because of dishonesty on my part. Simply because my scant earnings had been squandered thru waste and gross mismanagement by a fumbling, inept government bureaucracy.

Unless you’re willing to face financial ruin ,don’t allow even one G-man to enter your premises. Such stupidity amounts to monetary suicide. Stop that scamp at yer olde property line, point him in the general direction of that nosy neighbor you’re having difficulties with. Once inside his parlor over there a government agent will need only 2 minutes to send him sliding down a greased chute into bankruptcy. Sweet revenge is yours!

A 30 minute viewing of CNN or C-Span can provide ample proof for this claim. But ladies and gentlemen, I would urge extreme caution here. Don’t look or listen…unless you’re willing to weep.

How about the S&L fiasco? We’re talkin’ big bucks. Half a trillion bucks! What about the wholesale thievery at HUD? Same in the Defense Department. Really somethin’ ain’t it? Makes ya’ wanna’ stand up, hold hand over heart while swearing the pledge of allegiance…then bow yer head in shame and cry like a baby ( friend, I can’t speak for you. But I’m damned tired of my paycheck coming up short because of these stealing monkeys. I’m beginning to take this stuff real personal ).

Take a close look at any mess in the world today. Do a little investigative work. Did a private citizen cause that disaster? Why, Heavens to Betsy no! Almost without exception the havoc was created by redtape bureaucrats. Which is exactly why I’ve always stayed several million arms-length from from organizations, never had a desire to join one.

That is, until just recently. Only last month did I learn of a club that’s been in existence since the mid-1930’s. This group, calling itself “Advocates of The Straight Line,” has great potential. Growing in popularity by leaps and bounds, these good people have chapters in strategic locations across the nation and around the world.

Their basic teaching is quite simple, logical and reeks of common sense ( which probably means they’re an ill-fated bunch of humans. Doomed…destined to survive none too long in this nonsensical world of futurists ).

These folks are actually saying that a straight line is the shortest distance between point A and point B.

Professor Brown , needing four straight lines of fence posts around his property, founded the “Advocates of The Straight Line” club nearly 8 decades ago, thereby becoming the original charter member…

Arithmetic, algebra, geometry, numbers. Adding subtracting, dividing, multiplying. Figures, equations, formulas…COUNTIN’ !

A natural God- given ability allows most folks to master the intricate puzzlers found in this field with the greatest of ease. Shucks, I know some real whizzes in “rithmetic”, individuals who are true human calculators. It’s absolutely astounding what these Einsteins , having neither pencil nor paper to work with, can do with their thought mechanisms alone. Those gears meshing inside their heads must really be somethin’ ( Ladies and gentlemen, I have no desire to wallow in the gory and gruesome, believe it’s unwise to delve into the macabre. I’ve always made a stringent effort to steer clear of the morbid, nor is the grisly my cup of tea. And yet my lifelong ambition has been to sit in at an autopsy performed on an Einstein type. Dammit, I’d like to have a peek at that grey matter, am very curious to know what makes ‘em tick. Pardon, that should’ve been written in the past tense, “made ‘em tick.” You know…autopsy! The draining of vital body fluids, as in vampire! Cuttin,’ hacking, ripping…sawing, stitching, sewing. Never,never have dinner just prior to attending an autopsy. Needless to say, you’ll have no desire to take in nourishment AFTER attending an autopsy! ).

But then, counting doesn’t come easy for everyone. Numbers pose insurmountable snags to persecute simple-minded dolts such as myself. Numbers present roadblocks which stop me and my lamebrained cohorts dead in our tracks. Like a crippled ship at sea we flounder “dead in the water.” Cause we can’t count to ten!!

Humans utilize a wide variety of methods for the purpose of counting. Modern man totes a handy pocket calculator, an ingenious little device which can really speed the process along ( Process…that abhorrent word again. Without doubt the ugliest in Mr. Webster’s book. This one needs to be eradicated not only from the dictionary, but from Earth, Pluto and all planets in between. In fact, we should propose an intergalactic conference where earthlings might join forces with extraterrestrials and abolish the word process throughout the universe. Any person or alien lifeform caught using that despicable word would find himself exiled for life to the core of the sun).

But then, we haven’t always had calculators. Back in the murky pre-machine age various and sundry methods were necessarily brought into play to deal with mathematical problems. History says the caveman era ended thousands, or even millions of years ago. Yet according to Wall Street Yuppies and other “beautiful people” that difficult period ended only about 30 years ago. Wouldn’t you just know it…the e4xact time that scheming crowd happened along to provide a guiding light and solve all our woes. Hell, these wackos think my generation wore loin-cloths and sallied forth across a menacing landscape to hunt wooly mammoths! Armed only with a crude club. But hold on, wait a minute. Be leery of their thinking, trust not their judgement. These whiz-kids can’t locate the United States of America on a world atlas!

Yessir, our hurrying world calls for speed. And yet more speed. This, at a time we should be applying the brakes.

A very dangerous crossroad lies just ahead for humankind, a perilous locale that has claimed every so-called advanced civilization since time began. The ancient Romans couldn’t get thru that crossroad; they were too busy throwin’ innocent people to the big cats. The Greeks, Phoenicians nor anyone else made it through. All were involved in “empire ending” crashes there.

I believe we’re drawing near that terrible intersection with it’s many pot-holes and traps. We each get about 75 years here, but this place can bide it’s time for an eternity, and awaits with glee. Brake time, folks, brake time. Which means we’ll step on the gas-pedal even heavier.

A treacherous intersection. Not your ordinary joining of roads, because it’s the most important one on this route we all travel together, the “highway of life.” Friend, you and I are racing headlong at a reckless speed toward that fateful “crossroad of decision”…

This story began several weeks ago with twin themes, fencing and counting. However the past few installments have maybe deviated a tad, wandered aimlessly, jumped from pillar to post and strayed far afield from those original topics.

Such stalling is not a mistake, but part of a grandiose overall plan. Now please understand folks, I’m not meaning to talk in riddles or gobbledegook. But you are reading a story which has no plan. No timetables, deadline, nor even ( as many kindhearted readers are repeatedly reminding me ) does it have any purpose! For such “pannings” I am deeply grateful , most gratified to know the fate of this world doesn’t hinge on what is written here. Neither does the fate of our home planet hinge on smart-aleck critics and their excruciating barbs spoken with forked-tongue.

( Last week we mentioned a “crossroad of decision.” It might be wise to pause and ponder, for we are surely approaching that awful place. Wonder where it’s different branches lead? Possibly to a peaceful village just a few miles further along. Perhaps to a Golden City in a glittering realm, shining beyond our puny human ability to comprehend. Or maybe to Armageddon! )

Yessir people, you’re lookin’ at stalling, but for a reason. I’ve been waging a “get away from speed” campaign, trying to show how a bit of lackadaisicalness ( had to haul out the olde dictionary for that one .Hell, even the book might have the wrong spelling for a word containing that many letters of the alphabet ) will let your blood pressure dip way down to a safe and acceptable level, make ya’ want to crow like a rooster on rising each morning, allow you to remain here much longer to enjoy the beautiful sights of this bluewater world in which we live.

Man, do somethin’ different at noon tomorrow. Don’t head fer yer usual eating establishment at yer usual time to gorge yerself. Play a relaxing game of checkers instead. Eat at 2:00 P.M., at which time your appetite will be truly ravenous. Let’s do away with old habits, throw out repetition, discard old routines, get rid of schedules. Let’s creep thru life at a somewhat slower pace. Believe me, the world won’t notice, and will continue it’s relentless march thru the millenniums of time.

This altering of lifestyles can be far more beneficial and healthier than you might realize. Let’s suppose a band of drygulchers have targeted you for a “rubout.” Good buddy, you have the dubious distinction of being placed on a “hit list.”

Let’s further assume you are a person who has followed the same old drab routine, day in and day out, for decades. Pal, you’re in great jeopardy! Friend, you’re a dead pigeon!

Them thar highwaymen can set up that ambush to their liking. Anytime, anywhere. In fair weather or foul. I’ll be watching for your obituary.

But such an untimely end can be easily averted. Don’t stroll down Westview at the usual 1:00 P.M. tomorrow. Go walkin’ early in the morn, or shortly before dusk. Them dratted desperados will have long since grown impatient, departed from their sneaky place of concealment and abandoned completely the notion of “bumpin’ you off.”

Keep them cowardly men-in-black off balance, cross ‘em up. Do the unexpected…at ungodly hours.

Back to our original theme in the next chapter. Git yer work-gloves ready, for we begin diggin’ oodles of postholes. Already I can see a mighty cloud of dust stirred by the thundering hooves of a vast herd of bawlin’ bovines. I haven’t spotted ‘em yet, but Dewey and the “Perfesser” are in there somewhere…

His first wearisome day of “posthole diggin” completed, a pooped Dewey trudged o’er hill and dell toward Professor Brown’s luxurious country estate. He noted with great pride the numerous small mounds of earth which were a sign of his day’s labor, each denoting an excavation that would become home to a locust post for centuries to come. Maybe Dewey did come up a mite short in some departments. Countin’ fer instance. But he sho’ ‘nuff wuz a mover of dirt! Good Lord man, looked like several colonies of prairie dogs had been at work out here.

There is no “gravy” in the diggin’ of postholes. Just old hard laboring, gallon upon gallon of honest sweat from the brow, blistered hands, and wrists that might be severely sprained by day’s end. A sudden jolting when digging implement makes contact with an unseen rock is an instant and painful disaster.

Take note, you macho hunks who are currently workin’ with weights. Throw the damned barbells away! Hurry on down to the local Farm Bureau store, purchase a posthole digger and start excavatin.’ See what this amazing form of “workout” can do fer yer torso and upper-back muscles. The girls will go ga-ga.

Time for Dewey to collect some wages. Mind you, no checks…”cash on the barrelhead.” Though unable to count, Dewey guessed his earnings might be $1.25, a whopping day’s pay in the 1930’s. Shoot a monkey, two month’s of steady work at that payscale would allow a fella’ to seriously consider early retirement!

Professor Brown sat on a cool veranda, watching the approach of his hired hand. A look of fulfillment spread across his facial features, for this man sensed he was about to realize that lifelong dream, being a major supplier of beef to a hungry world. All those frustrating years mingling in the classroom with “swallowers of goldfish” were now unpleasant memories, lost completely in this blissful moment and never again to be recalled.

“Have a seat Dewey, and a glass of lemonade,” Mr. Brown said as the character came up the steps. The bloke was a kind and most genial employer. The frosty concoction looked real inviting. Posthole diggin’ is a vocation that causes dry throat, parched lips and swollen tongue. The very best thirst-quencher on planet earth is a tall glass of icy lemonade.

“Dewey, you worked twelve hours. Our agreement was 15 cents per hour.” Countin’ wuzn’t difficult fer the ex-teacher who had spent years tutoring turkeys in Blacksburg. “I owe you one dollar and eighty cents.” The exact amount of money, “cash on the barrelhead” that he placed in Dewey’s callused hand.

“Hmm,” thought an eager Dewey. “I can retire in one month.”

“ By the way Dewey, how many holes did you dig today?”

The highly unusual man scratched his head before answering: “Perfesser, I don’t rightly know.”

“About how many?” the educator inquired. “A round figure, a rough estimate.”

“Perfesser, I wuzn’t payin’ much attention to how many holes. I wuz too busy diggin’ ‘em.”

“My timberman from Rocky Gap wants to make a delivery tomorrow. I must let him know an approximate number of posts to bring. Could you go back out there and count the holes?”

Dewey gulped down the last drop of lemonade before saying: “Guess I could.” And off he went, retracing his steps o’er hill and dell.

The good Professor had spent years teaching, but was about to become a student again. Dewey would teach Mr. Brown a thing or two about countin’…

Ain’t no restrictions on the number of methods a feller can use fer countin.’ Literally hundreds of ways are available, and the really innovative person can quickly determine which option suits him best.

Our Constitution guarantees every man, woman and child the privilege of countin’ by any manner they deem fit, proper and easiest. Anyone meddling with that right is guilty of violating your “individual freedoms” and oughta’ be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. Rush on down to the nearest chapter of yer ACLU and report any interference. This fine organization, comprised of bearded hippies and weird lookin’young lasses just outta’ law school will take the culprits to the United States Supreme Court. So go ahead…count any way you like!

As previously mentioned the pocket calculator is a hot little item these days, immensely popular. Some folks count on their fingers , yet others can count in their head. At the ripe old age of seven I decided the abacus was best for me. For 53 years I’ve collected these ancient and very reliable Chinese instruments which feature parallel bars and sliding beads. My assemblage includes abacuses of every make, description and color.

But none of these were Dewey’s forte. Arriving at the first posthole he paused for a second, nodded his head and muttered: “Yeah.”

Moving on to the next hole, more of the same: “Uh-huh.”

At the third: “Why certainly.” And so on down the line for half a mile: “Plain as the nose on yer face.”

Please note the total absence of one, two three, four, five. Quite unusual…no numbers did Dewey pronounce.

Two hours passed before the “digger” returned to the bossman’s farmhouse. Old man Brown was relieved to see Dewey as darkness had settled in to end another day. The professor had been truly worried about Dewey, afraid he’d become lost, or perhaps fallen into Wolf Creek. The former teacher hoped and prayed such wasn’t true…good posthole diggers were scarce as hen’s teeth.

“Dewey, I’ve been real concerned. My timberman is waiting for a figure. Did you get the holes counted?”

“Sure did,” Dewey exclaimed, pride rising in his voice.”

“How many?”

“ I didn’t know I could dig so many holes.”

“Dewey, how many posts must I order?”

And the man who did all things in highly unusual ways gave his classic reply: “Fesser, you’re gonna’ need a post for every hole!!”

Professor Brown was absolutely delighted with Dewey’s informative report. He loved it, relished Dewey’s non-comformist ways of getting to the bottom of things. And looked forward to more of the same.

The bond grew stronger between the two men with the passing of years, and it endured til both departed from the earthly scene. I’d wager there were many more “Fesser, you’re gonna’ need a post for every hole!” reports to help cement their friendship.

This story ends with the posing of a question. Dewey had once said he’d waded into a den of venomous snakes. A truly huge gathering of reptiles…10,000 of ‘em. Maybe more!

Wonder how in heck he arrived at that figure?

The End

M.L. Wilkinson

April, 1984