War  and  Pigeons

        One last story with Uncle Matt in the featured role. This one  carries a personal voucher for authenticity , because I was a part of it. It was a long, long time ago; to be exact, the summer of 1945. At that time both he and I were pigeon fanciers. Every breed of pigeon known to fly the skyways were housed in my coops---except one. Not one White King perched in my aviary. But that was about to be remedied, or so I hoped.

        This particular day Matt and I would swap some birds. I’d gone to his home late one afternoon toting an orange crate on my shoulders. Inside the citrus-fruit container was a pair of my blue-banded racers; they’d be traded for a pair of Matt’s white kings.

         We’d been haggling about a week on the swap, and had finally reached an agreement. If our deal could be finalized it would have far-reaching effect on the world’s stock markets, and would help greatly to re-vitalize and stimulate the nation’s sagging economy---two of my blue-banded racers and 35cents for a pair of his white kings!

         It was a good deal for all parties involved. Matt was makin’ some money, and I was getting that pair of snowy-white birds to make mine a complete and well-rounded flock. Already I’d found a market outlet for all the squabs my white kings might produce---at $2.00 per pair! In the year of Our Lord 1945--- a huge sum of money! I was desperately hoping these birds were deeply in love, with thoughts of further propagating the species uppermost on their mind.

         The deal was finalized with a handshake. A rather firm handshake, I might add. Matt, with crunching “vise-like” grip in his gnarled hand, popped young knuckles in mine.

         I placed the beautiful white kings in the orange crate, and deposited some dry twigs in there as well. Maybe the birds would take the cue---and get busy building that durn nest!

         Uncle Matt invited me inside his parlor to sit a spell; I accepted his generous hospitality, and left the orange crate of pigeons in the backyard---unattended. Carelessness---and I would soon regret it.

         Joining Matt in his parlor, I could instantly see that a houseful of company had gathered. The neighbors congregated here in the early evening hour to hear the news as told by Matt’s Philco radio.

         This all happened during the final weeks of World War Two. Germany had already surrendered, and all attention was now turned to the far Pacific, where mopping-up operations against the Japanese were underway. The biggest boom-boom of all would soon end, courtesy of a mushroom cloud that was about to make it’s debut on the world scene.

         Uncle stepped over and flicked the Philco on. To Matt, a radio was a “box”. That’s exactly what he called the wondrous invention.

         Gabriel Heatter was on the airwaves with the news--- war news ! Gabe was tellin’ us about conditions as they were all over the globe. In capsule form, he let us know man was “fightin’ like cats and dogs” everywhere.

         Gabriel finished his broadcast, and just before signing off he told us how nice our hair would look if we used Kremyl hair tonic. As he was dispensing this useful information, Uncle Matt to his feet and with wildly flailing gestures in all directions announced to the mob in his living room: “Gentlemen, if’n that thar box is tellin’ the truth, then we’re at war. God help us all!”

         Just where Matt had been for 4 years while war ravaged the globe from one end to the other, while troop trains loaded to capacity had passed thru Narrows every day for years, or just what had been on his mind---“I plumb don’t know”. And I didn’t wanna’ ask him.

         Going outside to get my pigeons and start the trek home, I espied white feathers strewn from one end of that yard to the other---floatin’ everywhere thru the air, the doggone things were.

         A big old tomcat had somehow found an opening in the orange crate, squeezed his mangy hide inside, and had feasted on my two white kings! He sat there now, looking straight at me and licking his whiskers all the while. Picking up a 4 pound rock for the purpose of dispatching him to “cat heaven”, I threw and missed by 12 feet.

          I asked Uncle for my 35 cents back---no dice, he’d have none of that. Picking up my orange crate, Iheaded home. Shoulders were stooped considerably and I was in no hurry whatsoever. Another dream of big business had come to an abrupt end….

         That’s all this time for Bud and Matt. These few tales are only a drop in the bucket to what could be written and told about that incomparable duo. It would require years, and perhaps I’ll get around to adding to this collectionand sharing some more rip-snortin’ adventures starring the old-timers.

         For those who weren’t around to know them I can only say you missed one of the great treats offered by this life. Legends they were---now, and even in their own time.           

         To the folks who have perused along this far  and are maybe a little disenchanted, it’s been nice having you. Those who might like to stay aboard---shucks friend, I know lot’s more characters.

         As you have read along this far, maybe, just maybe, you have ran the clock back. And remembered once again some people just like these. I’d liked to have known them. Hearing some stories about your characters would be much more interesting than reading about a certain young soap-opera actor who had drowned in the magical reflection of those liquid pools that were her velvet eyes.

         Whew! That was the description given of Liz Taylor’s orbs of vision, and the way she had bewitched and cast her spell over the “young feller”

         Aw ,the heck with that stuff. Let me tell you about a “character” I once knew. Flip the page and meet Jack…