Uncle Sparky and the Radio

My Guest Author today is my dad who tells a story from his childhood.

My Uncle Sparky thinks that a man is hidden inside the big horn on the speaker.  One day he blew a cloud of smoke into the speaker and the man coughed and choked. My uncle laughed and laughed.  Now, when the radio is turned on, he fills his pipe full of tobacco and sneaks over to the radio speaker and blows smoke into it. If the radio company finds out about that, they might send the sheriff out to get Uncle Sparky.

Uncle Sparky was handicapped in some ways, but he was entirely himself.  I learned about his other powers when he had a confrontation with the man who lived in our radio speaker.

The radio took up one end of the main room. The batteries – two dry cells and a six-volt car battery – sat beside the log wall. The 30X30 inch speaker horn commanded a position of importance overlooking the dining table. The main part of the radio sat on a shelf below the speaker. It had three numbered knobs which were used for tuning in KGHL, Billings or KOA, Denver. Sparky wasn’t worried about the knobs and gadgets on the radio – his problem was with the man who spoke from inside the loud speaker.

Every day the radio man gave incorrect weather reports and bad news. Every day he told about people being without work. He described them standing in long lines waiting for bread and soup. Even children were going hungry. When the loud speaker fellow talked, which seemed to be all the time, nobody could get a word in edgewise. Other people took turns. Not that fellow. All considered, I didn’t blame Uncle Sparky for glaring at the loud speaker.  Did the Son-of-a-gun inside the speaker pay any attention?  Not at all.

People don’t like being ignored. Sparky loaded his pipe with George Washington tobacco (which came in a blue can built like a picnic basket.) He  blew great clouds of smoke and shook his fist to vent his feelings. It didn’t do any good. The news report grew worse and the radio man kept talking.

There was just so much this fellow would take. He hobbled over to the radio and stammered, “Sh-shu-shut your du-du-durned mouth.”  He accented his words with a great puff of smoke blown into the speaker horn. The radio announcer gasped for breath and began to cough. The radio was silent. Then music began to play.

“Whoooooppeeeee!” Uncle Sparky shouted. He stomped his feet and grinned from ear to ear. “Th-th-that will l-learn you,” he said.

The next day there was a favorable weather forecast, and the news was better. Some people believed that this was on account of relief programs. I had a different opinion. I had seen the power of a giant wrapped up in a human body!

Sparky kept his pipe loaded in case the announcer backslid into some more bad news. When the evening news came on, we could see him lighting his pipe in a shadowy corner of the room. At times he would leap out and blow a billow of smoke into the loud speaker. No doubt, like a baseball pitcher throwing a ball to the first base to keep a runner from stealing second, Uncle Sparky kept the radio man under control. A fellow like that’s got to be appreciated!  

Too bad he’s not here to control the TV.

A Horse Named Hank

We had a horse named Hank. I have a brother-in-law named Hank. There is no relation (as far as we know).

Hank was a big brown horse that was relatively gentle, but he had a big-sized stubborn streak to match. He liked to be in charge. If he was chastised, he sometimes tried to take a nibble out of his rider. When prodded to go, he often would stand still and stomp his foot on the ground. It was in character for him to get a little too close to bushes or trees in an attempt to dislodge his rider. Hank needed to be ridden fairly regular in order to keep him compliant. Otherwise, he really got set in his ways and was as stubborn as a mule. He loved to be petted and brushed.

My daughter loved that horse and he liked her. The two spent countless hours together galloping through the pasture as fast as the wind and following trails into the woods. They brought smiles and memories of youth to the lady that watched them from her window.

In the mornings, we looked out the window and saw Hank grazing peacefully, not a care in the world. But there was something different about that horse. Among Hank’s other qualities, he was a magician. We weren’t aware of his magic powers until it was brought to our attention by one of our neighbors.

One day, a neighbor said, “I’m afraid one night your horse is going to get hit on the road.” We were puzzled and my husband said, “He stays in the fence.” The neighbor proceeded to tell us Hank walked the neighborhood every night. That magic horse managed to escape at night but was sure to be back in the fence by the time we got up in the morning. How did he do that? He looked completely innocent, but he wasn’t.

A few days ago, my husband called upstairs and said, “Look in the garden.” I looked out the window and there was a big brown horse nibbling at the clover. Where did he come from? I said, “I wonder if his name is Hank.” We didn’t find out his name, but later in the day, someone came looking for him. 

Apparently, he wasn’t around when Hank was performing his magic tricks, or he would have learned to be in his fence before morning came.

The Little Old Man

My guest author today is my Daddy as he recounts a bittersweet visit he had with one man who lived in our community.

There was an old man who lived on a dirt road near Williamson.  He was a househusband. His wife worked in a sewing plant in town while the husband held down the home front.  This hadn’t always been the case.

At one time both of them worked and saved their money in hopes of owning a home and raising a family.  They had the home, but not the money nor the children. 

The gentleman, people called him “Shorty,” was working in a mill in Griffin, Georgia, when a tornado struck.  The windstorm knocked out several blocks of buildings including the one that Shorty worked in. a ceiling beam crashed down on him and gashed off part of his forehead. He came close to losing his life but managed a slow recovery which left him broke and handicapped. Instead of money, they had a subsistence.

The old man loved music.  One of their few luxuries was old upright piano. Shorty had stubby fingers, but it didn’t matter, when he sat down by the piano, he made that thing talk.  He should have tried working as an concert pianist instead of a mill worker. 

I stopped and visited him one year just before Christmas.  He had something he wanted to show me.  “It’s my wife’s Christmas present,” he said.

I followed him down the hall in the old house.  Like many older houses in those days, the hallway ran all the way through the house and the rooms were on each side. He walked to a door in the center of the hall, “This is our bedroom,” he said. He pushed the door open.  The bed was made up, and right in the center, where the two pillows came together, was a beautiful baby doll. 

“It’s for my wife.” he said.  “She had ten babies. None lived more than three days.” 

Miss Bert was right: It takes a lifetime to learn how to live.

Ground Hog Day

It’s February 2. Ground Hog Day. 

Today, eyes are focused on Punxsutawney Phil, General Beauregard Lee, or some other weather predicting ground hog to determine if we will have six more weeks of winter or an early spring. Some states like Montana put no stock in such fables because they know they will have six more weeks of winter regardless. Ground hogs can be short-lived there if they are caught burrowing beneath or dining on logs of old cabins, so their predictions are not considered reliable anyway.

You may have seen the movie Ground Hog Day. It might be a good possibility that if you have seen it once, you have seen it numerous times. A guy experiences the same day over and over again until he gets it right. By the time that happens, he is an accomplished pianist, knows how to save lives, has become kind and compassionate, hasn’t aged a day, and has a whole new outlook on life.

We might find times or seasons, maybe even years, in our lives when we feel stuck in our own Ground Hog Day, stuck in a rut. For those who have been stuck in a literal rut, you know it could be a while before you manage to pull out. 

My granddad had his own idea of Ground Hog Day. It was a day of celebration. For many years, he took the family out to eat on Ground Hog Day. If I was working that day, I would meet them for lunch. Sometimes I even took the girls with me.

I think he was on to something. When we have those times in our lives when we can’t seem to pull out of our rut, maybe we should just find something to celebrate. Look around and find something to be thankful for and find someone to share it with.

Get ready girls. It’s Ground Hog Day and we’re going out to lunch!