Not that anyone is asking

Stories Gramps used to tell me

Back when we had the coldest winter in my lifetime, it was impossible to go to the store; everything was frozen solid for weeks. Well, I got up this one mornin’, looked at my hungry family, and decided I’d go get us some duck for breakfast. So I grabbed my rifle and headed out into the freezing cold to see if I could find me a bird or two.

After an hour of trudgin’ over nothin’ but snow and ice, just when I was about frozen myself, I finally came upon a great big pond with a hundred fat ducks just sittin’ there on the surface. So I raised my rifle, took aim at the biggest one, and shot.

Now, you’d think the sound of that rifle would cause a hundred-and-fifty ducks to panic and take flight, and scatter in all directions, but they just sat there. Oh, they were makin’ all kinds of noise, and every one of ‘em was flappin’ their wings like crazy, but none of ‘em was goin’ anywhere.

And that’s when I realized…these ducks were frozen to the pond! They must’ve all been sleeping there on the surface the night before when a cold wind blew in and froze the water, trapping their bellies and feet in a thick sheet of solid ice.

Well, I just had to get a closer look, so I walked on down to the edge of the pond and out onto the ice a ways, and this made them ducks go crazier. All two hundred of ‘em started beating their wings harder and harder, and before long, I felt the ice move under my feet, and decided I'd best jump back onto the shore.

At first, I figured the ducks were gonna cause the ice to break up, and cause me to fall into the freezing water…but that ain’t what happened. What happened was, with all 300 ducks flapping their wings all at once, the whole sheet of ice broke free and rose into the air!

Unfortunately for me, I was a good 50 feet above the ground by the time I made it to the edge to jump off, so I decided to ride it out.

This six-inch thick sheet of ice flew higher and higher under the combined power of 400 pairs of flapping duck wings, with me still standing on it, tryin’ to keep myself from sliding off the damn thing!

Now, I’ve been face-to-face with a dozen angry bulls, but I’d never been more scared in my whole life. And I had no idea where these ducks were headed.

Well, as one might guess, they headed south to warmer temperatures, and that ice began to slowly melt. As it melted, one-by-one, a duck or two broke free and flew away. And little-by-little, that sheet of ice grew smaller and smaller, and gradually got closer and closer to earth, until it landed gently in the middle of a road in some town I didn’t recognize.

But pretty soon, I spotted a young man standin’ at the edge of that road, and I asked him, “Where does this road go to?”

“Well, sir,” he said, “I never have seen it go anywhere. For as long as I’ve been alive, it’s always sat right where it’s at.”

I decided to let that one go, and I asked him how far it was to the next town. “Don’t know,” he said, “I’ve never taken a measurement.”

Maybe I was overly stressed from the flight, but that pissed me off, and I yelled at ‘im, “In my entire life, you are the biggest damn fool I have ever come across!”

Well that big ol’ farmboy straightened up and looked me direct in the eyes and said, “You may think I’m a fool, Mister, but I ain’t the one talkin’ about roads pickin’ up and goin’ off on their own.”

I didn’t care how massive that ol’ boy was, I was about to lay into ‘im when I heard your grandmother’s voice from somewhere behind me, tellin’ me to get into the truck.

Turns out she’d seen me fly over our house, and immediately grabbed up your Daddy and all your aunts and uncles we had at the time, and jumped into the truck.

She’d been driving directly under me that whole flight; clear down to Fresno, where I finally landed. Well, while I drove home, I felt so grateful to be alive and to have my family with me, I stopped at the first restaurant I saw, and ordered us a heapin’ stack o’ pancakes and two dozen fried eggs for breakfast.
 

Stories Gramps used to tell...

D' I ever tell you about the most surprising hunting trip I ever had?

Years ago I had a hound-dog named Blue - Old Blue, I called ‘im, even when he was a pup, and even though he was red. Now, soon as Old Blue was old enough, me and him would go huntin’, and on this particular huntin' trip, it was deer season up in the Sierras, and we spotted a fantastic big buck; 16-prongs but still prime for eatin'. That's a rare one.

Well, the minute Old Blue spotted that deer, he gave chase, and the minute that deer saw Old Blue comin’ for ‘im, he took off into the woods.

Did I say yet that Old Blue was the fastest dog I ever saw? He was certainly that. Old Blue took off fast as lightening, and keeping up with ‘im was like tryin’ to catch lightenin’ ...with your bare hands.

So there he was, way out in front of me, runnin’ faster and faster behind that buck until, eventually, Old Blue was a bit too quick for his own good, because he ran smack into a very thin, but very sturdy little birch tree that cut ‘im clean in half…lengthwise. Old Blue was chopped in two from one end to th’other.

Now, I truly loved that dog, and I wasn’t about to see him go down like that, so I ran my fastest to catch up to ‘im, and I grabbed a fishin’ hook and a some line from my huntin' pouch, and, before he lost so much as half-a-pint o’ blood, I sewed Old Blue back together.

Like anyone, I only had two hands, but I controlled the bleeding while holdin' his two practically lifeless halves together as best I could, while I sewed fast as I could, and the moment I tied the last stitch, something amazing happened; Old Blue’s legs started a-kickin’ and a-flailin', and >whoosh!<, like a shot, that ol' hound-dog was up and runnin' once more!

It seemed his legs were flyin’ in every direction, and I did ‘casionally see a little blood spurt here and there, so I have to admit, he wasn’t running quite like he did before. But this catastrophe didn’t slow Old Blue down by much; he stayed hot on that deer’s trail, his determination unaffected.

And pretty soon Old Blue was streakin’ through those woods like nothin’ ever happened, and it was all I could do to keep up 'im. But keep up, I did…just barely…only now, I could see something was a little off with Old Blue’s gait. Once in a while, he’d kinda flop in the air, and then he’d do sort of a strange flip maneuver, and I was havin’ a hard time figurin’ out exactly what was going on. Old Blue was a-runnin’ and a-floppin’ and then he was a-flippin’ and a-runnin’, but I tried not to get too distracted because, whatever it was, it was workin’. We were definitely gonna have us some venison for dinner.

From some distance behind 'im, I saw Old Blue shoot like a cannon-ball out of the forest and into a clearing, and by the time I busted out of the woods myself, he was standing over that big buck, smilin’ with pride. The buck had run plumb outta steam, and was just lyin’ on the ground from exhaustion.

And that’s when my jaw fell plumb onto the ground, not because of the deer, but because Old Blue stood there with two of his legs on the ground, and th’other two stickin’ straight up in the air! And that proud smile of his? Well, one corner of his mouth was smilin’, that’s for sure, but th’other showed the forlornest frown I’d ever seen.

After starin' at 'im for a few seconds, I realized that half of Old Blue’s face was right-side up, and th’other was upside down. It was unmistakable; I'd been in such a hurry to sew my beloved dog back together, and workin' with only two hands, I got one of his sides the wrong way up!

Well, it dawned on me then why Old Blue didn’t tucker out during that hours-long chase, and it was no wonder he kept floppin’ and flippin’ every once in a while. You see, when one pair of his legs wore out, Old Blue simply flopped up and flipped over so he could run on a fresh set while givin’ th’other a rest.

I was sure glad that deer finally pooped out, because Old Blue could probly run forever with that strategy. But I stood there thinkin’ about that for a lot longer than I should have, because that rare buck got his wind back, and up he jumped and took off again!

And, sure as I’m sittin’ here tellin’ you about it, Old Blue took off after ‘im, just a-floppin’ and a-flippin’, and quick as ever. But, by then, after a half-day of full-speed runnin', I was just too wore out to resume the chase.

I had to let Old Blue go.

You'd be wastin' your time worryin' about ‘im, though, son. Over the years since, whenever I've gone up into the Sierras, I've heard all kinds o' different people; fishermen, campers, hunters, even the Rangers say they’ve caught a glimpse of a strange red hound-dog streakin’ through the forests fast as lightenin’, gleefully chasin’ every kind of wildlife they got up there 'til the poor critters just plumb wear out.
 
Murrmurr said:
Stories Gramps used to tell...

D' I ever tell you about the most surprising hunting trip I ever had?

Years ago I had a hound-dog named Blue - Old Blue, I called ‘im, even when he was a pup, and even though he was red. Now, soon as Old Blue was old enough, me and him would go huntin’, and on this particular huntin' trip, it was deer season up in the Sierras, and we spotted a fantastic big buck; 16-prongs but still prime for eatin'. That's a rare one.

Well, the minute Old Blue spotted that deer, he gave chase, and the minute that deer saw Old Blue comin’ for ‘im, he took off into the woods.

Did I say yet that Old Blue was the fastest dog I ever saw? He was certainly that. Old Blue took off fast as lightening, and keeping up with ‘im was like tryin’ to catch lightenin’ ...with your bare hands.

So there he was, way out in front of me, runnin’ faster and faster behind that buck until, eventually, Old Blue was a bit too quick for his own good, because he ran smack into a very thin, but very sturdy little birch tree that cut ‘im clean in half…lengthwise. Old Blue was chopped in two from one end to th’other.

Now, I truly loved that dog, and I wasn’t about to see him go down like that, so I ran my fastest to catch up to ‘im, and I grabbed a fishin’ hook and a some line from my huntin' pouch, and, before he lost so much as half-a-pint o’ blood, I sewed Old Blue back together.

Like anyone, I only had two hands, but I controlled the bleeding while holdin' his two practically lifeless halves together as best I could, while I sewed fast as I could, and the moment I tied the last stitch, something amazing happened; Old Blue’s legs started a-kickin’ and a-flailin', and >whoosh!<, like a shot, that ol' hound-dog was up and runnin' once more!

It seemed his legs were flyin’ in every direction, and I did ‘casionally see a little blood spurt here and there, so I have to admit, he wasn’t running quite like he did before. But this catastrophe didn’t slow Old Blue down by much; he stayed hot on that deer’s trail, his determination unaffected.

And pretty soon Old Blue was streakin’ through those woods like nothin’ ever happened, and it was all I could do to keep up 'im. But keep up, I did…just barely…only now, I could see something was a little off with Old Blue’s gait. Once in a while, he’d kinda flop in the air, and then he’d do sort of a strange flip maneuver, and I was havin’ a hard time figurin’ out exactly what was going on. Old Blue was a-runnin’ and a-floppin’ and then he was a-flippin’ and a-runnin’, but I tried not to get too distracted because, whatever it was, it was workin’. We were definitely gonna have us some venison for dinner.

From some distance behind 'im, I saw Old Blue shoot like a cannon-ball out of the forest and into a clearing, and by the time I busted out of the woods myself, he was standing over that big buck, smilin’ with pride. The buck had run plumb outta steam, and was just lyin’ on the ground from exhaustion.

And that’s when my jaw fell plumb onto the ground, not because of the deer, but because Old Blue stood there with two of his legs on the ground, and th’other two stickin’ straight up in the air! And that proud smile of his? Well, one corner of his mouth was smilin’, that’s for sure, but th’other showed the forlornest frown I’d ever seen.

After starin' at 'im for a few seconds, I realized that half of Old Blue’s face was right-side up, and th’other was upside down. It was unmistakable; I'd been in such a hurry to sew my beloved dog back together, and workin' with only two hands, I got one of his sides the wrong way up!

Well, it dawned on me then why Old Blue didn’t tucker out during that hours-long chase, and it was no wonder he kept floppin’ and flippin’ every once in a while. You see, when one pair of his legs wore out, Old Blue simply flopped up and flipped over so he could run on a fresh set while givin’ th’other a rest.

I was sure glad that deer finally pooped out, because Old Blue could probly run forever with that strategy. But I stood there thinkin’ about that for a lot longer than I should have, because that rare buck got his wind back, and up he jumped and took off again!

And, sure as I’m sittin’ here tellin’ you about it, Old Blue took off after ‘im, just a-floppin’ and a-flippin’, and quick as ever. But, by then, after a half-day of full-speed runnin', I was just too wore out to resume the chase.

I had to let Old Blue go.

You'd be wastin' your time worryin' about ‘im, though, son. Over the years since, whenever I've gone up into the Sierras, I've heard all kinds o' different people; fishermen, campers, hunters, even the Rangers say they’ve caught a glimpse of a strange red hound-dog streakin’ through the forests fast as lightenin’, gleefully chasin’ every kind of wildlife they got up there 'til the poor critters just plumb wear out.
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:) I think somebody's feeling better
 
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gruntlabor said:
:)I think somebody's feeling better

Pinky said:
@Murrmurr

Feel better soon .. thank you Gramps' stories 🤗
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Less angry. I feel a lot less angry. Retelling Gramps's stories is therapeutic.

Someone...my older brother, I think...was wise enough to record some of his stories 60+ years ago, and I have them on a disc. I played one for Michelle a few days ago, and she said it was the first time she'd seen me smile in weeks, and that I should listen to them for therapy...attitude adjustment, basically.

I'm back in a wheelchair. One of my legs just refuses to work. Needless to say, I am not happy about it. And it isn't just the inability to move around freely; a bunch of health issues come along with it.

My doc wants me to start physical therapy asap, but their PT Dept moved quite a distance away, and I don't drive, so we have to work out the scheduling issues.


Anyway, when I was 5 to 7 or 8 years old, me and my younger brother would sit at the table with Gramps while he told these wild stories to keep us out of the kitchen while Mom and Gramma Murr made dinner, and inside so we didn't get in my Dad and older brother's way while they did the evening chores (on the dairy).

Good times.
 
Murrmurr said:
Less angry. I feel a lot less angry. Retelling Gramps's stories is therapeutic.

Someone...my older brother, I think...was wise enough to record some of his stories 60+ years ago, and I have them on a disc. I played one for Michelle a few days ago, and she said it was the first time she'd seen me smile in weeks, and that I should listen to them for therapy...attitude adjustment, basically.

I'm back in a wheelchair. One of my legs just refuses to work. Needless to say, I am not happy about it. And it isn't just the inability to move around freely; a bunch of health issues come along with it.

My doc wants me to start physical therapy asap, but their PT Dept moved quite a distance away, and I don't drive, so we have to work out the scheduling issues.


Anyway, when I was 5 to 7 or 8 years old, me and my younger brother would sit at the table with Gramps while he told these wild stories to keep us out of the kitchen while Mom and Gramma Murr made dinner, and inside so we didn't get in my Dad and older brother's way while they did the evening chores (on the dairy).

Good times.
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One of your legs just refuses to work ''...well you're making light of a very serious situation I know... but what has caused the leg to stop working altogether now , is it the nerves in your back ?.. what is it?... it's really worrying ...
 
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hollydolly said:
... is it the nerves in your back ?.. what is it?... it's really worrying ...
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Yes. Some imaging was done to see whether or not that small, benign tumor (found a while back) was the problem, but it isn't. Would have been nice if it was, bc they might have been able to remove it. The neurosurgical team studies the images every time they're updated (every year or two) to figure out if there's anything they can do about the nerve issues. It's not looking good right now, but they get fresh eyes on them whenever they can.

My doctors are with a medical university that does a lot of research and innovation and stuff, so maybe they'll come up with something at some point. Might not help me, but maybe someone some day.
 
Stories Gramps used to tell

So you’ve noticed I’m bald on top, but did you ever notice all the scars on that big bald patch, or wonder why all the hair around it is so thick? Well, there’s a story behind it that should be told, though it isn’t one I can say I’m proud of.

Now, as you know, your grandmother is part Indian. Goin’ way back, her ancestors were the Sierra Miwok, but after 1849, some o’ her people started marryin’ non-Indians, because while their numbers were dwindlin’ on account of a lot of ‘em movin’ east, eastern folks were comin’ to California lookin’ for gold.

The tribal people married Chinese people, former Black slaves, the starvin’ Irish, Wanderin’ Jews, even Lutherans and Mormons! It was a free-for-all. And while your grandmother’s branch of the family tree got more and more diluted, other branches stayed purely Indian. Her fourth cousin twice-removed, for example.

Imkookoo Bwaakbwaakwaah was his name. That translates in English to Crazy Chicken, but around here, he was known by all as Cookie. I gave ‘im that nick-name myself.

Admittedly, it wasn’t a fittin’ name for a silent, stoney, 6 and a-half-foot tower of sheer muscle, but it’s like when you call a fat man Slim or a tall man Shorty. And I can’t say he liked it, because he never indicated one way or th’other, but he always answered to it.

Oh, not with words, like “Yes, Sir, can I help you?” or “You asked for me?” He’d respond with a direct-in-the-eyes stare that gave some fellas the goosebumps. However, he always answered me with a chin-nod…and then the stare, which, naturally, I did not take seriously. Besides bein’ family, I knew ol’ Cookie as a friendly, soft-spoken young man, and a hard worker, too.

I was a ranch-hand-for-hire in those days, and whenever some farmer offered me a job, I’d inquire on ol’ Cookie’s behalf. And when I described ‘im as an amiable man who could easily carry a 2,000-pound bull on his shoulders, and double as a tractor-jack, a plow ox, or a one-man winch, if need be, I was not exaggeratin’. And I usually got him the job, much to the satisfaction of many-a farmer.

Needless to say, me and Cookie often worked side-by-side during those years. I could always count on ol’ Cookie to do the heavy liftin’ and deep diggin’ and a lion’s share of the manure shovelin’, and Cookie could always count on me to make sure he got to enjoy the comradery of our fellow ranch-hands by jokin’ about his braids and that one eagle feather, for example, or how he wore moccasins through all the muck while the rest of us wore boots…that sort o’ thing.

And the other ranch-hands would laugh, and ol’ Cookie would get this wry grin on his face, and give me that direct-in-the-eyes stare, which, naturally, I did not take seriously, what with us bein’ family, and me gettin’ ‘im hired, and helpin’ him impress the bosses and enjoy all that comradery.

So, when Cookie invited me to share a bottle of whiskey with ‘im one night, I readily accepted. Now, I’d normally have a beer or two after a day’s work. Whiskey was for special occasions; a good funeral, for example, or a weddin’. Cookie knew this, so I was rightly touched by his invitation.

He didn’t have an automobile, but I was happy to drive us out to the place he wanted to go - a tall, grassy hill at the edge of the Baker ranch, where you had an unobstructed panoramic view of the Milky Way, The Big Dipper, and even Mars sometimes.

Ol’ Cookie brought two tall Styrofoam cups and a 3-litre bottle of whiskey. Fine whiskey, too. A lot smoother than I was used to, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. In fact, the more I drank, the more I enjoyed it, and the more I enjoyed it, the more I drank. And, well, by the time we got down to only point-75 litres, that was it for me. I passed out cold. I don’t even remember gettin’ into the 2nd litre, let alone nearly all 3.

But let me tell you, I woke up with the worst hangover of my entire life. There aren’t words to describe how bad my head hurt. It hurt just to move my head from side-to-side, but I had to look around to see where ol’ Cookie went. He wasn’t on that hill when I woke up, and he wasn’t anywhere around it, either. I figured he probably didn’t want to wake me, and he walked all the way home.

After lookin’ around like I did, my head hurt even worse, so I just sat down and leaned forward, and I put my poor head in my hands…and somethin’ felt very wrong.

The top of my head felt like it was covered with a layer of dried-up mud, all crusty and kinda lumpy and flakey all at the same time.

Well, it took a few minutes to realize, and even longer to believe…I had been scalped!

Fortunately, I didn’t feel it happenin’, but I’m bald because my Indian cousin took my scalp.

Now, I haven’t seen ‘im since, but, believe me, if I live 300 years, I will never forget ol’ Imkookoo Bwaakbwaakwaah.
 
Twostep said:
Keep them coming please!
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I just posted the last one. Like I said, I wish they'd ALL been recorded...I can't retell them justly.

He was quite the story-teller. He played the accordion and harmonica, too, and I'll never forget the morning he forgot I was sleeping on the couch (so my girl cousins could use my bed), and he walked into the living room in nothing but his underwear.

He froze and said "Oops!", and then he plucked a few of Gramma's long peacock feathers out of this tall decorative urn, stuck 'em in the waistband of his underwear, and did a booty dance. 😝
 
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2 things you gotta know:

When you sit on your arse in a wheelchair most of the day, gas builds up in your gut.

My oldest son, Grant, built me a parallel-bar balance & gait-training apparatus, and set it up in our family room.
(we turned a big chunk of it into a physical therapy gym so I can do all my strengthening exercises at home)


As I strained to get myself upright on the gait-trainer this morning, a long, rumbling fart escaped – b-r-r-rup! prup-prup brf – and Michelle’s phone started playing Chihiro by Billie Eilish.

Her phone thought my butt made a request.
 
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Murrmurr said:
2 things you gotta know:

When you sit on your arse in a wheelchair most of the day, gas builds up in your gut.

My oldest son, Grant, built me a parallel-bar balance & gait-training apparatus, and set it up in our family room.
(we turned a big chunk of it into a physical therapy gym so I can do all my strengthening exercises at home)


As I strained to get myself upright on the gait-trainer this morning, a long, rumbling fart escaped – b-r-r-rup! prup-prup brf – and Michelle’s phone started playing Chihiro by Billie Eilish.

Her phone thought my butt made a request.
Click to expand...
Not a quiet murmur rumor.
 
I'm able to walk around the house pretty well. Not great, but pretty good.

I've put in a lot of work. 4 to 6 hours/day, every day. I didn't want to. I said feck it, man; not worth it; I don't even care; I actually prefer the wheelchair...I'm freaking good at it. But Meesh pushed me, pumped me full of 5hour energy shots, and kicked my arse a few times. 😝

So, I'm on my feet again, most of the day. My legs still refuse to respond to my brain now and then, so the work continues. My Dr sent a referral to their spine specialty clinic and ordered new MRIs. Looking forward to that, I guess.

Ok, Meesh just said I am definitely looking forward to that, so, must be true. 😉
 
Murrmurr said:
I'm able to walk around the house pretty well. Not great, but pretty good.

I've put in a lot of work. 4 to 6 hours/day, every day. I didn't want to. I said feck it, man; not worth it; I don't even care; I actually prefer the wheelchair...I'm freaking good at it. But Meesh pushed me, pumped me full of 5hour energy shots, and kicked my arse a few times. 😝

So, I'm on my feet again, most of the day. My legs still refuse to respond to my brain now and then, so the work continues. My Dr sent a referral to their spine specialty clinic and ordered new MRIs. Looking forward to that, I guess.

Ok, Meesh just said I am definitely looking forward to that, so, must be true. 😉
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Thanks for the update and listen to Meesh !

Oh, and I like the word feck. I'll have to remember using that as an alternative :)
 
hollydolly said:
One of your legs just refuses to work ''...well you're making light of a very serious situation I know... but what has caused the leg to stop working altogether now , is it the nerves in your back ?.. what is it?... it's really worrying ...
Click to expand...
Interestingly, I had an appt with my doc yesterday but was unable to make it...my son, my ride, called that morning to tell me he's sick. He rarely gets sick, but he sounded awful. So anyway, I called the doc's office to let them know, and, since we were just going to go over my recent lab work, which I'd already read online and everything was good, the receptionist arranged a phone call instead.

The interesting thing is - for the past few years, our doctors have been conducting visits and exams with a computer screen in front of them so they can make notes, refer to past visits, and write up after-visit summaries and instructions. Obviously, that wasn't happening during our phone visit, and damned if she didn't totally hear every word I said, because, no distraction, right? I mentioned issues I've mentioned a dozen times before, and it was like she was hearing them for the first time ever. And she was extremely concerned.

The clinic has their patients fill out these review forms once in a while...like, rate your doctor things. I'm going to talk at length about those stupid computers of theirs on the next one they send me. The doctors are required to use them, but they're more a distraction than an aid. They've gotta go.
 

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