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- Story Listed as: True Life For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Biography / Autobiography
- Published: 09/04/2012
BETWEEN A MULE’S KICK AND A CUE STICK
M, from Baltimore, Maryland, United StatesBETWEEN A MULE’S KICK AND A CUE STICK
My surviving brother and I were among a group of adolescent chaps camping overnight on Mr. Archie's Fluvanna County farm. I was the same age as Archie's middle son, Luke.
He was laconic and lean, a no nonsense type, I befriended him at Sunday school.
His family commuted twenty miles to mass,
because Catholic churches were few and far between in the Baptist rural south.
Luke's 600 acre spread consisted of mostly hills and woods.
Growing up in the sticks, bred Luke fearless and familiar
with the nooks and crannies and creatures deep in the piedmont forest.
Where I'd see only a clump of brush
he could spot a groundhog hole,
where I could merely see leaves,
he would point out a hawk's nest.
He possessed a sixth sense for which rock or stump might harbor a snake.
I was right behind him when he kicked aside a slab concealing a three foot serpent.
He grabbed it by the tail and then the back of its head and uncoiled it
stretching it over his scalp
like it was a trophy
or our country's flag
or some kind of offering to the gods.
I was startled to see a small gash on the creature's underbelly and exclaimed
"Good God! Somebody hacked it with a hatchet!"
Nonchalantly Luke flipped over and examined the snake.
Then he shook his head,
looked at me disdainfully, and retorted
"You dumb shit, that's his asshole!"
Later the whole gang of us was scavenging for wild berries and honeysuckle
when Luke heard a rustling and then spotted his pappy's mule trotting as free as a bird.
We dropped our bags and joined Luke in the chase.
The mule bolted, dragging his rein along tractor tracks that bisected a butterfly meadow.
My brother, Greg, foolishly bold as usual, led the pack
and was just about to catch that rein,
when the mule in one motion braked on a dime and kicked back his hind legs.
The hooves caught Greg squarely on the chest
catapulting him like an acrobat backwards into the rest of us
and we all fell down like a line of dominos.
Luke castigated Greg as a jackass city slicker
for running so close to the rear end of that scared old mule.
A couple months later we returned to his farm with a boyscout troop we had recently joined.
The troop was organized around five patrols
with each patrol responsible for setting up a camp site.
My patrol leader was dead serious about earning his eagle patch.
We established our camp site and the patrol leader assigned us each a task.
While the others got to pitch tents, gather kindling, and start a cook fire,
I was instructed to find a secluded spot and dig a latrine.
I hiked into the woods lugging a pack shovel and a Rawhide Kid comic book.
I came upon a clearing where I could sit a spell undisturbed by ants or ticks.
Content I thumbed the pages and then, what the heck,
started reading how the taciturn and slight Rawhide Kid
gunned down a half dozen bad hombres
after they teased him for ordering milk in a ramshackle saloon.
Then my stomach got upset and I gave into the urge to take a dump
which I dropped in the middle of the path
so my butt wouldn't brush up against a thorn bush or even worse poison ivy.
I finished the comic and the crap but I neglected to dig that latrine.
I returned to the spiffed up base of staked canvas pup tents and a crackling fire.
My patrol leader anxiously announced that the scoutmaster selected our camp for his supper and rest.
My simultaneously apprehensive and optimistic patrol leader
double checked that everything looked just right for our esteemed guest,
the jelly bellied, rosie cheeked, rather effeminate scoutmaster.
If he impressed the dear leader with a tasty meal and neat sleeping arrangements,
he'd attain that coveted eagle rank and just maybe his 27th merit badge in the bargain.
With our esteemed guest we sat cross legged encircling the fire
and hunkered down to a splendid meal of hot dogs, marshmallows and Koolade.
Stuffed and satisfied, the scoutmaster patted his ample tummy
and complimented our patrol leader on a job well done.
He then asked where he might relieve himself.
The patrol leader directed him to the path from which I came.
He was no sooner out of sight then we heard a shriek and shout for the patrol leader,
who scurried down the trail. I looked on from the distance
as the outraged scoutmaster reamed out our patrol leader
while pointing right at my offending pile of crap.
That transgression earned me a tongue lashing, thirty pushups, and a warning
that if I didn't shape up and clean up my act, I'd never make it past tenderfoot,
and if i ever did anything that gross again I'd be summarily drummed out of the troop.
Furthermore that night, I was banned from the festive communal campfire,
which amounted to a silly platform for scout brownnosers
to narrate predictably boring ghost stories
and to conduct Ranger Rick singalongs.
I was confined to an isolated tent, but I had other plans.
I snuck into the supreme eagle's tent
and poured water from a canteen in his sleeping bag
and then smeared in sticky sweetened Tang powder.
Later with the fires doused and everybody getting tucked in,
I heard that eagle raise such a ruckus that the scoutmaster at first thought he had been snake bitten.
My worried tent mate asked what all the fuss was about
but all I could do was silently laugh so hard
my stomach ached as I wet my shorts.
The last time I saw Luke was a year or so later,
a few months before I qualified for my coveted learners permit.
We bumped into each other at a side alley entrance at Jack London's pool hall.
Inside the cavernous billiard room was so thick with players and smoke
you couldn't discern the wall racks lost in the cigarette clouds.
Luke and I played eight ball for a dime a game and the loser paid.
The first two matches went to Luke who was killing me with his break.
After he beat me again I focused, in case I won it back, on improving my break while Luke racked the balls.
Bumming over my lackluster performance, I forgot all about Luke on the other end
when I hit the cue ball, an exceptional hard shot, across the table.
The ball skidded over the rack,
caught Luke on the hand,
flew up his arm,
and clocked him on his forehead.
Now Luke, being precise, had not finished triangling.
Understandably he assumed I was being a poor loser and had deliberately whacked him.
He came after me like a hog on vomit,
cocking his stick like a bat about to hit a homerun.
As we circled the table, the hustlers cut their play and watched
as I, between my laughter and my fear, kept swearing it was an accident.
Meanwhile Luke couldn't get at me because the cigar chomping owner
would not tolerate any climbing on his felt topped tables.
I finally got Luke to calm down and see the light
when I reminded him that I was the same dumb shit
who mistook an anus for a wound.
by L DOUGLAS ST OURS
April 2010
BETWEEN A MULE’S KICK AND A CUE STICK(L DOUGLAS ST OURS)
BETWEEN A MULE’S KICK AND A CUE STICK
My surviving brother and I were among a group of adolescent chaps camping overnight on Mr. Archie's Fluvanna County farm. I was the same age as Archie's middle son, Luke.
He was laconic and lean, a no nonsense type, I befriended him at Sunday school.
His family commuted twenty miles to mass,
because Catholic churches were few and far between in the Baptist rural south.
Luke's 600 acre spread consisted of mostly hills and woods.
Growing up in the sticks, bred Luke fearless and familiar
with the nooks and crannies and creatures deep in the piedmont forest.
Where I'd see only a clump of brush
he could spot a groundhog hole,
where I could merely see leaves,
he would point out a hawk's nest.
He possessed a sixth sense for which rock or stump might harbor a snake.
I was right behind him when he kicked aside a slab concealing a three foot serpent.
He grabbed it by the tail and then the back of its head and uncoiled it
stretching it over his scalp
like it was a trophy
or our country's flag
or some kind of offering to the gods.
I was startled to see a small gash on the creature's underbelly and exclaimed
"Good God! Somebody hacked it with a hatchet!"
Nonchalantly Luke flipped over and examined the snake.
Then he shook his head,
looked at me disdainfully, and retorted
"You dumb shit, that's his asshole!"
Later the whole gang of us was scavenging for wild berries and honeysuckle
when Luke heard a rustling and then spotted his pappy's mule trotting as free as a bird.
We dropped our bags and joined Luke in the chase.
The mule bolted, dragging his rein along tractor tracks that bisected a butterfly meadow.
My brother, Greg, foolishly bold as usual, led the pack
and was just about to catch that rein,
when the mule in one motion braked on a dime and kicked back his hind legs.
The hooves caught Greg squarely on the chest
catapulting him like an acrobat backwards into the rest of us
and we all fell down like a line of dominos.
Luke castigated Greg as a jackass city slicker
for running so close to the rear end of that scared old mule.
A couple months later we returned to his farm with a boyscout troop we had recently joined.
The troop was organized around five patrols
with each patrol responsible for setting up a camp site.
My patrol leader was dead serious about earning his eagle patch.
We established our camp site and the patrol leader assigned us each a task.
While the others got to pitch tents, gather kindling, and start a cook fire,
I was instructed to find a secluded spot and dig a latrine.
I hiked into the woods lugging a pack shovel and a Rawhide Kid comic book.
I came upon a clearing where I could sit a spell undisturbed by ants or ticks.
Content I thumbed the pages and then, what the heck,
started reading how the taciturn and slight Rawhide Kid
gunned down a half dozen bad hombres
after they teased him for ordering milk in a ramshackle saloon.
Then my stomach got upset and I gave into the urge to take a dump
which I dropped in the middle of the path
so my butt wouldn't brush up against a thorn bush or even worse poison ivy.
I finished the comic and the crap but I neglected to dig that latrine.
I returned to the spiffed up base of staked canvas pup tents and a crackling fire.
My patrol leader anxiously announced that the scoutmaster selected our camp for his supper and rest.
My simultaneously apprehensive and optimistic patrol leader
double checked that everything looked just right for our esteemed guest,
the jelly bellied, rosie cheeked, rather effeminate scoutmaster.
If he impressed the dear leader with a tasty meal and neat sleeping arrangements,
he'd attain that coveted eagle rank and just maybe his 27th merit badge in the bargain.
With our esteemed guest we sat cross legged encircling the fire
and hunkered down to a splendid meal of hot dogs, marshmallows and Koolade.
Stuffed and satisfied, the scoutmaster patted his ample tummy
and complimented our patrol leader on a job well done.
He then asked where he might relieve himself.
The patrol leader directed him to the path from which I came.
He was no sooner out of sight then we heard a shriek and shout for the patrol leader,
who scurried down the trail. I looked on from the distance
as the outraged scoutmaster reamed out our patrol leader
while pointing right at my offending pile of crap.
That transgression earned me a tongue lashing, thirty pushups, and a warning
that if I didn't shape up and clean up my act, I'd never make it past tenderfoot,
and if i ever did anything that gross again I'd be summarily drummed out of the troop.
Furthermore that night, I was banned from the festive communal campfire,
which amounted to a silly platform for scout brownnosers
to narrate predictably boring ghost stories
and to conduct Ranger Rick singalongs.
I was confined to an isolated tent, but I had other plans.
I snuck into the supreme eagle's tent
and poured water from a canteen in his sleeping bag
and then smeared in sticky sweetened Tang powder.
Later with the fires doused and everybody getting tucked in,
I heard that eagle raise such a ruckus that the scoutmaster at first thought he had been snake bitten.
My worried tent mate asked what all the fuss was about
but all I could do was silently laugh so hard
my stomach ached as I wet my shorts.
The last time I saw Luke was a year or so later,
a few months before I qualified for my coveted learners permit.
We bumped into each other at a side alley entrance at Jack London's pool hall.
Inside the cavernous billiard room was so thick with players and smoke
you couldn't discern the wall racks lost in the cigarette clouds.
Luke and I played eight ball for a dime a game and the loser paid.
The first two matches went to Luke who was killing me with his break.
After he beat me again I focused, in case I won it back, on improving my break while Luke racked the balls.
Bumming over my lackluster performance, I forgot all about Luke on the other end
when I hit the cue ball, an exceptional hard shot, across the table.
The ball skidded over the rack,
caught Luke on the hand,
flew up his arm,
and clocked him on his forehead.
Now Luke, being precise, had not finished triangling.
Understandably he assumed I was being a poor loser and had deliberately whacked him.
He came after me like a hog on vomit,
cocking his stick like a bat about to hit a homerun.
As we circled the table, the hustlers cut their play and watched
as I, between my laughter and my fear, kept swearing it was an accident.
Meanwhile Luke couldn't get at me because the cigar chomping owner
would not tolerate any climbing on his felt topped tables.
I finally got Luke to calm down and see the light
when I reminded him that I was the same dumb shit
who mistook an anus for a wound.
by L DOUGLAS ST OURS
April 2010
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