Stuff Happens

I don’t have to tell you, life is not always tidy. Stuff happens. It’s a simple existential observation, similar to c'est la vie: life is full of unpredictable events. Incidents and accidents sneak up on the best of us, particularly when we least expect it. The worst of these events can leave permanent scars or long-lasting trauma. But if you’re lucky, they won’t be that serious and the grief and anguish will be short-lived, leaving you with interesting stories to tell.

Like the time when I was 11 and Daddy, Keith, and I and JoJo, Daddy’s best bird dog, were in the cab of our pickup riding down an old road—an overgrown path, really—a couple of miles from our home in Big Level. We were returning from an errand over at Granddaddy’s but detoured a bit before going home because, well, it was a pleasant fall afternoon and quail season had just started. Daddy figured we might quickly scare up a covey just a ways down this path that once led to his great-grandfather Breland’s old homestead.

But wait, “Why was the dog in the cab?” you ask. Good question. I don’t recall now. I suppose it was because we didn’t have a rope or leash that day and that old hyperactive hound would jump from the bed of the truck at the slightest provocation and be a half mile away before even Macca could say “Get back, JoJo, back to where you once belonged.”

So, the four of us were in the cab. Daddy was driving, Keith had the other window, and I was in the middle. The dog was on the floorboard between my knees with his front paws up on the dash so that he could see out. As we made our way along this wooded path, the bright sunlight left plenty of dreamy dappled shade and I was lost in the thought of an old Big Level saying: “There’s a Breland behind every tree and a Lott under every bush.” 

Just as we rounded a small bend, we surprised a turkey a few feet in front of us. When the dog saw it fly up, he had a jumping fit, hopping up on the seat and climbing all over me in his excitement. At that moment, a loud blast rocked the inside of the cab, rattling the windows and my head. JoJo had stepped on Daddy’s 12-gauge shotgun which had been resting on the seat between his right thigh and my left leg with the muzzle on the floorboard by the hump. That dang dog nearly gave us all a heart attack! Luckily, the shot missed the transmission and my foot. The only casualty was a nicked brake line, which was now leaking. And, it should go without saying, the rusty old floorboard had a new hole in it.

After making these assessments, Daddy said, “I think we better head home, boys.” If he said anything else, I didn’t hear it, what with all the ringing in my ears. And he certainly didn’t have to say not to tell Mama about this—that was part of the “cowboy code” I instinctively understood.

Yeah, stuff happens. Like the time a few weeks later when we were at Granddaddy’s helping Uncle ’Nell load a bull into the back of his pickup. The bull, a purebred Charolais, had been on loan by my Uncle Gorden Bond, Mama’s brother. Now it was time to return it back down to his ranch in lower Big Level.

Getting this large animal through the chute and into the back of the pickup proved to be dicey. The more Daddy and Uncle ’Nell tried to coax him along, the more skittish and ornery he got. However, with some doing, they managed to get him in the truck and tied to the galvanized-pipe cattle rails. With any luck, he’d settle down and would make the 4-mile drive without incident. But after driving the short distance from the barnyard up to Granddaddy’s house and before starting up the lane to the blacktop, the bull began to buck up and rock the truck. He was bucking and jerking his head so violently that it appeared that he was going to rip the bolts holding the cattle railings completely off and do major damage to the truck itself. Getting close enough to this enraged animal to cut the ropes was not possible, and further, even if he were cut loose, then what? Something had to be done, and without delay.

I don’t know who made the decision, probably Uncle ’Nell, as it was his Star Chevrolet company pickup that was about to be destroyed, but Daddy hurried over to our old truck and got his British-made .303 high-powered rifle and quickly did the sad but necessary deed—one shot at close range to the head. There’s not much more to say about that other than that sometimes the stuff happens so fast that you’re forced to act quickly and make painful choices.

Like another time, not many weeks later, when we were over at Uncle ’Nell’s where Daddy was helping him repair an old car engine. While they were in the shop, I was down at the pond with my cousins Mike and Jerry checking the trotlines that Mike had set out the day before. Mike and I were standing on the bank pulling in one line while Jerry was a few yards away pulling in another. Their collie dog was with us, running back and forth with anticipation for what might be on the line. As Mike and I had our line halfway in, we could tell by the tug-back that we had caught something big, maybe a fish or maybe an old bucket. When the water swirled we knew we had a good-sized bass or catfish. While Mike began to wade in to grab it, I continued pulling in the line. The collie, however, didn’t wait for us to land that fish. He jumped into the water, too. Neither of us realized that a portion of the line was entangled in the dog’s swishing tail. When I saw what had happened, I grabbed his tail and tried to free the line. Mike hollered back to me to let go of the dog and to drop the line. Yeah, that was the thing to do, but by then it was too late.

The force of the dog’s jump pulled the line into the pond and me, too, causing one of the large, rusty trotline hooks to pull through my bare hand, puncturing the underside of my right index finger with the barb traveling all the way through to protrude on the other side. Jerry witnessed all the commotion and with quick thinking was able to run over and cut the line, freeing me from further injury. I’ll never forget the look on their faces as we all got a good look at my finger and that hook. Their pained expressions may have been in part a reaction to my own overwrought carrying on. Mike wrapped my finger—with hook attached—in the tail of my shirt and sent Jerry and me to the shop.

When Daddy and Uncle ’Nell got a gander at it, Uncle ’Nell said, “Well, doggies, ain’t that something. Doesn’t look too bad.” Okay, maybe I’m hearing Jed Clampett right now. However, before I could get my head around what procedure might be necessary—an amputation, maybe—Daddy said, “Burnell, you hold his hand steady.” Then he grabbed a pair of wire-cutter pliers and snipped off an inch or so of the eye portion of the hook and then used some regular pliers to grab ahold of the barbed end that was only slightly protruding and gently pulled that ghastly-looking hook through my finger. Yep, he pulled that sucker ALL the way through. I’m getting squeamish again just writing this. I remember being surprised at how easily and smoothly the hook came out and how calm and collected Daddy appeared to be; it was like he had performed that same operation a hundred times already. Thankfully, it only took a few seconds and was over before I could mount a protest. Aunt Reicey came out to the shop with a couple of band-aids and Daddy drove me to the clinic in town for a tetanus shot. I did protest a bit about getting a shot and tried to talk him out of it, fearing it would be just as bad as the hook-ectomy, but after he painted a grisly picture of lockjaw, I rode along in silence.

Yeah, some crazy stuff happened that year. I was lucky that I only got a tetanus shot and not shot in the foot or shot dead like that poor bull. C'est la vie.

A Word to Ponder

trotline (noun): a strong fishing line strung across a stream or body of water, with shorter lines containing baited hooks hung from it at intervals. Some suggest that trot in this sense is a corruption of trout, but this is erroneous. The word comes from the way in which trotting horses were once used to pull these lines up and down the stream bank or shore to cover a larger area than possible by a stationary setline.
Source: collinsdictionary.com and askinglot.com

Song of the Day

“You Can Call Me Al” by Paul Simon, Graceland (1986)

I love the lines “There were incidents and accidents / There were hints and allegations” and “Get these mutts away from me / You know I don't find this stuff amusing anymore.”

Bonus Track

“Get Back” by the Beatles (Let It Be, 1970)

Though the album came out the following year, this song was released as a single in April of 1969 shortly after the famed Let It Be recording sessions and immediately climbed to the top of the charts to become one the Beatles biggest hits.