The First Ride Part 2

In Part one of this story, I was 6 years old and was hitchhiking home from school – the first hitchhiking trip of my young life. Part of the way home, a flock of farm geese was running (waddling) toward me as fast as they could go. I didn’t know what to think of them…

Well, about the time they got very close, they started honking, hissing and poking at me in a most unfriendly manner. Jeez, now what? I started backing away from the oncoming noisy white beasts, and when the first one got to me, the biggest goose of all, he pecked my leg and wouldn’t let go. What? I’m being eaten by a goose?! In an instant, the rest of the flock was on me and all these creatures attacked. Why don’t these geese like me??? I didn’t do anything wrong! I was completely engulfed and overwhelmed by hissing, pecking geese, each one being about half my size.

The onslaught lasted only a second or two before I kicked my way free of the attackers and ran like a gazelle down the road. They came after me, but they were no match for this fleet footed runner. No match at all. I ran for a hundred feet or so, then stopped and shook my fist at them and told them what was what – in no uncertain terms.

As I was finishing giving the geese the verbal thrashing of their lives, a car came around the bend and I stuck my thumb out in hopes of getting a lift away from the farmland attack geese.

The car stopped! This is it, I said to myself. My first ride!

I ran up to the car and opened the door. The man said, “Young man, are you hitchhiking?”

What a crazy question. Of course I’m hitchhiking; what did he think? I had my thumb out and everything. But, I was respectful, Catholic boy and said, “Yes sir, I am hitchhiking. I’m hitchhiking home from school. Can you please give me a ride? I’ve walked from St. John the Baptist School in New Brighton, and I think I’m only about halfway home.”

He smiled at me and said he’d be glad to give me a lift; get in. So I jumped in his car and we continued north along Long Lake Road toward my house. The man asked me what my name was. “John Steven Mickman, sir”, I replied. He wondered if I hitchhiked much and I told him, “No, this was my first time. Thank you for picking me up, sir.” He was pretty surprised that such a young boy would be hitchhiking, but I told him that my dad used to hitchhike all the time. He said that maybe my dad had been older when he was hitchhiking. “Maybe you are still too young to be hitchhiking? Don’t you think you could get hurt by something?” the man asked.

“Well gee, I don’t know how I could get hurt. I was just going down the road. I’ve seen lots of people doing it”, I explained to the man. Maybe he was talking about the geese that had attacked me, I wondered. That is certainly something to be careful of the next time I hitchhike anywhere. Mental note: ‘Watch out for geese when hitchhiking.’  I didn’t tell the man he was correct about being hurt by something - that I had had a run-in with geese just before he picked me up.

The man and I kept talking, but I changed the subject to school and my friend Cris Archibald who went to Rice Creek Elementary. “That’s where I want to go to school but my mom says St. John the Baptist is a better school”, I explained. That was the major topic of conversation as we rode along together, until I told him that I had to get off at the next turn.

Then he suggested that maybe he would drive me all the way to my house! “Well, that would be great”, I said. So he made the left hand turn on Rice Creek Road and I guided him along the way toward home. This was working out much better than I had imagined, and in spite of walking about halfway and doing battle with the geese, I wasn’t much the worse for wear, and I wouldn’t be home much later than if I had taken the bus. Neat. Maybe I’ll do this every day!

When the man and I arrived home, much to my surprise, he parked his car and said maybe he would say hello to my mother. That sounded just fine with me. “My mom is really nice. I’m sure she’d like to meet you sir”, I said with a smile. I was pretty pleased with myself, hitchhiking home, making a new friend with this man and all.

As my new buddy and I walked up the front walk to the house, my mom came out on the front step to greet us. “May I help you sir?” she asked the man.

“Yes ma’am”, he replied. “This is young John, and he says this is his house. Is that right?”

My mom looked at me, then back at the man and asked, “Yes, this is my son. Why was he in your car?”

Holy smokes, I thought to myself. This doesn’t sound very good. I better say something, and fast. “Mom, I was just hitchhiking from school and this man gave me a ride all the way home. Pretty neat huh?” There, that should solve any emerging problem with the situation, I thought to myself.

“That’s right ma’am”, the man said. “He is just a boy and I was concerned that he was in some kind of trouble when I saw him by himself out there on the road. Don’t you think he is a little young to be hitchhiking?” Hmmm, I thought to myself. I thought the man and I had gotten past that subject.

My mom looked relieved at that point and agreed that I was MUCH too young to be hitchhiking. “My husband and John are going to have a serious conversation about this when he gets home from work”, my mom said to the man – as she looked at me with a stern look. “I will make sure this never happens again”, she told the man.

WHAT IS SHE SAYING! Holy smokes; this is no good!  I could hardly believe my ears! My dad used to hitchhike all the time; why can’t I???

“Well, I’m glad you agree ma’am. I was really concerned. Young John here is a nice boy and I’d hate to hear about him getting into any kind of trouble”, the man said to my mom. Trouble? What trouble? Had he seen the geese coming after me?

The man and my mom talked for awhile longer, but I tuned out, wondering what my dad was going to say when he got home from work. I really didn’t think he would be mad. As a matter of fact, I had been thinking he would be proud of me. What a strange turn of events!

Finally, the man looked at me and shook my hand. “It was a pleasure meeting you, John. You’re an interesting boy. But, I do not want to see you hitchhiking anymore”, he said to me.  Huh! I thought to myself. We’ll just see about that after my dad comes home. I had had a really nice afternoon – an adventure!

My dad always arrived home from work just before 5:00 PM, every single day, and at exactly 5:00 PM every single day, our family ate dinner, all 7 of us. On this day, when we sat down for dinner, my hitchhiking escapade was the big topic of conversation. “Yes dad, I did hitchhike home, but it wasn’t a problem. I got a ride from a nice man and he drove me all the home. I want to do it again. Can’t I please hitchhike home again dad? I don’t like riding on the school bus anymore”, I implored.

My dad was kind of an unusual character (I guess is the way one could say it), and he thought that I should be able to continue hitchhiking. But, my mom would have none of it; no 6 year old son of hers was going to be hitchhiking all over the place. No Way. Not a possibility. Not going to happen.

Mom and dad had disagreements, as most couples do, and much of the time my dad won; but not this time.  Mom won this one.  I was told not to hitchhike home anymore.

 But, as it turned out, the school term was almost over, and in the summertime I had no place to go anyway, so I didn’t need to hitchhike. My friend Cris and I had plenty to do without leaving our neighborhood, what with baseball, fort building, throwing rocks, fishing, exploring down at Rice Creek and everything.

But, the next year I was a 2^nd grader. I was much older and wiser in the ways of the world. I started hitchhiking again, always wary of marauding, attack geese – and any other unfamiliar perils.

*  *  *  *  *

 I continued hitchhiking for another 20 years. Some of these trips were the best times of my life and I met many unforgettable characters during these excursions. Any good adventure has a certain amount of discomfort and risk involved, otherwise they wouldn’t call it an adventure. Right?

When was your last adventure?


John S. Mickman

www.mickman.com

The First Ride

My mom and dad decided to send me to 1^st grade when I was 5 years old (my birthday is in November). Back then in our hometown of Fridley, there were no Kindergarten Schools so 1^st grade was my initiation into the world of scholastics; I had no idea what school was all about.  Why did I need to get up so early and leave the house without my brother Mark? Where was I and why was I there??? 

My first day of school was the worst day of my young life. To make matters worse, I had to go to St. John the Baptist Catholic School in New Brighton, and my best friend Cris got to go the grade school in our neighborhood where we both knew lots of kids. At St. John’s, none of the kids knew me and I didn’t know any them; I had no friends.

To make matters worse, I was very small for my age and was the undisputed smallest boy in 1^st Grade - even the girls were bigger than me. I was scared, and I have to say that I did not like school even one little bit. Eventually, I made fast friends with Timothy Gunzel, Steven Paquin and Joey Bishop, but not for some time. All the kids were bigger and stronger than me. But, there was one thing I excelled at: I was the fastest runner in my class. I ran everywhere because I got there faster and after all, wasn’t that the pointl? We had lots of races during recess which was always the best part of each day at St. John’s.

We all wore school uniforms. The boys wore dark blue, white flecked corduroy pants with short sleeved white shorts. This trim outfit was accessorized with an aqua blue string tie with a silver, Virgin Mary slide clasp. My buddies and I taught each other how to tie different kinds of knots with these ties. There is a big difference between and a Square Knot and a Granny Knot (which is really just a bad tangle!). In the winter we wore thin red sweaters with blue and white embroidery on the edges. The sweater buttoned about halfway down our tummies. Very classy. The girls wore about the same thing only with below the knee dresses. Also very classy.

Although I was supposed to make my shirts last for two days, they generally didn’t last past the first day and mom had just that much more ironing to do.  However, I usually was able to get through the whole week with the same pair of pants, unless I blew out one of the knees by playing ‘keep-away’ during recess. Mom used some blue, iron-on patches she could ‘glue’ to the inside of the knee’s of my pant legs. They chafed pretty bad after a washing or two, but they extended the life of my pants by weeks – if not a month or more. We were a frugal family.

I grew to dread the school bus ride from Fridley to New Brighton. I was the first one on the bus in the morning and the last one off in the afternoon. The ride took the better part of 45 minutes coming and going. All this boring time on the bus was bad enough, but to make matters worse, there was a bully on the bus named Tommy Parks, a big kid, who took great joy in picking on me. It was awful. I tried to make a good show of it, but I dreaded these daily, to and fro bus rides.

I really didn’t like the whole school thing in 1^st grade.

My dad was a pretty adventurous guy and had traveled by hitchhiking when he was younger. My brothers and I listened to his tales of the many hitchhiking adventures he had been on, and they sounded like great fun. He also picked up every hitchhiker he ever spotted, so I was very familiar with what hitchhiking looked and felt like. The guys we picked up were always pretty interesting and my dad and these ‘rides’ were pretty animated story tellers. It was always a fascinating ride when we found a hitchhiker to pick up.

After attending school for most of that first year, I emerged from St. John the Baptist one fine Spring afternoon to a truly sparkling day. I stopped and smelled the sweet scent of the blooming lilacs, marveled at the glistening green lawns, listened to the returning song birds and relished the soft warm breeze as it rustled around my nice, white, ironed shirt. What a nice day, I thought to myself. Then I started the walk to my bus, #38; I dreaded whatever nasty thing Tommy was going to say or do to me on the 45 minute ride home, trapped in the bus.

As I slowly shuffled toward the waiting line of school buses, I had a fabulous, joyful idea; why don’t I hitchhike home? I know the way, and if I get lucky with someone picking me up, I might even beat the bus home! Wow, what a great, fun idea.

So that is just what I did. I walked out of the school parking lot and kind of hung around a neighborhood house until bus #38 drove by, then started walking toward downtown New Brighton.  I knew some of the basics of hitchhiking from listening to my dad, and knew it was a good strategy to start out at a stoplight. There was just one stoplight in New Brighton at that time, so I figured I would start hitchhiking from there. Good plan.

However, after I got to the light, there were lots of people milling around that corner and the idea of hitchhiking with all the grownups around didn’t feel right, so I kept on walking for a block or two. Then, when it felt right, I turned around and stuck my thumb out when I heard a car coming. They didn’t stop. I walked a little further until the next car came. Nothing. So I walked a little further and tried the third car. Nothing.

Oh well, it was a nice day and I was really enjoying the walk. If I don’t get any rides, I can always run part way so I won’t be too late getting home, I figured. I really didn’t think there was a problem and anyway, I didn’t have to deal with Tommy Parks on the bus.

I continued on my journey like this for awhile, crossed over old Hwy 100 (before they changed it to Hwy 694) and walked north along Long Lake Road, the longest stretch of my outing. Just after the little church, the bus would always take a right turn into a neighborhood and emerge further on down the road. Well, I reasoned, I don’t need to take the exact same route as the bus; I’ll just keep going straight on Long Lake Road. I will be kind of like taking a short cut. An advanced strategy indeed!

A mile or so down the road from there was a small hobby farm with a little red barn and a brick house. Each day on the bus I had seen chickens and geese in the yard, doing whatever it was the chickens and geese did. I didn’t have any experience with farm animals at this point in my life and hadn’t given these creatures much thought until I was walking past them that day. Then, for whatever reason, 5 or 6 of these geese started running toward me as fast as they could waddle along. Huh, I thought, I wonder what they are going to do when they get to me? So I stopped to see what would happen.

End of ‘The First Ride’ Part I

See what happens with me and the geese, and if I ever got a ride, next week in Part II of this adventure.

By: John S Mickman

www.mickman.com

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The Art of Hitchhiking

I’m sure you’ve seen those poor souls walking along the side of the road as you’re driving on the highway. Their back is toward you as you speed along; their arm is down by their left leg with a weary thumb hanging out forlornly. For the record: That is not hitchhiking.

Photo credit: theroadandawetblanket.blogspot.com

Successful Hitchhiking is an actual art form, and back in the day, a practiced Hitchhiker could cross the country about as fast as another person could drive across the country. But, one has to know how to do it, and like anything else, the more you practice, the better you get.

From the mid 1950’s through the mid 1980’s I relied on hitchhiking to be a primary mode of transportation. I hitched to and from school, to dates (and sometimes on dates), on visits to friends, to work – and lots of times just for the fun of it. I hitchhiked back and forth to Kodiak, Alaska 2 times and to both the East and West Coast on multiple occasions.

During those years, I prided myself in usually getting a ride within the first 10 cars. It didn’t happen every time, but more often than not I didn’t have to wait more than a couple of minutes to catch a ride. During those years of ‘riding my thumb’, I developed a code of sorts, that I always went by. It goes like this:

1.       If you’re going to walk, then walk. If you’re going to hitchhike, then hitchhike. There is a world of difference. Don’t try to do both at the same time.

2.       Be neat and clean. You don’t have to wear a suit, but you must look nice.

3.       Don’t hitchhike in the rain. This is supposed to be fun, and standing in the rain is not fun. Besides, most drivers don’t want a cold, wet stranger messing up their nice car. Get a cup of coffee at a coffee shop; chances are you can pick up a ride from someone in the restaurant going the same direction as you.

4.       Look like you are on a mission; like you are trying to get somewhere important. Display confidence and good manners. Hold your arm and thumb out straight like you are trying hard. Don’t try to be cool; be sincere.

5.       Before getting into the car, find out how far they are going. NEVER accept a ride from a person that isn’t going at least to the next town or the next stop light. You don’t want to be left in a poor spot to catch a ride. If you do find yourself with a ride that isn’t going to drop you in a good spot, nicely ask them if they would kindly drive a little further to the next light. It is a lot better to ask and not have to walk a mile or two! If you have struck up a good relationship with your ride, they will be happy to help you out. It makes them feel better (and you too!).

6.       Always choose a location at which the driver can easily and safely pull over to pick you up. The best spots are on the far side of a stop light from where the drivers have to stop. Going at 70 miles an hour on a country highway, few people will consider taking the time to pull over, and for sure they won’t have the time to ‘evaluate’ you. They will just keep on driving.

7.       At these stoplight locations, put your backpack down and concentrate on the drivers waiting at the light to go. Don’t stare and don’t let your eyes linger. But, try to make eye contact for a second or two. With this type of ‘connection’, you can sometimes actually pull a driver over to the curb to pick you up. Really!

8.       If you don’t like the looks of the driver, or the other passengers, DO NOT GET INTO THE CAR. This is your decision, not theirs.

9.       When you do get picked up, be friendly and polite. This person picked you up because he/she wanted some company. Get them talking about themselves and make some interesting conversation. Not only will you enjoy yourself, but more often than not, you’ll learn something interesting. And the extra bonus is that this driver will look forward to picking up the next hitchhiker because of the experience he’s had with you.

10.   On long rides, you don’t have to pay for gas; that is not part of the deal. If they want gas money, get out of the car at the next good spot and let the first guy drive away. It is not worth it.

11.   Offer a sincere Thank You to each and every driver when you get in the car - and at the end of the ride. Everyone likes to be appreciated.

In this ‘modern world’, one rarely ever sees and hitchhiker anymore, let alone pick one up. This is too bad. Some of the greatest people I’ve ever met either picked me up – or I picked them up. People helping people; what a nice thing to do for someone.

by John S. Mickman

The Truck Gangsters and the Band of Mercy; Part II

In last week’s story, my best friend Cris and I had started chasing a fox across a log which was crossing a flooded creek. (Click here to read Part I)

Of the four of us Truck Gangsters, I was the undisputed fastest runner, and at about 79 pounds dripping wet, I flew after that fox like there was no tomorrow. He was fast and snaked though the underbrush like greased lightning, but I was quick and had every intention of catching him, I was right on his heels. I was aware of Cris behind me, but my focus was on trying to outrun and outfox this fox, and for a hundred feet or so I thought I was going to catch him. My breath was coming fast and the adrenaline was coursing through my veins like high voltage electricity. Boy, was this ever fun!

Then, in a millisecond, the race ended. The fox and I came upon a really nasty, thick bunch of brambles and were fighting our way through, when all of sudden, a big mallard duck jumped up, quacking and flapping, trying to get free of the same brambles the fox and I were getting caught up in. The duck was right there in front of me, and he couldn’t get free of the thick branches and vines. In a heartbeat, I made the decision to give up on the fox, and catch the duck instead. With one giant leap, with both hands extended, I left the ground and grabbed the duck around his body, just below his wings, and held on tight as we both crashed to the forest floor.

Well, this duck had no intention of being caught, and he was quacking and flapping and pecking at my hands and arms with all he had. I didn’t want him to peck me in the eye, so I had to hold him at arm’s length, as he continued to attack me while flapping his big wings against my scratched, cut up, and now pecked arms. I was getting beat up pretty bad by this duck and some of the cuts were bleeding. But, there was no way I was going to let this duck go. I was lying on the ground, unable to get up because I couldn’t use my arms and the underbrush was too thick to allow me to get my legs underneath me to stand up.

After doing battle with this duck for a minute or so, Cris came rushing through the brambles. “Holy Smokes John”, he cried out. “You caught a duck!”

“Help me”, I cried. “He’s trying to eat me. Look at him. He’s pecking me to death!” Without my buddy Cris’s help, there was no way I could have held onto the duck much longer. I was about done for.

Much to my relief, Cris sidled up to us, and gently grabbed the duck around his wings and folded them back against the warm, plump body of the duck. “Wow, I can’t believe it John. We got a duck. Look how cool he is!” And Cris was right. Our duck was a big old Mallard drake with an iridescent head and neck, with two curled up feather groupings just above his tail. Just a beautiful creature.

By this time, Cris and I had forgotten all about the fox, and we started back through the brush toward the log crossing. As Cris carried the duck across the creek, I knelt down on the log and washed all the dirt, twigs, leaves and blood off of my arms. My face was a little scratched up too and my mom was going to be mad about my torn shirt.

Once on the other side of the creek, there was a pretty good trail and the going was much better than on the other side. “What are we going to do with the duck?” I wondered aloud to Cris.

“Well one thing for sure, we have to show this duck to our dads. I’ve never heard of anyone ever catching a duck by hand. They’re going to think this is really something”, Cris said.

“Yeah, they are going to think this is really neat. Do you think he will fit in your dad’s live trap?” I asked Cris. “If he doesn’t fit, I don’t know where we can keep him ‘till they come home from work.” Cris was pretty sure the duck would fit in there, and we thought it would be a good idea to gather a bunch of weeds and stuff to put in the cage with him. Because Cris had his hands full, I picked some weeds as we paraded past my house and across the street to Cris’s house.

In Mr. Archibald’s shed there was his live trap, and after I put the weeds in the cage, Cris gently put the duck in there. The duck seemed a little bit anxious, but not too bad. “Let’s go get Mark and Brian and show them our duck”, Cris said. So we left the cage in a shady spot under the lilac hedge and got our brothers. Boy, were they ever impressed with us; we were the heroes. We got Mrs. Archibald and showed the duck to her too. She was a little less impressed, but then again, the moms were not really all that interested in our adventures with the local wildlife.

And of course we had to show off to the little kids; the Band of Mercy. Jim, Jody, Becky Sue and little brother Chris expressed a bit of alarm that we had imprisoned this beautiful wild animal and were worried that we were going to eat it. “Well we don’t know what we’re going to do with him yet”, I told them. “But we’re going to show him to dad and Mr. Archibald and they will have a good idea”, I continued.

“That’s right”, Cris said. “It’s not every day that you hear about someone catching a duck by hand. This is a really cool thing, even if you little kids don’t think so. You guys need to just stay away and don’t scare our duck!” With that, Cris and I went into his house and Mrs. Archibald made some sandwiches for us. We told her about the whole adventure while we ate our jelly sandwiches and drank our milk. Wow, what a day we were having.

After lunch, we went around the neighborhood and got Monty Girard and Robby Shimanski and our other friends and showed them our duck while recounting the story.  Our reputations grew by a couple of notches that afternoon. But, we were most looking forward to showing our duck to the dads.

Mr. Archibald always got home before my dad, and when he pulled into the driveway, Cris and I were right there to meet him. “Wait ‘till you see, dad. You won’t believe what John and I did today”, Cris said to his dad between breaths. We were still so excited, it was hard to maintain.

The three of us walked as fast as we could coax Mr. Archibald to go, trying to contain our excitement. When we got to the shade of the lilac hedge, we showed the cage to Mr. Archibald and exclaimed that we had caught that duck. “What duck?” Mr. Archibald asked. “All I see is a bunch of weeds.”

Cris and I were aghast! The Band of Mercy had struck - and released our duck!!!

*  *   *  *  *  *

When brother Jim grew up a little more, he was initiated into the Truck Gangsters, even though he refused to quit the Band of Mercy. The five of us had many, many adventures together and were all fast friends. But our friendships were not to last;

Mark died in a hunting accident when he was 18.

Cris became a gifted musician, but was drafted and went to Vietnam. He suffered from PTS Syndrome and took his own life.

Brian became a renowned marble wildlife sculptor; but he developed cancer and died in his early 40’s.

Brother Jim, Dr. Jimmy the Kid, became a well-known Pulmonologist at Health Partners. Dr. James Mickman recently died of a brain tumor.

It has been said that there are no friends like old friends. I wouldn’t know; I’m the last Truck Gangster.

The Truck Gangsters - A Story by John Mickman

John V Mickman & Kids in the 1950s

Growing up in the suburban community of Fridley, MN in the 1950’s was a great way to get a start in life. Virtually every home in our two block neighborhood had a working dad, a stay at home mom and at least 3 kids. Our family had 5 kids; I was the oldest, then came Mark, Jim, Jody and Chris. All of us were 18 months to 2 years apart.

Brother Mark and I were 18 months apart, and although I was older, Mark was a pretty gifted kid and we were about equal in most physical pursuits. Whenever we did anything together, the activity ended up being a contest. We grew up to be extremely competitive. 

The family across the street, the Archibald’s, had two brothers that were exactly the same age as Mark and me, Brian and Cris. Brother Jim and sister Jody were about the same age as Becky Sue Archibald, and little brother Chris was a part of this younger group. When you’re only 10 years old, a couple of years makes a world of difference, and there were two distinct clubs that formed; the older ones and the younger ones.

Cris Archibald and I were best buddies from the time we were 3 years old; we did everything together. We lived at the brink of the valley formed by Rice Creek and we spend most of our days ‘down the creek’ exploring, fishing, building forts and sliding in the winter. All kinds of fun stuff. Our favorite fishing hole was ‘The 3^rd Spot’, a deep little pool at one side of a long peninsula formed by the winding creek. Although we mostly caught bullheads, we did latch on to the occasional Northern. Mr. Archibald showed us how to clean fish and, unless they were too small, Cris and I ate everything we caught – and we caught a lot. We spent hundreds of days fishing at the 3^rd Spot over the long, languid summers; two young boys sharing our hopes and dreams, discussing the wild adventures we planned to have during our lifetimes.

Our dad purchased a 500 acre farm near St. Francis and at a very early age Cris, Mark, Brian and I spent most weekends ‘at the farm’. Our dad’s idea was that he wanted to engage us boys in some sort of a pursuit that we could work and play together with him. Dad was a really great guy who loved us dearly and taught us much. He decided to grow Christmas Trees on his farm and this is the endeavor that we kids spent most weekends and summers doing. Dad was a full time aeronautical engineer, but all of his personal entrepreneurial pursuits were part time labors of love.

While we did work hard every weekend at the farm, we spent an hour or two at lunch time having fun. We swam, sailed and water-skied in Lake George and, in the Winter, hunted squirrels and rabbits. Dad taught us how to shoot our 22 caliber rifles and we became very good marksmen. The rule while hunting was that we could only shoot the creatures in the head; no body shots. Dad explained this pretty strict rule to us: ‘Any damn fool can shoot an animal in the body so that it dies a slow, painful death’, he told us. ‘But when you shoot an animal in the head he doesn’t feel a thing. And besides, you don’t want to spoil the meat’. To this day, if I don’t have a good clean shot to the head, I don’t fire.

 Mark and I did most of the squirrel and rabbit hunting and it was always a contest to see who would bag the most creatures and who had the cleanest shots. We ate a lot of squirrels and rabbits in those days and had a tall stack of hides in our basement to prove it!

During these years of going back and forth to the farm each weekend, the four of us big boys, Cris, Mark, Brian and I, started calling ourselves The Truck Gangsters. Cris and I even made up a theme song:

                The Truck Gangsters are a wild bunch.

                They’ll beat you up with a single punch,

                And if you get in to their reach,

                They’ll throw you to Wiami Beach.

Cris and I debated about if it was called Wiami or Miami Beach. For quite some time we thought the correct name was Wiami Beach. However, even after doing some exhaustive research (we asked my mom) and learned that the name of the city was really Miami Beach, we decided not to change the lyrics. Dad had a great singing voice, and we all sang song after song while driving back and forth to the farm in his old Chevrolet Apache panel truck.

At about this same time, Jim, Jody, littlest brother Chris and Becky Sue Archibald formed their own club; The Band of Mercy. Jim seemed to be the leader of the group with Becky Sue, and along the way he began to be called ‘Dr. Jimmy the Kid’. Jim’s title seemed reasonable, as their mission was to save the lives of as many creatures as they could. What this really meant was that they would do all they could to minimize the death and destruction of The Truck Gangsters. We were not bad boys at all; we just liked to hunt, fish and sometimes put out a leg hold trap or two.

One warm sunny morning Cris and I were exploring ‘down the creek’ and Rice Creek was bursting at its shores. It had been a very rainy year and the flood water was literally boiling down and around its winding course. Along the way we decided to cross the creek over a huge oak tree that had fallen across the wide creek some time before. We had been using this old log as a bridge for years. Most of the time this old slippery log was above the gently flowing water of the creek. But on this day, the huge log was actually damming up the creek, to an extent, due to the high waterline.

Although we were both excellent swimmers, if we had fallen in we could have been in serious trouble. But of course being young and dumb, we knew we would never get hurt and certainly never die. So we jumped up on the log and started across. When we reached the middle of the slippery log we stopped and contemplated something we’d never seen before. On the upstream side of the log, thick, cream colored foam had gathered into which branches and other forest debris were stacking up. To a couple of young boys, this seemed like it could be a problem.

“Cris, what do you think about all this stuff stuck in the creek from this old tree?” I asked my best buddy.

“Well, if it gets any worse, maybe it might stop up the creek and flood the valley”, Cris replied. “Maybe we should try to shove some of this gunk under the log so nothing bad happens. What do you think John?”

That is just what I had been thinking, so we retreated to the near shore, found a couple of good, forked sticks and went back out along the downed tree. While carefully balancing on the slippery log, we began pushing the foam and flotsam under the tree so it could float freely down the creek, down to the Mississippi River and onto the ocean. We agreed that we were doing good work and that the earth was going to be a better place due to our efforts.

However, this really was hard work, the way we did things, and we had to focus on keeping our balance. We stopped talking and concentrated on the work at hand. We had a big job to do and were resolved to get all this stuff down the creek so that we could save the valley of the certain destruction of the impending flood that we were certain was to follow. It was a good thing we both happened along to save the day!

After a half hour or so of concentrated effort, I was startled by a little red fox that had sauntered out on the log to cross the creek. Cris and I had been quiet for some time, and two young boys on a log across the creek was the last thing this fox was expecting. We both stood, stock still, and looked at each other. Neither the fox nor I moved, although Cris hadn’t spotted this creature yet. I didn’t know what to do – and neither did the fox. We just kept looking at each other. I was surprised at how small and thin he was. But his long red coat was lustrous and the white and black markings on his face gave him a wily, sly kind of a look. I could count each of his long white whiskers. We both were kind of scoping each other out, because neither of us had ever had a close look at a fox or person before.

After what seemed to be a minute or two, I whispered to Cris, “Hey, look at this fox Cris. He’s right here on the log with us.” Cris leaned forward to see the fox whose eyes left mine and moved over to Cris. At this point the fox decided he had had enough of us and jumped up, changed direction in mid air and started running the opposite way across the slick log. “Let’s get ‘em”, Cris yelled.

The race was on. I scampered across the log and into the thicket on the far shore with Cris right on my heels. I had no idea what we would do if we actually caught up to the fox, but at that moment the consequences were not important; we had every intention to win this race and catch the fox.

End of Part I. Find out if Cris and I caught that fox in next week’s conclusion to our story.