A Messy Suspension

From the open skies of Wyoming, here’s this month’s short story about ranch life, an insight I learned from my family, and a piece of trivia.

Story

Dad kept many tools and materials on the ranch that allowed us to do our chores quickly and efficiently. We kids adapted many of them into toys. One year, we used the sheepherder tents to build a Plains Indian village. Another time, we salvaged some railroad ties from the fence lumber to build a raft for the sand dune lake. My favorite was the metal post pounder used to pound steel posts into the ground along our fence lines. A couple of feet long, it had a welded weight on one end, an opening on the other, and a handle bar on each side.

One summer morning, a friend and I woke up early with mischief on our minds. We took the pounder down toward the bunkhouse where the older high school boys were still sleeping. The two of us braced the weighted bottom of the post pounder onto the ground twenty yards away, tilted the open metal pipe at an angle like a mortar tube, and aimed it at the bunkhouse door. My pal dropped a lit cherry bomb firecracker down the pipe, and I followed it with an empty soda

pop can.

When the firecracker exploded, the tin can flew out of the opening in an arc toward the door of the bunkhouse like a cannon shot. With a loud crash, the tin can slammed into the loose piece of tin covering the door. A voice from inside yelled out, “What the hell was that?”

Giggling, my friend and I fired one more round with similar effect. Seconds later, the door flew open with a jerk and four angry high schoolers ran out in their underwear and bare feet, chasing

my friend and me around the ranch yard.

My pal got away into the nearby sand dunes and willows, but I wasn’t so lucky. The angry young men caught me and herded me down to the barn, my desperate pleas for mercy falling on deaf ears. They retrieved four ropes that hung on the wall and fastened one loop to each of my wrists and ankles, suspending me face down a foot above the ground. Were they about to tie the other end of each rope to a separate horse to draw and quarter me? I was helpless to resist.

Instead, they carried my trapped body toward the center of the corral in front of the barn where a fresh pile of cow manure lay steaming in the morning air. Pulling each rope taught from four different directions, they slowly lowered me, my face directly above the cow pie, until my nose

penetrated an inch into the sweltering goo. A moment later, they pulled me back, laughing, and returned to the bunkhouse for another half hour of sleep.

I never bothered them again.

Insight

From Dad: A growing boy must learn the limits of tolerance in another person’s behavior and act accordingly.

Did You Know?

Each of those young men became great friends with me after the incident.

Book News

A Sometimes Paradise won another award! The Bronze IPPY Award in Regional Nonfiction, West-Mountain. The Independent Publisher Book Awards are open to authors and publishers worldwide, rewarding those who “exhibit the courage, innovation, and creativity to bring about change in the world of publishing.” I’m so pleased and honored.

Until next month,

Mark Miller

“My dad frequently said, “Weren’t you paying attention, Mark?” From A Sometimes Paradise.