Older Whiskey
Well-known member
Here is one of my favorite stories from my early days posted here years ago.
Ebenezer and the 49 Ford
Unbeknownst to me, my grandpa's old mule, Eb was spending a few days at our ranch. Eb wasn't a real donkey mule, he was a hinny since his pappy was a horse. He wasn't kept in the corral since his resume included wood sculpturing with a specialty in split rails. He was kept in the five acres known as our yard that was fenced with steel posts, five strands of barbed wire, twisted wire staid mutton tight, although no sheep were to be found within miles. I was the black sheep of the family and there was no ba ba about it.
Whilst I was only sixteen and should have been crazy about horses and boys, I suppose one factor that kept me from falling off the cliff to such a storybook romance valley, was the three neighbor boys, not cowboys, but wranglers. Horse raisers with delusional ideas that they were horse breakers. I was raised with wisdom from my grandpa that was a horse and mule raiser and had used mules for plowing fields, harvesting hay, and horses for real old west cattle drives. His wisdom gained from experience taught me that men do not break horses, the horses break them. He laughed about horse whispering and said believing in such was not even good horse sense.
Spontaneous might describe my decision to buy a 1949 Ford pickup. I had seen one for sale out at the end of a long drive leading up to a ranch. I was on a mission that day delivering hay and had no time to take the long drive up to the main house. I noticed the grill on it was a bit smashed and would certainly need replacing before one such as myself could be seen in the parade before the rodeo, with the window down, parade waving and throwing candy to the kids and ignoring dirty looks from their parents that were burdened and heavily ladened with dental bills. Old doctor Harry would smile and wave while his wife, his dental assistant, blew kisses.
Sluggish might describe how I felt the next hot summer evening when I made the decision to go back and buy that old pickup. My mother had told me to go back early in the morning and buy it because the early bird always gets the worm. It wasn't a worm so I felt no urgency. As I entered the drive heading up to the ranch, I saw the old 49 racing downhill toward me. I pulled off to the side as it sped by with a young man about my age at the wheel wearing a beat-up old cowboy hat. He smiled and waved. I could tell he wasn't a real cowboy, just a rodeo type, probably a team roper, and still living with his mama downtown.
Disappointment overshadowed my enthusiasm as the kindly old ranch lady confirmed it was sold to Mr. Goat Roper and he was going to make a hot rod out of it. Her husband hobbled out to let me know it was in excellent mechanical condition and all original. He wished I had come sooner, but if wishes were horses he would be riding his old quarter horse as the Grand Marshall in the upcoming parade and I would be driving the old Ford and promoting decay and contributing to organized dental crime.
Several days later whilst I wallowed in unnecessary pity over my recent loss due to my own lack of quick response, my eyes caught sight of an ad for a 1949 Ford pickup for sale. The ad said to bring your own can of gas and a good six-volt battery. It had a perfect grill which was ideal since I had no time left for doing bodywork. With no time to waste, I unhooked the six-volt from the old John Deere and I grabbed a five-gallon can of gas ready to go to the field with the old John Deere. One of my older cousins had just come to visit and seeing I was a desperate woman on a time-sensitive mission, handed me the keys to her new Chevy Camaro. She regretted calling shotgun as gravel flew and the Camaro cow-tailed like an Angus with butt horseflies.
Amidst all this panic with time being of the essence, I saw flashing lights behind me. I pulled over and despite me flashing him an innocent smile, the handsome young officer wrote me my first ticket. My cousin quoted a Bible verse about my lawlessness, since my mom was not at hand to administer verbal Biblical punishment.
I arrived at the ranch offering my dream 49 for sale. It was still for sale and the body was perfect. Sure the paint was faded but no dents and the grill was perfect. The grill is what announced the glory of these old iron ponies. I had cash and with no hesitation, I shelled out the cash, all four one hundred dollar bills like I would the candy at the parade. With the John Deere's six-volt installed and an empty can of tractor gas, I headed down the road with my cousin following in her Camaro, still a bit confused over this entire event. It was apparent to her that while she was a real deal ranch woman, her mentoring over the years to try and girl me up, had failed.
Arriving back at the ranch, after buying a new six-volt, filling the tank with gas, and buying new jeans and a top for the parade, the only parking spot left was on top of the hill that went down to the field where the old Johnny popper was parked with the drawbar raised.
It was late so I took no care in trying to get the old transmission in a gear. I learned to double-clutch quickly and in a hurry on my way home. With the emergency brake pulled and my beauty parked on the flat, howbeit the top of a hill, I went inside and slept like a goat milk-fed baby with a fresh cotton diaper. The next morning I woke early and got all gussied up since it was parade day.
Sashaying out to where my new love was parked, my parade date, my ace on the table that would mock the wrangler boys, and their idea that girls should not drive old pickup trucks, had me standing in shock. Some thief had stolen my pickup or perhaps a prank by the wrangler boys. I ran inside announcing in an outdoor rodeo voice that would be suitable for Swiss yodeling, that my pickup had been stolen.
Looking out the dining room window, I saw old Eb moseying around. He seemed to have a smirk on his face, a look of guilt, so I went outside to confront him. He had moseyed over to the crest of the hill and stood looking below where the John Deere was parked. I ran over there and looked down to see my new old pickup had gone downhill and its front had smashed into the old JD's rear. That perfect grill was smashed. It was obvious that Eb had pushed my pickup from the rear. His hair with some rude mule smudging was all over the tailgate.
I fired up the International and towed the 49 back up and checked it out. The radiator was still good, all the damage was just cosmetic with one exception. The emergency brake cable had broken giving way to all the shoving by old Eb. I will never know whether Eb did it intentionally or not, but being my grandpa's special mule and having a Biblical name, I had to let it ride. My grandpa named and renamed all his mules, horses, and dogs with Biblical names. The mare always breaking out was Jezebel, and one dog was Moreover. Yes, that is Biblical from the story of Lazarus, "Moreover , the dog, licked his sores." Meshack, Shadrack, and Abednego were rescues from a barn fire, but my favorite is the story behind John the Baptist. His name was Moses before my Grandpa was bucked off crossing the river. Had he been down stream where the red clay banks tinted the water red, no name change would have been necessary.
With wood blocks for safe parking and my diva ranch cousins boys in the back, throwing candy, I crept along in the parade like I was driving the best of the show, a blue ribbon winner. With the boys in the back, my hand was freed to give a continuous parade wave. It wasn't my fault that her boys, spoiled little mutton busters, ate one piece of candy for every piece they threw, but somehow that was added to my black sheep list.
Ebenezer and the 49 Ford
Unbeknownst to me, my grandpa's old mule, Eb was spending a few days at our ranch. Eb wasn't a real donkey mule, he was a hinny since his pappy was a horse. He wasn't kept in the corral since his resume included wood sculpturing with a specialty in split rails. He was kept in the five acres known as our yard that was fenced with steel posts, five strands of barbed wire, twisted wire staid mutton tight, although no sheep were to be found within miles. I was the black sheep of the family and there was no ba ba about it.
Whilst I was only sixteen and should have been crazy about horses and boys, I suppose one factor that kept me from falling off the cliff to such a storybook romance valley, was the three neighbor boys, not cowboys, but wranglers. Horse raisers with delusional ideas that they were horse breakers. I was raised with wisdom from my grandpa that was a horse and mule raiser and had used mules for plowing fields, harvesting hay, and horses for real old west cattle drives. His wisdom gained from experience taught me that men do not break horses, the horses break them. He laughed about horse whispering and said believing in such was not even good horse sense.
Spontaneous might describe my decision to buy a 1949 Ford pickup. I had seen one for sale out at the end of a long drive leading up to a ranch. I was on a mission that day delivering hay and had no time to take the long drive up to the main house. I noticed the grill on it was a bit smashed and would certainly need replacing before one such as myself could be seen in the parade before the rodeo, with the window down, parade waving and throwing candy to the kids and ignoring dirty looks from their parents that were burdened and heavily ladened with dental bills. Old doctor Harry would smile and wave while his wife, his dental assistant, blew kisses.
Sluggish might describe how I felt the next hot summer evening when I made the decision to go back and buy that old pickup. My mother had told me to go back early in the morning and buy it because the early bird always gets the worm. It wasn't a worm so I felt no urgency. As I entered the drive heading up to the ranch, I saw the old 49 racing downhill toward me. I pulled off to the side as it sped by with a young man about my age at the wheel wearing a beat-up old cowboy hat. He smiled and waved. I could tell he wasn't a real cowboy, just a rodeo type, probably a team roper, and still living with his mama downtown.
Disappointment overshadowed my enthusiasm as the kindly old ranch lady confirmed it was sold to Mr. Goat Roper and he was going to make a hot rod out of it. Her husband hobbled out to let me know it was in excellent mechanical condition and all original. He wished I had come sooner, but if wishes were horses he would be riding his old quarter horse as the Grand Marshall in the upcoming parade and I would be driving the old Ford and promoting decay and contributing to organized dental crime.
Several days later whilst I wallowed in unnecessary pity over my recent loss due to my own lack of quick response, my eyes caught sight of an ad for a 1949 Ford pickup for sale. The ad said to bring your own can of gas and a good six-volt battery. It had a perfect grill which was ideal since I had no time left for doing bodywork. With no time to waste, I unhooked the six-volt from the old John Deere and I grabbed a five-gallon can of gas ready to go to the field with the old John Deere. One of my older cousins had just come to visit and seeing I was a desperate woman on a time-sensitive mission, handed me the keys to her new Chevy Camaro. She regretted calling shotgun as gravel flew and the Camaro cow-tailed like an Angus with butt horseflies.
Amidst all this panic with time being of the essence, I saw flashing lights behind me. I pulled over and despite me flashing him an innocent smile, the handsome young officer wrote me my first ticket. My cousin quoted a Bible verse about my lawlessness, since my mom was not at hand to administer verbal Biblical punishment.
I arrived at the ranch offering my dream 49 for sale. It was still for sale and the body was perfect. Sure the paint was faded but no dents and the grill was perfect. The grill is what announced the glory of these old iron ponies. I had cash and with no hesitation, I shelled out the cash, all four one hundred dollar bills like I would the candy at the parade. With the John Deere's six-volt installed and an empty can of tractor gas, I headed down the road with my cousin following in her Camaro, still a bit confused over this entire event. It was apparent to her that while she was a real deal ranch woman, her mentoring over the years to try and girl me up, had failed.
Arriving back at the ranch, after buying a new six-volt, filling the tank with gas, and buying new jeans and a top for the parade, the only parking spot left was on top of the hill that went down to the field where the old Johnny popper was parked with the drawbar raised.
It was late so I took no care in trying to get the old transmission in a gear. I learned to double-clutch quickly and in a hurry on my way home. With the emergency brake pulled and my beauty parked on the flat, howbeit the top of a hill, I went inside and slept like a goat milk-fed baby with a fresh cotton diaper. The next morning I woke early and got all gussied up since it was parade day.
Sashaying out to where my new love was parked, my parade date, my ace on the table that would mock the wrangler boys, and their idea that girls should not drive old pickup trucks, had me standing in shock. Some thief had stolen my pickup or perhaps a prank by the wrangler boys. I ran inside announcing in an outdoor rodeo voice that would be suitable for Swiss yodeling, that my pickup had been stolen.
Looking out the dining room window, I saw old Eb moseying around. He seemed to have a smirk on his face, a look of guilt, so I went outside to confront him. He had moseyed over to the crest of the hill and stood looking below where the John Deere was parked. I ran over there and looked down to see my new old pickup had gone downhill and its front had smashed into the old JD's rear. That perfect grill was smashed. It was obvious that Eb had pushed my pickup from the rear. His hair with some rude mule smudging was all over the tailgate.
I fired up the International and towed the 49 back up and checked it out. The radiator was still good, all the damage was just cosmetic with one exception. The emergency brake cable had broken giving way to all the shoving by old Eb. I will never know whether Eb did it intentionally or not, but being my grandpa's special mule and having a Biblical name, I had to let it ride. My grandpa named and renamed all his mules, horses, and dogs with Biblical names. The mare always breaking out was Jezebel, and one dog was Moreover. Yes, that is Biblical from the story of Lazarus, "Moreover , the dog, licked his sores." Meshack, Shadrack, and Abednego were rescues from a barn fire, but my favorite is the story behind John the Baptist. His name was Moses before my Grandpa was bucked off crossing the river. Had he been down stream where the red clay banks tinted the water red, no name change would have been necessary.
With wood blocks for safe parking and my diva ranch cousins boys in the back, throwing candy, I crept along in the parade like I was driving the best of the show, a blue ribbon winner. With the boys in the back, my hand was freed to give a continuous parade wave. It wasn't my fault that her boys, spoiled little mutton busters, ate one piece of candy for every piece they threw, but somehow that was added to my black sheep list.
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