The next morning, even for a 17-year-old, Carl realized he was in a huge amount of trouble. His foot was discolored and swollen so that it looked more gray than pink, with small red spots where he had bled beneath the skin. He hadn’t realized that taking aspirin would only permit more bleeding and more swelling.
Took him like, twenty minutes, but he managed to change his underwear and pants and put his sock and boot back on his injured right foot. He found a copy of Colliers magazine on the bookshelf and, using the bandage roll from his first aid kit, tied on a splint to help prevent his foot from flexing. Once this was in place, Carl laid back on his cot and propped his throbbing foot on a pillow. And he worried. And thought. A few minutes later, he remembered that he needed to check in with his dispatcher for his 8 a.m.
Took him a few painful moments to get to the phone, but he rang up the dispatcher. It wasn’t Jackson this time, but another guy named Lloyd. “Huckleberry Mountain Reporting in,” Carl said.
“Roger,” said the voice on the other end. “How’s the fire?”
“It’s out.” Carl answered.
“That’s not what I heard from Hornet Peak,” said Lloyd.
“That’s my smokey stove,” Carl answered quickly.
“Roger that.” said the voice.
“Bye,” said Carl.
“Bye.”
Carl was in a panic. There must have been a hot place somewhere that caught fire again down at the snag. Grabbing his crutch, Carl hobbled back out his door and down the short distance to the wildfire place. Didn’t hurt as much at all, as long as he didn’t hit his foot against any beargrass or stones or deadfall. Sure enough. There was considerable smoke coming from the snag itself, close to the root end where he had felled it.
Worse luck, he had forgotten to bring any tool. Going up was more than twice as hard, he thought, but got back to his cabin. Where was the pulaski? He looked in the usual places, but the damn thing was gone. Then he remembered that he had left it down at the fire after he had gotten hurt.
Another hobble had just the few painful moments when his right foot bumped into something. He found his pulaski close to the far end of the snag, where he had left it to return to his lookout cabin.
Turns out putting out the fire in the snag was a lot tougher than he thought it was going to be. He found it impossible to split the snag open without bucking it into some shorter lengths first. And his foot hurt whenever he stood to work. Took him more than two hours to split up the snag in order to scrape out the burning part, then cool the embers in dirt, chopping them finer and finer until the fire was out. At last Bud could touch all parts of the burnt snag with his bare hands and could find nothing more afire.
This time he left his crutch below, leaning on the ax end of his pulaski as a cane to help him climb back to the lookout. Bud was filthy, stinky, sweaty, tired, and very hungry and thirsty. He took care of his thirst first, then laid down on his cot again. He had to check in again four times a day: 8 a.m., then 1, 5 and 8 p.m. He kept track of the time on his government wristwatch. He scrambled a half-dozen eggs mixed with an onion for lunch while he waited for time to report to the dispatcher for the 1 p.m. check. He used a bit of his precious water to clean his pan and fork that he used to cook and eat the eggs, then used the same water to wash his filthy sooty hands. He rinsed the pan and fork, then reserved the rinse water for the next washing. Only he used some of it to clean his face. This time the conversation with Lloyd was different. Lloyd asked Carl to take an extra careful look at the countryside to make sure no more smokes had popped up from the previous night’s lightning storm. Carl promised to do so.
Carl Bonde’s high school graduation picture, 1941.
Tried napping after lunch, had the usual hot bath while Carol was off playing bridge. Gunther barked about 40 times, I don’t know, didn’t count. I switched on the bathroom fan. Noisy. I give her bed A+ for firmness, yet so kind and gentle to my tired self. Gunther’s barking stopped. Then it started again. I decided I can ignore it.
Great sleep. Wait. What if he needed out to poop or pee? I got up, light-headed from the four pills prescribed by my psychiatrist and the five prescribed by my internist. Look. I’m a pharmacist. Retired, yes, but a pharmacist through and through and I … have gotten off the track here. My normal standing blood pressure returns.
I slept a great nap. The dog? Man, I’d better let him out. In fact, the little guy was right next to the door, looking out. Oh. he tore up a bit of carpet. Son of a bitch.
In fact the son of a dog had torn up a corner of carpet in front of the door. In an obvious place. I tried to tuck it in, to hide it. I considered finding some glue and gluing the pile of yarn onto the torn place. Maybe weigh it all down with a rock. What if I cut the wild yarns? I look around for scissors. None in the old desk drawers. I remember seeing a fingernail clipper in the bathroom, on the edge of the sink.
It is not there. I look in the medicine cabinet and lo! I return to the damaged carpet and with a bit of effort, clip off the offensive yarns. I hide the evidence in the kitchen trash.
I try to imagine Carol’s reaction upon seeing the destruction. Is she too old and decrepit to notice?
Finally good sense returns. I’ll confess to the obvious damage and repair the carpet.
If I haven’t become a responsible man in 67 years, then when can may I anticipate becoming one?
April 12, 2016
Things I cannot explain:
How working a piece of wood or stone causes it to travel life’s journey with us. I have a few examples about the house.
How speaking of someone seems to bring them to us. Example: a few days ago I wrote about Martha Wolfname, Lloyd Yellowrobe’s late mother. Then I encountered Helen Yellowrobe, Lloyd’s wife the next day.
The synchronicity of particulars in the I Ching. How the hexagrams seem to hit the mark.
The way (direction, distance) that leads backward in time. Bear Butte. The Road North.
The hope we derive from prayers.
The goodness that comes from trusting and courage.
Carl Ralph Bonde, Jr. was killed by a torpedo from U-486, a submarine built and outfitted in Kiel, Germany, where my co-worker Jean Loran’s grandfather designed the system that permitted it to stay on the bottom of the English Channel. Subsequently, Jean’s mother was taken prisoner of war by Great Britain.
Today I worked at a pharmacy with a technician named Jean Loran. Her mother was a German prisoner of war in Great Britain during World War II. Her grandfather’s work for the Nazis was instrumental in causing my uncle, Carl Ralph Bonde, Jr.’s death. Isn’t that interesting?
April 9, 2016
My faithful dog, Gunther, sprints to me when I call.
He comes, unless he’s digging up some kind of shit two houses away. Then I called and this Palooka across the street yells a mocking “Haw haw!” when Gunther ignores me.
I play it cool, although I’m hot. I call again: “Gunther, come! Bah!” The last is supposed to mimic the sound an alpha dog would make. I paid a guy $300 for that trick. And a few other tricks too. It doesn’t work, so I sit on the front step.
Gunther continues to goof off two houses away. Then Becky and her four-year-old son Jack arrive in Becky’s mighty SUV. As B. exits the car I ask her to call G.
The little brown fellow is already racing to greet them.
I turn my head in embarrassment.
April 9, 2016 Another ranting derived from the Birth of the Bookstore in Billings.
The loft above the Good Earth Market had a bunch literary types: editors, authors, readers, some lawyers. Guys with hairy faces. A man with a didgerydoo, a day pack and some other unknown object walked through a couple times. Gave my mood a boost. Wow, that other guy has the best Van Dyke beard and mustache I’ve ever seen.
We worked through the by-laws that form the bookstore co-operative. Note: I use the hyphen to avoid the chicken coop image. Troubling in a bookstore because of feathers, dust, and of course those little mites that can infect chickens and other poultry.
I’d name the venture: “Poetry not Poultry.” Oh, and Carrie LaSeur announced a naming contest for the bookstore.
My other entry: “Buy a Book.” Nah. It’s got to look good on the invoice. “Billings Feminist Bookstore.” No. Not accurate. “Bookstore.” “Women and Women First.” Stolen from Portlandia. “Liberal Books.” Hmm might get a brick through the window. “Politics and Enough Fun.” Something like that. No use baiting people who watch Fox News. “Queer Books” has an edgy feel. How about “Gaily Read.” “Lesbian Lit, the Straight Shit.” I guess one doesn’t want what might be construed as a naughty word in the name. Like “Fuck Books and Cowboy Stories.” Hmm leaves out too much. “All books.” Says a lot.
I bought eleven shares of stock. “Books” is the plainest name. “I Like Books so Fucking Much I can’t Shit.” has an R rating. “Selected Books.” is pure and honest sounding. I don’t want to try for a long name. People won’t bother reading it. Clever names: “Bite Me Books.” “Mind Meat.” “Veggies Growing,” has a great feeling. “Home Grown Bookstore.” “Bathtub Companion.” “Read a book, Take a nap.” “Read a book, Take a crap.” I always liked “Secret Hippie Stuff.”
I’m out of ideas.
Tonight, man, I joined a whole bunch of other counter culture types to start, man, a BOOKSTORE!
A truly hip store, independent of, you know, the FBI or CIA or Homeland Security. This is COOL. A free press, dude, is basic to our constitutional rights as citizens. You know what I’m saying? Fox news and the Nazis are powerless when we know what is going on. Truly.
I have been a board member on two or three boards of directors, so I was hip to the way these things need to start. Plus we had at least 2 or 3 lawyers present, so we have a solid start. If I could spell their names I’d tell you who is chair, vice chair and secretary treasurer.
Now I’m giving you my sales pitch: Invest $100 of your bread in this store. If you’ve got more bread than that, then invest it too. You don’t have to live in Billings, Montana.
Love Story:
They love each other. They are everywhere! Together.
Huzzah! They become intimates. Yes, that intimate.
One starts looking ‘downright plain,’ the other thinks.
Phone call. “Well.” [silence]. “Well?” [silence]
Answer: “What?”
Now they are back together! One speaks of marriage. The other speaks of…putting his head up his own ass. Oh, they used to laugh at Archimedes and, of course, he was just bathing.
Now they are apart. That was 49 years ago. They got rid of each other, at last. Well, almost.
They still have each others’ record collections.
They still have their faith in Dog.
I dealt with my difficulties in school by practicing magic tricks. Many times I worked them first for my mother. “See, I made it disappear!” I declared.
“No you didn’t,” my mother said. “Do you think I’m a fool?”
I made this photo in my bedroom in Dillon, Montana.
I made all of this, except for the linking rings trick, which I bought in Seattle, and the silk scarves, which I borrowed from mother.
How many of these popular illusions can you identify? I didn’t think so.
The tall table, or servante, at the left, has a hole on its black velvet surface. For some reason I couldn’t find anyone willing for me to astonish my friends.
The nesting boxes in the foreground can hold a vanished coin or ring from a spectator, to be discovered later, although I don’t remember ever actually using it. You may remember the disappearing die trick on the table. I baffled my few friends before they got sick of watching.
I made the silk-production tube out of a couple tin cans. Eventually I made friends with a real vaudeville magician named Kenny, who let me use his. When I knew him, Kenny made money doing shows in nightclubs in SW Montana. I remember that he had a scarred hand from punching a heckler in the teeth. He had a bad “ticker,” and he admonished me to develop a “row-teen.”
“You gotta have a row-teen,” he repeated.
The box with the open front would produce a live chicken. I only used it for that purpose once.
This handsome young man is my oldest grandson. He speaks excellent French, so he took Penny and me to Paris, then to St. Nazarre, on the Bay of Biscay.
Josiah isn’t just incredibly smart, he is an accomplished athlete, excelling at soccer cross country, and swimming. He and his family spend most of each year in Washington D.C.
This young man is also monitoring my mental health, and for that I am grateful.
insearchofbud 