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"The Crosstie Competition"
Bud and Ronnie were friends. They had been since diaper days.. long before they started to school at Carpenter. As pre-schoolers, the boys romped together at the Carpenter Community Center during quilting season while their mamas.. Ella and Gertie Mae.. .and a host of friends meticulously stitched together dozens of intricately patterned quilts. These quilting sessions predated television and routinely brought women together, promoting the rapid dissemination of local gossip. Nothing happened in the Carpenter farming community that wasn't rehashed at the quiltings. Marriages were planned and the results reviewed. Gestation periods were carefully calculated to determine if "intimacy" had occurred prematurely. Baby showers were arranged if the "appropriate" nine months could be accounted for. In the Carpenter community, childrens' birthdays were celebrated by the ladies' group only if their mamas were quilters. While the women stitched and tossed stories back and forth across the quilts suspended between them, the kids were sent outdoors to play kick-the-can, red rover, hide-and-seek, cowboys and Indians...the kinds of games kids played before television captured their minds and before computers conspired to limit their outdoor exposure. Bud and Ronnie were close in age and disposition.. oozing with competitive mischief. At age ten, bicycles entered their lives.. .Ronnie's purple boys' bike, a gift from Wade and Gertie, and Bud's...a niece's castoff...a girl's bike. With bikes at their disposal, their small world expanded to include the dusty farm-to-market roads crisscrossing the Carpenter community. Cautious parents gave the lads more rope, allowing them to venture further from home, but not east of the Katy railroad. "Bud, if I catch you near the highway, I'll whomp your skinny butt 'til your lips fall off," Clell threatened before Bud headed down the long winding road leading to the "Katy" railroad and Highway 34. Clell wasn't prone to making dire threats, but he knew how Bud's mama fretted over her youngest son's safety, and wanted to drive the point home. "Won't go no further than the old depot," Bud would yell, pedaling furiously to escape the possibility of serious facial damage or before more restrictions were imposed. Bud took Clell's threats seriously.. .having learned from practical experience that his father's threats were not idle.. and both boys avoided Highway 34 which lay a half mile east of the railroad. Bud and Ronnie often played at the old "Katy" depot. It was a solidly built structure with a weathered, heavy plank platform stretching from the tiny passenger waiting room to the mainline tracks out front. The garish little building, painted Halloween yellow with black trim, sat snugly between the shiny main track and a pair of rusty, seldom-used side tracks. The M-K&T Railroad took adequate care of its oft vacant Carpenter depot, but the waiting room was open to the elements, and pigeons routinely roosted on bare rafters, exposing the rare passenger to threatening lineups of feathered bombardiers. Sturdy wooden benches displayed colorful splashes of the pigeons' unwelcome generosity. The "Katy" Railroad's powerful coal-fired locomotive towed a passenger and baggage car through the community thrice weekly. Its few paying customers usually hailed from larger farm communities and towns up and down the line. Another smoke-belching behemoth pulled freight cars through Carpenter daily. The rail line was busiest during harvest when chuffing engines spewed billowing plumes of acrid gray smoke, dragging bulging wheat cars from remote Northern Oklahoma grain elevators to southern flour mills. Bud and Ronnie loved the pungent smell of coal-fired freight trains.. .those colorful caravans of tank and box cars trailed by bright yellow-orange cabooses. The depot's other compartment.. .a storage room... stirred the boys' fertile imaginations. They were convinced its padlocked door hid obscure treasures, the value of which was subject to grand speculation. That these "treasures" were merely sledge hammers, burlap bags of railroad spikes, hoes and other tools used by sweaty "section gangs" to maintain the tracks would have sorely aggrieved the lads. Occasionally, work crews dumped creosote-soaked crossties, in carefully juxtaposed stacks, on the grassy railroad right-of-way near the depot. The smelly piles of rough-hewn timber rose like dark podiums at regular intervals...an irresistible challenge to young males programmed by natural impulse to leap across beckoning spaces. Ronnie saw the crossties through an open window of the yellow Hammon school bus as it rattled ponderously across the bumpy tracks north of the depot. "Hey, Bud! New crossties. I'll meetcha here after chores?" Bud stopped pestering the Tucker sisters.. Nelda and Karen.. long enough to confirm the truth of his pal's observation. "I'll swing by your place in an hour, Ron." Their often insult-laced repartee.. .an interesting departure from the boys' generally serious demeanor.. .was evidence of a fierce competition that bonded this childhood friendship. They had jumped from every local county bridge, climbed every massive cottonwood tree, scaled every steep bluff in the community.. always on a dare that overpowered youthful common sense. Fortunately, neither youngster had suffered serious injury performing these questionable acts of courage. Today's contest, gap-hopping, was one of their less risky escapades. After chores, Ronnie waited by his mailbox for Bud, and they rode to the railroad depot together. Enroute, the inevitable bike race ensued with no clear winner. Bud had the faster bike.. even though it was a girl's bike.. .but Ronnie exhibited greater stamina which offset his friend's equipment advantage. They made a beeline for the old depot, intending to pester early-roosting pigeons. The startled birds quickly abandoned their depot rafter perches, and the frustrated young meddlers pedaled across the dusty road to three gleaming stacks of crossties. They flung their bikes carelessly against the outlying pile and scrambled up its grimy side, careful not to soil their denims with oozing, coal-tar extract. The stacks stood head-high, but provided narrow footholds, easing their ascent. Standing atop the first stack like a conquering hero, Bud squinted into the sun, visually measured the open space that stretched before him, tested his footing, spit, took several quick strides and jumped. His feet scooted slightly after touching down on the adjacent pile, but he kept his balance. "Whatcha waiting on, Ronnie?" he chirped. "Walk over here and join me. The gap's too much for you to handle." Ronnie ignored the insult, drew a deep breath, jumped, and landed with a reassuring thud next to Bud. The odorous middle stack had been vanquished. "Hey! Not bad for a slow kid." Bud's compliment dripped with condescension. "Big deal, Bud. I coulda stepped across!" Ronnie.. in those early days.. toted a few extra pounds of youthful chubbiness, and only Bud could kid him about this "spare" weight. Anyone else using the offensive expressions invited trouble. Bud carefully studied the next gap. The section gang had stacked the second and third piles further apart. Even if he cleared the daunting void, Bud faced the considerable risk of tumbling on his butt and smearing his new Foremost jeans with creosote. He had purchased the denims with hard-earned "cotton pickin' money," and they had to last until spring. The leap would be hazardous, but he had no choice in the matter. Ronnie casually spat downwind and watched while Bud dithered. Ronnie had the option of jumping first, but it wasn't his turn today. So Bud led the charge. If his effort failed, that would end it. But if Bud succeeded, Ronnie was compelled to follow.. or suffer distressing humiliation. Bud figured he could easily clear this last gap, but the "slick" factor made it a dice proposition. To gain momentum, he backpedaled, made a cursory practice run, backpedaled again, then took off He easily hurdled the open space, but on landing, his right foot slipped and only youthful agility averted a nasty spill on the oily surface. It also spared him a severe tongue-lashing from his mama. Ella didn't tolerate ripped or creosote-stained denims. She hadn't been feeling well lately and ill-health had affected her normally pleasant disposition. "Like eaten' apple pie," Bud said, after recovering from his near disaster. "Don't try it though, Ronnie. The landing's too slick for a heavy boy." Ronnie's anxiety had escalated when Bud almost fell. His eyes cautiously measured the gap, heart pounding as he backtracked toward the opposite edge. Sensing Ronnie's apprehension, Bud taunted, "Don't believe I'd do it, Ron. It's a tough jump." Ronnie glowered at his jeering friend. A pair of pigeons, cautiously circling the nearby depot, momentarily distracted Bud. When he turned back to watch Ronnie attempt the jump, his friend had vanished! A muffled noise rose from between the stacks of crossties. "Where are you, Ronnie?" "Bud! I cracked my skull! Come 'ere!" Bud knew from his friend's shrill tone, Ronnie was hurt. He jumped down and rushed to the ashen-faced youngster's aid. Seeking more running room, Ronnie had backpedaled too far and tumbled to the ground. His head slammed against the top edge of the adjoining pile, smack-dab on his right ear. "Move your paw, Ronnie! You're bleeding like a stuck hog!" Bud yelled in a screechy voice. His anxiety was apparent. Blood flowed between Ronnie's fingers and down his neck, soaking his white tee shirt. The bright red streams terrified Bud. He recoiled at the thought of seeing Ronnie's awful wound. Ronnie dropped his bloody hand for Bud's reluctant inspection. The top of his ear was firmly in place, securely attached to his head. The lobe portion.. well.. that was a different colored horse. It was still connected, but dangling by a slim thread of tortured flesh, flopping loosely in the brisk Oklahoma breeze. "Good grief Ronnie! You've cut your ear off!" Bud bellowed, unmindful of his harsh appraisal's traumatic impact on the victim. Bud was panic-strickened, and his faulty characterization of the injured ear's condition magnified Ronnie's stress. Ronnie frantically clutched the lacerated appendage and scrambled aboard his bike. Wailing loudly.. .from fright more than pain.. .he headed home, pedaling furiously with Bud in hot pursuit. Bud learned an indelible lesson that late summer evening, eating Ronnie's road dust.. .the power of fear fueled by a few pints of surging adrenaline. In their race to the depot, the boys had finished in a dead heat. In the fear-inspired mad dash for help, the injured Ronnie won by 200 yards...in a 550-yard race. Ronnie pedaled the slower bike, but on this particular trip home, he raced like the wind, caterwauling all the way, horrible visions of a tragic, one-eared existence searing his smoking brain. Because of the eventful "crosstie competition," Ronnie sported a scarred ear into adulthood. Fortunately, his hearing was unimpaired and Bud, ever the supportive friend, was quick to remind him that the unfortunate accident had actually improved his physical appearance. Needless to say, that was the end of Bud and Ronnie's crosstie competitions. |