News from Frank

nonfiction

My brother Frank, unsurprisingly, is my oldest buddy. He’s a born raconteur, and growing up—maybe, if I’m honest, a little past growing up—he liked nothing better than to get the hook into your mouth, reel you in, and get you believing whatever outlandishly entertaining nonsense he was peddling. He’d let you stand there with your mouth hanging open in wonder for a bit, then he’d tell you it was all made up, didn’t happen, and gullible you fell for it. Again. He can still pull that off if he feels like it, but that’s only one side of him. There are others. The life he chose has provided him with lots and lots of good true material and he makes good use of it.

In the early 70s, he bought a small farm in Upstate New York, almost to the St. Lawrence Seaway, and began a life of logging and farming with a team of oxen, Andy and Ivor, much loved but both now long gone from this world.

I remember going up to his place to help bring in the hay a couple times while I was in college and grad school. Those are pleasant, idyllic memories. We worked in the relative cool of morning and evening, Andy and Ivor pulling the antique loader and wagon, with Frank trotting alongside them steering with gees and haws and me, pitchfork in hand, balancing on the rocking wagon and stacking the hay as it came off the loader. In the hot afternoon post lunchtime, we rode horses bareback to a nearby pond, where we went skinny dipping. You haven’t lived if you’ve never gone swimming on horseback.

In the evenings, we’d sit on the porch smoking cigars to keep the mosquitoes away while he entertained me with stories about winter logging in the woods, branches called widow makers that you had to dodge as a tree came down, or playing cat and mouse with a fox who kept devouring his chickens. It was, still is, a world away from the city life I have chosen.    

After giving up logging, Frank made his living as a building contractor and by running cattle and hogs. Nowadays, he’s settled into a quiet retirement with wife Anna, daughter Lauren, and her little girl Josey. We talk on the phone now and then and see each other every couple of years. It’s not enough, but he keeps friends and family abreast of his world by posting Facebook updates from life in the country. I read his posts and often laugh out loud because his voice comes through as if we’re sitting on the porch smoking cigars. I’m grateful for that—and for him—my longest guy friendship.  

In that spirit, here’s my Thanksgiving month nonfiction post, a recent bit of news from Frank involving two dogs with human names, himself, his daughter Lauren, and a possum, who may or may not have had a family:

So last night at about 11:00 I let the dogs out to pee. This is something I do so I won’t have a wet nose on me at 4:30 or 5:00 a.m., accompanied by whining and tail wagging thumping against the wall. 99.9% of the time, it goes like this: “Come on, boys. Let’s go pee.” I open the door and the dogs go out. I follow and encourage them to pee. They instead sniff the air and look intently into the darkness for any sign of intruders that need vanquishing and, finding none, finely pee and follow me back inside, and I say, “Good boys. Let’s go to bed.”

However, on occasion there is an enemy at the gates, as there was last night. Sensing it—the enemy—the boys took off like the hounds of hell. For those of you who don’t know Carl and Bob, they are rescue dogs with mysterious backgrounds that on occasion hijack their otherwise civilized demeanor and rear their ugly heads. As was the case last night.

All the calling and pleading to come back was to no avail and soon I could hear what sounded like one or both of them in great distress, like maybe one or both were in the deadly grip of a saber toothed tiger and fighting for their lives. More calling did nothing to bring them back so I put on boots and enlisted Lauren to help. Flashlights and walking sticks in hand, we went in search of the dogs.

Now across the road from us is wild territory, thick with prickly ash, live and dead fall locust, and terrain that is mountain goat worthy. We made our way through all this towards the screeching growling whining mass of dogs (Carl 120 and Bob 70 lbs) anyway and finally found them shoulder deep and still digging in a hole that housed an equally screeching growling snarling possum—not playing dead!

Several attempts to pull them out of the hole and return to civilization failed, as they were in an impossible-to-penetrate frenzy no matter what we did. Now, you have to understand that where the possum had decided to take up residence was chosen strategically to prevent easy access, on a side hill surrounded with aforementioned prickly ash, dead fall, and moss-covered rocks. Lauren was the first to attempt extraction of our frenzied dogs, while I shined a flashlight sometimes on the dogs and sometimes in Lauren’s face and eyes, which likely didn’t help much.

In spite of that, Lauren got both dogs dragged out of the hole and down the hill, expanding her vocabulary as she struggled with 190 pounds of insane canine. Once down the hill, over, through, and under the bramble, and feeling she had the full attention of the dogs, she let go and told them to follow her home.

The command fell on deaf ears, though, and the combatants returned to the field of battle.

Now I, having recently achieved the statically significant Age of Enlightenment, decided the dogs just needed a firmer, more authoritative hand, so up the hill goes I walnut walking stick in hand to assert said authority, and by virtue of strength and authority flung first Bob then Carl down the hill, only for them to rush back and continue their efforts to extract this now furious defender of his or her domain and possibly young family. A second attempt with my now diminishing strength and heaving chest yielded no results, so the employ of the walking stick was then required! Remember, I’m entangled in thick prickly ash, on a steep side hill, with a flash lite in my mouth, frenzied dogs, and a now ferocious wild animal inches from me.

In the ensuing battle with dog and beast, I swing my mighty cudgel amid my own mighty vocabulary of commands to cease and desist that are being ignored by one and all. I tangle and fall on and over the combatants and twist, falling ass end into the now widened hole. I now dig deeper into my colorful vocabulary and fall deeper and deeper into my own frenzy that finally gives the dogs pause, throw all my remaining strength and resolve into extracting my posterior from danger of attack from below. And, somehow, I managed to crawl out of the tangled mess I’d found myself in and got a hand on Carl, and Lauren had Bob by then

So, after much huffing and puffing, I regained my feet and, dragging dog and exhausted body, we headed for home. At this point the neighbors, having heard this commotion, came out to find us battered and bruised and helped us down a path they had cut through this tangled mess to their house, then up the driveway to home. All the way, the dogs kept looking back towards the scene of battle.

Many thanks to Ronald and Cheyenne, our neighbors, for the assistance.

Bob and Carl will be under house arrest for the next few weeks.

Happy Thanksgiving everybody.