I was bored and sad that nobody had commented on my last blog (I changed the title to protect...something) so I was reading some of my past blogs and realized that I hadn't written about the other shooting. Once again we return to those thrilling days of yesteryear...
It was the Fall of1965 (probably) my Dad was working as a diesel-shovel mechanic on a project building a railroad to an iron mine in the outback of Western Australia. He had been gone for a couple of months and I missed him dearly but he was making about three-times as much money per month than he ever had made before so that sort of made up for him not being at home.
The other benefit was me having free use of the vehicles and guns while he was gone. Deer season came around so my two very best friends (Brad Kirwan and Chad Eberhard) and I planned a hunting trip to the Eastern part of Idaho by Palisades. I'm not sure why we went that far away since there were plenty of deer much closer but what would be the adventure in that.
One Friday afternoon after school we piled our supplies, guns and selves into my Dad's pickup and camper, hooked our jeep to the back and off we went to the beautiful area by Palisades Dam in search of poor defenseless Bambi. It was probably in November because I remember it being colder than nails in the woods where we camped that night. There may have even been snow on the ground. It was COLD.
The next morning we awoke before dawn to get ready for the big hunt. Brad was in the camper cooking us some breakfast while Chad and I were getting our guns loaded. We had both of the pickup doors open with Chad on the driver's side and me on the passenger side. It was just getting light enough for us to almost see what we were doing.
I had my Dad's J C Higgins .270 deer rifle pointing down into the seat of the pickup while I loaded bullets into its magazine. After putting the last bullet in and closing the bolt, I realized that I had cocked the weapon. My puny brain said, "You don't want to leave this thing cocked." So the easiest way to uncock it would be to...yes Virginia, pull the trigger!
Unfortunately not one single cell of the rest of that puny brain remembered that upon closing the bolt I had jacked a round into the firing chamber. Now, keep in mind that Chad was standing at the other open door of the truck, less than three feet from the business end of said rifle.
BOOM!!! And a flash brighter than the sun!
Chad lets out a blood-curdling scream and grabs his belly.
I walked around to the back of the camper where I meet Brad barreling out of the back door. He said later that he had never seen me quite that white.
"I know where we can hide the body." He says. "We passed a waterfall on the way in here. We can throw Chad's body over the falls and they'll never find it." "We can say he got lost while we were hunting."
We both started walking to Chad's side of the truck, fully expecting to find his lifeless, bloody remains lying on the forest floor. But no, much to our surprise, he was still breathing. Well, panting really, and holding his belly. When he removed his hands from his abdomen lo, and behold, there was no blood, no gaping hole, no nothing!
At this point I think he said something about me scaring the crap out of him or something like that. We were so happy that he wasn't dead and we wouldn't have to drag his lifeless body back to the waterfall that we momentarily forgot about what damage I must have done to the truck whose gas tank was only inches from where my rifle went off.
We thoroughly searched the seat and cab of the pickup but never did find where the bullet went. There were powder burns and a mighty fine hole in the seat but that was all.
I didn't tell my Mom when we got back and nothing was said about it at all. Until one day the following summer when my Dad was back from Australia and Brad happened to be with us as we were getting into the pickup. My Dad pointed to the blackened hole torn into the seat and asked if I knew anything about how that could have gotten there. Since I knew he wouldn't kill me with Brad as a witness, I told him the whole story of the "Miracle at Palisades." He traded the pickup in for a new one the next week...
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Friday, May 7, 2010
Oats, of the Wild Variety
This is in memory of Preston Belnap. His funeral was today, May 7, 2010.
Back in the dark ages when I was a young and stupid lad of 17, I had acquired a taste for that evil brew known as beer. Perhaps it was due to my father drinking beer every single day of his adult life, I don't know. I had discovered that I could pass for 21 and purchase the stuff without showing ID at most of the little Mom & Pop stores in Blackfoot. They were the precursors to 7-11, Circle K, and the like.
Though I semi-enjoyed the flavor, I was not impressed by the cost. I was rather poor (and cheap) at the time and could not justify spending 25 cents for a 12 oz can of beer when I could get the same size can of soda-pop AND a Hostess Fruit Pie for the same quarter. I quickly learned it was much better to spend someone else's money on beer. Since I had "friends" with the same desire for beer but more money than I, we developed quite a symbiotic relationship where I would use their money to buy the beer and take my cut from how ever much I bought.
There were several times that they ran me to a store during 7th period study hall to buy a case and I had to drink my six-pack on the way back to the school to catch the bus home. I must admit it made the hour-long ride back to Atomic City a bit more bearable.
I had been at these escapades for some time when I started dating a nice girl from our rival school, Blackfoot High. Her dad was in the Stake presidency of the LDS church there. Needless to say she was way not impressed when she found out about what I was doing and let me know that I needed to make a choice. It was an easy one for me since I knew I could get along quite well without the beer but was really, really smitten with her.
Months go by and I am being a good little boy. It is February 11, 1967. My girlfriend is in Utah on a debate team trip. Enter the above named Preston Belnap, one of my old drinking buddies. We planned a double-date to a stake dance in Moreland. Preston has money, we have time before we pick up our dates, the lethal pieces begin to fall into place. Preston's funds buy us six cans of Colt45 malt liquor and a six-pack of Nehi lemonade pop for Preston to chase the beer with since he was more enamored of the buzz than flavor of the beer. He was also not very coordinated so he needed a place where he could stand up to drink lest he should spill it on himself and we attend the dance with him smelling like a brewery.
We were in my 1957 VW Beetle looking for a nice, dark, secluded place to do our nefarious deeds when we found the perfect spot behind the old Garrett Trucking building. We got out of the car and Preston handed me a can of beer. I opened it and tossed the opener to him. This was before pop-tops, ok. I took a swallow and, with the can still tilted to my lips, I saw a police car pull around the side of the building. "COPS!" I yell to Preston, so we jump back into the car to beat a hasty retreat. But no, beetle no startee.
Blackfoot's finest then strolls up to my window and asks, "What are you guys doing here?" "Resting", says I (the product of a seriously vacant brain under far too much pressure). "Oh really", says the gendarme. "Let me see your driver's license." I gave it to him as he was shining his flashlight into the car. "What's that on the floor there?" Quite a valid question since I had put my open can of beer on the floor between my feet. Preston, ever-so-much more clever than I, grabbed a bottle of pop and held it up. "See, it's pop, we're just drinking some pop."
"Oh really," says the gestapo. "Get out of the car." We piled out and they found my can and the rest of the beer. Once they had our beer they could have sent us on our way but no, that would ruin the rest of the story. "Get back in your car and drive to the police station and don't try to get away because I have your license." Why of course, I thought, we'll get right in this VW with its Pfaff sewing machine motor and leave your police cruiser in our dust! Yeah, right.
When we got to the station we were fingerprinted and told that if we were 18 they would just put us in the drunk tank overnight but, since we were both 17 we would have to call our parents to come and get us. CALL MY PARENTS! I'd much rather take my chances in the tank with the drunk Indians and their can openers and toenails than call my folks that are 30 miles away and in bed. No dice. Preston called his while I contemplated running from the building and having three warning shots fired into my legs.
Now you need to know that my dad did not like to answer the phone. It was just a little quirk of his that endeared him even more to me at this point in time. No sweat, I can tell Mom. I'm her darling boy. No problem. Baritone voice, "Hello." BIG problem. I really, really wanted to ask for my mommy but my mouth just wouldn't form the words. "Hi, I'm at the police station." "Police station?" "What the Hell are you doing at the police station?"
Have you heard the verbal "fine print" they say at the end of radio commercials? That's pretty much what I sounded like as I said, "Preston-and-I-got-caught-drinking-you-have-to-come-get-me-goodbye." Click. It was a very long wait.
While Preston's folks sprung him, the police were nice enough to let me make another call. I called my date and said that something had come up and I wouldn't be taking her to the dance. Preston kept his date.
A year or so later Mom & Dad got there and soon there after we were on our way out of the station with a court date the next week. Justice is swift in Blackfoot, Idaho. As we were walking out my Dad said, "As much trouble as your brother got into and was gone for months at a time, I never once had to get him out of jail." "You know I drink, if you want to drink just drink at home." "Hell, I'll even buy it for you, I just don't want to have to keep getting your butt out of jail." I told him that I didn't really want to drink (semi-true) and I wouldn't drink again (true). He died just over a month later. It's a promise I have kept to this day.
The court date came and there we were with our shiny faces in front of the Judge. I was charged with possession and consumption since I'd actually had a swallow and Preston hadn't opened his can when we got caught. As is the case in small towns (Blackfoot about 9,000 at the time and Atomic City less than 50), almost everyone knows everyone else.
The judge was the Stake president whose counselor was my girlfriend's dad. As he read what the charges he was quite surprised and asked, "Aren't you Boy Scouts?" "Ron, don't you go with ____? my counselor's daughter?" "What are you two doing here?" Hmm, where had we heard that before? "What do you think I should do with you two?" At this point the vacuum between my ears overpowered the muscles that control my vocal chords and I said, "But your highness, it's only our first offense."
Let this be a warning to all. Don't ever, ever, ever say that to a judge. He turned red in the face. He was, shall we say, a wee bit peeved. "FIRST OFFENSE, FIRST OFFENSE!" "Let me read you the law young man! (I stopped breathing) "Right here it says illegal possession and consumption of alcohol by a juvenile is punishable by a maximum of one year in jail and a one-thousand dollar fine!" "I don't see anything at all about first offense." I wet myself.
I wanted Perry Mason to magically appear, I wanted what I said stricken from the record, I wanted my Mommy. Fortunately for us all my brain was completely dead by this time. The judge regained his composure and after noting that Preston would have been guilty of consumption too if he would have had time, gave us each a 5-day suspended sentence. Justice had been served.
My Dad had me frame the court petition with all the charges on it and hang it over my bed for some light reading before retiring and upon awakening each morning.
As a side note, the newspaper couldn't print our names since we weren't 18. The article said a 17 year old Atomic City youth had been arrested for underage drinking. There wasn't exactly a plethora of 17-year-olds residing in beautiful downtown Atomic City at the time...I was it.
Back in the dark ages when I was a young and stupid lad of 17, I had acquired a taste for that evil brew known as beer. Perhaps it was due to my father drinking beer every single day of his adult life, I don't know. I had discovered that I could pass for 21 and purchase the stuff without showing ID at most of the little Mom & Pop stores in Blackfoot. They were the precursors to 7-11, Circle K, and the like.
Though I semi-enjoyed the flavor, I was not impressed by the cost. I was rather poor (and cheap) at the time and could not justify spending 25 cents for a 12 oz can of beer when I could get the same size can of soda-pop AND a Hostess Fruit Pie for the same quarter. I quickly learned it was much better to spend someone else's money on beer. Since I had "friends" with the same desire for beer but more money than I, we developed quite a symbiotic relationship where I would use their money to buy the beer and take my cut from how ever much I bought.
There were several times that they ran me to a store during 7th period study hall to buy a case and I had to drink my six-pack on the way back to the school to catch the bus home. I must admit it made the hour-long ride back to Atomic City a bit more bearable.
I had been at these escapades for some time when I started dating a nice girl from our rival school, Blackfoot High. Her dad was in the Stake presidency of the LDS church there. Needless to say she was way not impressed when she found out about what I was doing and let me know that I needed to make a choice. It was an easy one for me since I knew I could get along quite well without the beer but was really, really smitten with her.
Months go by and I am being a good little boy. It is February 11, 1967. My girlfriend is in Utah on a debate team trip. Enter the above named Preston Belnap, one of my old drinking buddies. We planned a double-date to a stake dance in Moreland. Preston has money, we have time before we pick up our dates, the lethal pieces begin to fall into place. Preston's funds buy us six cans of Colt45 malt liquor and a six-pack of Nehi lemonade pop for Preston to chase the beer with since he was more enamored of the buzz than flavor of the beer. He was also not very coordinated so he needed a place where he could stand up to drink lest he should spill it on himself and we attend the dance with him smelling like a brewery.
We were in my 1957 VW Beetle looking for a nice, dark, secluded place to do our nefarious deeds when we found the perfect spot behind the old Garrett Trucking building. We got out of the car and Preston handed me a can of beer. I opened it and tossed the opener to him. This was before pop-tops, ok. I took a swallow and, with the can still tilted to my lips, I saw a police car pull around the side of the building. "COPS!" I yell to Preston, so we jump back into the car to beat a hasty retreat. But no, beetle no startee.
Blackfoot's finest then strolls up to my window and asks, "What are you guys doing here?" "Resting", says I (the product of a seriously vacant brain under far too much pressure). "Oh really", says the gendarme. "Let me see your driver's license." I gave it to him as he was shining his flashlight into the car. "What's that on the floor there?" Quite a valid question since I had put my open can of beer on the floor between my feet. Preston, ever-so-much more clever than I, grabbed a bottle of pop and held it up. "See, it's pop, we're just drinking some pop."
"Oh really," says the gestapo. "Get out of the car." We piled out and they found my can and the rest of the beer. Once they had our beer they could have sent us on our way but no, that would ruin the rest of the story. "Get back in your car and drive to the police station and don't try to get away because I have your license." Why of course, I thought, we'll get right in this VW with its Pfaff sewing machine motor and leave your police cruiser in our dust! Yeah, right.
When we got to the station we were fingerprinted and told that if we were 18 they would just put us in the drunk tank overnight but, since we were both 17 we would have to call our parents to come and get us. CALL MY PARENTS! I'd much rather take my chances in the tank with the drunk Indians and their can openers and toenails than call my folks that are 30 miles away and in bed. No dice. Preston called his while I contemplated running from the building and having three warning shots fired into my legs.
Now you need to know that my dad did not like to answer the phone. It was just a little quirk of his that endeared him even more to me at this point in time. No sweat, I can tell Mom. I'm her darling boy. No problem. Baritone voice, "Hello." BIG problem. I really, really wanted to ask for my mommy but my mouth just wouldn't form the words. "Hi, I'm at the police station." "Police station?" "What the Hell are you doing at the police station?"
Have you heard the verbal "fine print" they say at the end of radio commercials? That's pretty much what I sounded like as I said, "Preston-and-I-got-caught-drinking-you-have-to-come-get-me-goodbye." Click. It was a very long wait.
While Preston's folks sprung him, the police were nice enough to let me make another call. I called my date and said that something had come up and I wouldn't be taking her to the dance. Preston kept his date.
A year or so later Mom & Dad got there and soon there after we were on our way out of the station with a court date the next week. Justice is swift in Blackfoot, Idaho. As we were walking out my Dad said, "As much trouble as your brother got into and was gone for months at a time, I never once had to get him out of jail." "You know I drink, if you want to drink just drink at home." "Hell, I'll even buy it for you, I just don't want to have to keep getting your butt out of jail." I told him that I didn't really want to drink (semi-true) and I wouldn't drink again (true). He died just over a month later. It's a promise I have kept to this day.
The court date came and there we were with our shiny faces in front of the Judge. I was charged with possession and consumption since I'd actually had a swallow and Preston hadn't opened his can when we got caught. As is the case in small towns (Blackfoot about 9,000 at the time and Atomic City less than 50), almost everyone knows everyone else.
The judge was the Stake president whose counselor was my girlfriend's dad. As he read what the charges he was quite surprised and asked, "Aren't you Boy Scouts?" "Ron, don't you go with ____? my counselor's daughter?" "What are you two doing here?" Hmm, where had we heard that before? "What do you think I should do with you two?" At this point the vacuum between my ears overpowered the muscles that control my vocal chords and I said, "But your highness, it's only our first offense."
Let this be a warning to all. Don't ever, ever, ever say that to a judge. He turned red in the face. He was, shall we say, a wee bit peeved. "FIRST OFFENSE, FIRST OFFENSE!" "Let me read you the law young man! (I stopped breathing) "Right here it says illegal possession and consumption of alcohol by a juvenile is punishable by a maximum of one year in jail and a one-thousand dollar fine!" "I don't see anything at all about first offense." I wet myself.
I wanted Perry Mason to magically appear, I wanted what I said stricken from the record, I wanted my Mommy. Fortunately for us all my brain was completely dead by this time. The judge regained his composure and after noting that Preston would have been guilty of consumption too if he would have had time, gave us each a 5-day suspended sentence. Justice had been served.
My Dad had me frame the court petition with all the charges on it and hang it over my bed for some light reading before retiring and upon awakening each morning.
As a side note, the newspaper couldn't print our names since we weren't 18. The article said a 17 year old Atomic City youth had been arrested for underage drinking. There wasn't exactly a plethora of 17-year-olds residing in beautiful downtown Atomic City at the time...I was it.
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