Tote Goat and Mud Puddles

There was a grand total of 34.5 months between my oldest brother’s birth and mine.  Yep, I’m the baby of the family.  Three boys in less than three years; you just gotta be in awe of my mother for that one.   It had to be tough on her, both in the birthing and the raising.  But, my brothers and I were close because of it, and it lead to wonderful experiences. 

My brothers and I grew up with a strong desire to go faster. 

If we were on foot, we raced each other, we raced butterflies, we raced cars, and bikes.  If we were on bikes we raced each other, we raced birds, we raced leaves in the wind, and we raced cars.  So it should come as no surprise that as soon as we could, we scrounged up and saved up and bought something with a motor.

Can’t tell you how old we were when Barry (the oldest) worked a deal with a man that our father knew and bought an old Tote Goat from the man.  A Tote Goat is, or rather was, an early mini-bike.  Pretty simple all in all; built up of a bended metal tubing frame, with a v-belt driven rear wheel that was about 18” in diameter and 8 inches wide.  Simple front forks similar to a bicycle’s but built heavier and a matching front tire without the belt drive.  The whole contraption was powered by a Briggs and Stratton single cylinder motor of 5 horse-power if I remember right, maybe 8 horse.

Simple bench seat over the top of the frame that was long enough for two people if they were fairly young; couple brake levers and a twist throttle and that was about it.  Started like a lawn mower by pulling a rope.  No shifting involved; it had a rudimentary automatic transmission called a “centrifugal clutch”.  The clutch was mounted on the output shaft of the engine, with two facing tapered metal plates.

As the engine sped up, the inside plate was forced against the outside plate.  Since they were tapered, the bottom came into contact before the top did, and as the plates got closer together, they forced the v-belt to ride farther out, and thus effectively turn the rear wheel faster.

Since there were three of us and the seat only held two, being the youngest I always had to sit on the metal tubing rack that extended out the back to carry things.  Barry got to sit up front (ownership has its privileges) and Jeff (the middle son) sat according to his place.  Both of them on the padded seat; me on the metal bars.

Come to think of it, maybe that is why I have always tended to be a bit bigger and heavier than my brothers…self preservation for those damn uncomfortable bars.

We weren’t allowed to ride the Tote Goat on the street, or the sidewalk.  One of our fathers many rules.  And so we had to push it the 4 blocks to the railroad tracks that ran through town before getting on and starting to ride.  Being the youngest and not having ownership in the thing, it meant that I usually was tasked with all the pushing while my brothers galoofed along beside me.

Come to think of that, maybe I should say thank you.  My oldest Brother has for the past 30 plus years introduced me as his “bigger baby brother” as I am several inches taller and much stronger.  Anyway, before I go getting all moody over owing him for making me work, I’ll get on with my story.

We would push down to the railroad tracks, then pull start the bike, pile on and roar off in a cloud of dry Livermore dust.  Rocks would skitter out from under the tires, rabbits would jump up in fright and we would give chase howling and yipping just like the raw young wolf cubs we really were.

Many a day we spent time that way.  That little motorbike opened up miles of fun for us.  Mostly we started out in the field right behind where Barber’s Cycle Shop and Feed Store burned to the ground one winter night.  I swear, we had nothing to do with that other than the watching.

One rainy day must have been early springtime we had been cooped up too long in the house.  Days had passed with the weather so bad that our mother had not let us out except to go to school and back.  Could have been worse I suppose, but for boys like us, the outdoors called out to us rain or shine.

The rains finally broke and we rushed outside to do some exploring.  We talked our mom into letting us take the Tote Goat out to see what the fields along the railroad tracks looked like.  And as usual I got to push.

We got to the tracks and I started lobbying for the chance to drive.  I cajoled and pleaded to no avail.  So, loosing that battle with Barry, I set in on Jeff, trying at least to get a ride on the comfortable seat and not the bars.  Again, no luck.  It was sit on the back, or don’t come as far as those two were concerned.

Turned out to be the best seat in the house.

We all three piled on and started off up the tracks.  The rain had muddied the access road something terrible.  The tires were digging and clawing, slipping and sliding in the ooze.  But, heck that was just about right for three boys who often had to take more than one bath a day.

Puddles were everywhere and Barry aimed straight for them, as any boy would do.  We plowed through mud, splashed though puddles and generally made a muddy mess out of that road.

As Barry gained experience slipping and sliding and staying on the ragged edge of control, he started taking risks.

Speeding along back home, he spied a very large puddle that he had steered around right at the beginning of the ride.  He yelled that he was going to drive through it.  I recall not being happy about that, I figured that it being extra deep, and me being on the back, I was going to get really wet.  But, being on the back of a rampaging motorbike leaves one with few attractive options other than hang on and close your eyes.

Thundering along, Barry powered into the puddle, when all of a sudden he collided with a submerged chunk of concrete.  The front tire whipped sideways.  The Tote Goat pitched forward with the rear tire pointing up to the sky.  And the three of us got piled drived right down into that puddle. 

Barry went face first into the puddle, all the way down into the mud. Face and toes and hands planted firm and deep.

Jeff landed on Barry’s back; swallowed a gallon or so of stirred up mud and water.  His whole front half was muddy and wet.  His back though broke above the puddle‘s surface.

And I landed high and dry on Jeff’s back.

My shoes got wet and muddy standing up, Jeff’s whole front side was muddy and wet.  Barry didn’t rise until Jeff and I pulled to break him loose from the mud.

Guess being the youngest and on the back wasn’t all bad after all.

Copyright © 2011 - Marty Vandermolen - All Rights Reserved

Burning Thighs

Most of my childhood was spent outdoors.  Running, riding, swimming and sailing, we were barely civilized during the school year, and if school was out, there was no barely about it.

One weekend, a bunch of my friends and I were out camping.  Now this was at the difficult age between boy and man, when you know the end is coming, but you haven’t gotten there yet and you are doing what you can to hold on to your childhood, all the time railing about how you want to be an adult.

As evening came on, we settled down to cook us some dinner.  We camped most of half of the weekends every year, as well as a couple full weeks during the summer, and had done so together for 4 or 5 years by this time.  So dinner had long since passed from being hot dogs and beans.

On this particular Saturday night, dinner was going to be BBQ’d chicken halves, potatoes baked in the coals, garlic bread, roast ears of corn, and baked apples for desert.  We were growing boys after all, and in all honesty, at 16 and 17, the menu sounded more like an afternoon snack to us than dinner.  But you have to rough it some when camping, so there we were.

One member of our regular group had not been able to come out for the day as he had a real job in town.  Yep, Kevin was making the transition to adulthood faster than the rest of us in some ways, slower in others.  This story is more about the slower parts than the faster parts.

We all of us worked in one way or other.  Myself, I had started throwing papers to fill in for my brothers when I was 8, getting my own full time route at 10, pushing broom in the local garage, mopping floors in the town bakery, and folding shirts in the drycleaners.  Those jobs along with caring for the local car wash and mowing lawns and pulling weeds mostly kept me in spending money for ammunition, food for weekend trips, and used equipment from garage sales and flea markets.

In any case, Kevin was an ice cream jerk…or part of that anyway.  He had a job at the local 31 flavors joint and had to work during the day on that Saturday, but on getting off of work he jumped on his little 125cc motor bike and raced out to where he knew he’d find the rest of us getting ready to eat.

Well the charcoal briquettes had been laid out and piled high, the charcoal lighter fluid had been poured on, soaked, and flamed just as we heard his motorcycle coming up the canyon.  Kevin pulled up just after the visible yellow flames had snuffed out, but before the charcoal had started to really kick off heat.

Strolling up, filled with his ever-knowing-more-adult-than-you knowledge he immediately took stock of the situation and asked what we were doing.  We told him we were waiting on the charcoal to kick in so that we could cook. 

Now Kevin must of been starving, I mean after all, he had been forced to spend all day dipping and stacking ice cream cones and snacking whenever the boss wasn’t looking, so I am sure his stomach felt as if his throat had been cut.  Given that over-riding hunger, waiting wasn’t gonna happen.

Kevin announced that we needed to pour some more lighter fluid on the charcoal and looked around for the bottle.  We had finished it off however, so there wasn’t any left.

He promptly decided that he would drain some gasoline out of his motorcycle and use that to speed things along.  We warned him that was a bad plan, me most vocally.  In fact as the conversation drifted back and forth between he and I, it finally ended when I told him I’d thump him if he didn’t leave it alone.  He quietly backed down and off.  We thought he was going to wait it out with the rest of us.

But he was just about to graduate early in our senior year and so was of course better thinking and more educated than the rest of us were.  So he scrounges up a small can, sneaks off to his motorcycle to drain some gas and comes up to us at the fire without telling us that he was going to go ahead and reenact the WWII Army Air Forces’ incendiary attacks on Tokyo.

Now I have to give him his due, Kevin had enough smarts to be scared of gasoline and fire together, but not enough to be wary of ‘em.

So he reaches out quick with the can until he has it right above the middle of the charcoal, then, ever so slowly tips the can.  Proving his maturity by displaying care and deliberate slowness, he tips the can further and further until a thin stream of gasoline slips over the rim and free-falls in a continuous line down to the charcoal.

Kevin’s eyes light up just a fraction of a second after the open flame began climbing the stream back up towards the half-full can.  He moved fast, a lot faster than he thought, but fast as he moved, he was slower than the flame by a full country mile and then some.

He whipped his hand back and to the right to throw the can away from himself before it could explode.

In the process he whipped a flaming liquid stream across the fire pit, the seating area, both of my thighs, and the knee high dry grass outside of the cleared fire circle.

I am not entirely sure of what everyone else was doing at that point, I was fair to middlin preoccupied right about then.  I recall beating out the flames on my blue jeans, whipping off my jacket and using it to beat out the flames in the grass, and then just for the hell of it and cause I was just starting to limber up, I commenced to doing some beating on Kevin as well.  Seemed like the natural course of action to me at the time.

I got to thinking about that Saturday a while back, it was a good 35 years ago now.  Just a couple days ago Kevin came down to visit and we went out sailing on the ocean together.  I resisted the temptation to throw him overboard; guess maybe I have finally grown up myself.

Copyright © 2011 - Marty Vandermolen - All Rights Reserved

A Foundation To Rest Upon

When I was not yet in my teens, my brothers and I learned of a wonderful thing.  It only took three signatures attesting to the fact that someone should be locked up to protect themselves or others in the State of California.

Of course it didn’t take long before we realized that the signatures of three boys wasn’t going to carry enough weight to get our Dad committed.  Committed, not because there was anything wrong with him, but because there was so much that was right.

By the time I was just beginning to drive, I had already figured out how wrong we had been back then.  By then I wouldn’t have traded fathers with anyone, anywhere, for love nor money.

Dad is mostly a quiet man, mostly I say because there were times when he had to raise his voice (and his belt) to get our attention.  And it wasn’t until many years later that I realized we three boys deserved more than we got when it came to punishment, and less than we were blessed with in the way of parents.  

And while his belt stung some, it helped to underscore the lessons that dad tried so hard to teach in the most amazing of ways.  Looking back, I have no clue how he did it.  Some of his lessons were instant epiphanies, others, well I call them “the lessons my dad taught me that took a while to grow”.  Perhaps if I relate a few you will see what I mean.

One time, Dad and I were out in the backyard doing something, work most likely as he was unduly fond of finding work for us boys, when low and behold the phone starts to ring.  My ears perked right up, for here was an escape pleading with me to bolt over the wall and away.  So I quickly up and said: “I’ll go get that”.  To which Dad replied; “Don’t bother, if it’s important, they’ll call back”.

“Holey Hanna” what a thought.  Yeah, if people really needed to talk to me, they would try again, and if they didn’t, well then it really wasn’t important enough for me to interrupt whatever I might be doing at any point in time.  What a thought.  I live by that still to this day.  I don’t let the ringing phone, or all the new prompts, e-mails, facebook, twitter, cell phones, etc., run my life for me.  Nope, those are tools for me to use, not the other way around.

Or the time when we boys found a new amusement.  One summer day we started playing a game, opening the garage door, climbing up on the garage, jumping off the garage onto the open door and sliding down the face as the door slammed closed.  Round and round we went.  Great  fun and all.

Of course, the inevitable happened, the old wood uprights split.  Dad noticed it and had us out one night helping him to fix the old uprights.  Of course, we were sweating figuring that we were busted, but nope, dad just fixed the posts and went back inside without saying a word.

So, back to sliding on the door.  Heck, after-all, it was obvious Dad didn’t know we had done it.  Course, the fix didn’t last long and the post started splitting open again.  Dad was back out fixing the door and we were helping him, figuring we were busted again.  But again, not a word was said about us being in trouble, and again, we figured we had gotten away with it.

So, after the repair, we headed off to play while Dad stayed around cause he wanted to “paint the door”.  When we came back, we found it painted alright.  It was also sporting a nice raised wood pattern of horizontal strips that would have shredded our rumps if we ever slid down that door again.

I remember Dad telling me that he felt it was his sacred job as a father to make sure that my hands were well acquainted with a broom, a rake, and a shovel.

Or the time when I was really mad at him for something I wanted to do and he wouldn’t allow.  I remember yelling at him that I didn’t like him.  And I remember him quietly saying “Well son, it would be nice if we could like each other, but my job is to make you into a socially acceptable human being, so if we can’t, it really isn’t important.”

He took our wildness in stride as “boys being boys” and he focused us on our futures with honest hard work, with freedom to do wrong, and discipline to think it through next time.  Sayings like “Some people’s kids” which could be used sternly, scoldingly, lovingly, or wonderingly;  or  “In my house you will live by my rules” to keep us on track, or “What were you thinking?” to make us take stock of our actions were our daily world.

He taught us how to make beds to bounce quarters on, and push a hand powered lawnmower while the gas one slowly seized up in the garage.  We fixed bikes, built toys, shot arrows, and BB Guns, and learned to run and climb and play.  Dad taught us to hunt, and fish, and sail, and be free in a world that was slowly constricting around everyone else.

But what he taught us best, through his sayings, and his actions, through his expectations and his demands; what I love him for the most, is that he taught us how to be MEN.  Three babes born; Three boys raised; Three men out; and Three men that have made their way through life. 

Three that have met the good, challenged the bad, and braved the unknown. Three that have always had a guiding light to look back on, a pattern, and a vision, and a plan.  Three that have always had a pillar, no, a whole foundation to rest upon when there was a need. 

And Three that have always known that the lessons of our father would always allow us to win out as long as we lived up to the role model that he continues to provide.   

Copyright © 2011 - Marty Vandermolen - All Rights Reserved

Best Hunting Story

Saturday night's hunt was especially unique. 

I had a couple of teenage boys with me, we started out about 6:30 pm.  There are several boys in the troop who want to learn to hunt and have taken their safety course and are ready to get their hunting licenses.  That and long talks with their parents and I have agreed to help them learn the what's, where's, and how's of hunting.  Pig and Deer are the first animal goals, but right now they are on a twice a month out at the range poking holes in paper to show that they can do it, the new season just started on the 1st, so figure we will get into the field after deer in mid August when the hunting season is underway.

But on this particular Saturday night, deer season was yet to be so we were out hunting for wild pig.

I issued the boys binoculars so they had half a chance to even up the mis-match in visual accuity and as we walked along I was busy talking about what they needed to be looking for, looking at, how to move, all of the misc stuff that goes with a new activity.  I was using the scope on my rifle instead of binoculars.  About 400 yards ahead I saw a doe moving down in the creek under some trees and so stopped the boys where we were and told them there was a deer within sight, then settled down to wait for them to find it.

Funny thing, but deer never seem to stand directly sideways in front of a big white sheet...they just don't look the same out in the wilds.  Especially when they are down under some tree in the shade and not doing much other than twitch an ear now and then.  After they finally located her, we broke away from the creek so as not to spook her and arced around and back to the creek some 300 yards past where she was.  A bit farther downstream, I picked out a nice knoll right on the riverbank and we settled into the tall grass near a couple trees to sit a bit. 

Didn't do anything fancy.  After all, we were hunting pig and their eyesight is less than spectacular.  So we just settled into the grass and got comfortable, close enough to a couple tree trunks and a bush or two  This was a chance to teach the boys about being still.  The boys started to notice the birds, and rabbits and squirrels across the creek on the flat of an inside bend.  While they were focused there I noticed different doe had come down to water some 200 yards downstream from us.

I pointed her out and we went to watching her.  She slowly browsed her way upstream towards us and ultimately came to just under 40 yards away on the other side of the creek.  She started walking straight away from us and one of the boys saw a discoloration on her rump and asked me what it was.  At the time she was directly opposite a tree trunk from me, and as I slowly leaned out to see what he had noticed, she was looking over her shoulder in our direction.  Now, I hadn't covered my face, nor my arms, since as I said, hogs don't see that far very well and she zeroed right in on the white skin that was showing.  I froze in position. 

She put on a grand show.

She turned to face us and bobbled her head back and forth to see if she could identify what was over over here on our side of the creek.  I think she probably had heard the question and was looking as I leaned out from behind the tree, so had heard something, and saw some movement, but couldn't be sure of what was there.  She went into the whole stamping of the feet routine, and when that didn't get any results she started "chuffing" and stamping.  Still no response or movement from us so she tried the "run away and then stop to turn and look" routine a couple three times.  Back to stamping and chuffing, and finally decided that she had imagined it all.  She turned and walked off. 

All in all, we watched her graze towards us for about 20 minutes and then watched her and her theatrics for about 15 more before she headed on up creek.

By this time it was heading towards dusk and I figured we should start working our way back towards camp to arrive there just about end of shooting light.

As we were getting ready to go, one of the boys saw movement with his binoculars in a field some 1/2 mile off.  When I put my scope on the area I realized that 5 big bull elk had come down into the field.  We decided to see if we could sneak in closer.

We dropped down into the creek bed to use the bank as cover and moved quickly downstream until we were close to even with where the animals had been.  Then quietly climbed the bank and moved along a berm at the edge of the field.  Crouched low and moving careful, we cut the distance down to a couple hundred yards from where we had seen them.  They had vanished in the mean time, but I thought I knew where they had gone.

Across the field they had been in runs a small creek that is cut pretty deep.  I figured that they had dropped down into the creek for water and would come up the other bank, so we crept up to a large old oak tree and waited simply leaning against both sides and the front of the trunk.  Within a minute of getting into place, the lead bull eased up out of the creek pretty close.  I used my rangefinder on him and he was 138 yards away, nice broadside target, full 5 points on each side, in velvet still.

The other 4 bulls came drifting up afterwards all of them at least 5 points or more.  Beautiful animals.  They started across the field headed into the wind and we fell in behind them.  Stalking low and watching for any movement of the neck that would tell us they were about to turn their head and look behind.  We followed them for a few minutes, but the light was getting very low by then and I knew it was just a matter of time before they busted us, so we broke off and walked back to camp.

The campfire stories were colorful that night. 

I am 53 years old and started hunting when I was 12.  I am willing to bet, even though we didn’t see a pig, those two boys will remember that hunt as one of the best of their lives, it’s one of mine.

Copyright © 2011 - Marty Vandermolen - All Rights Reserved