So long friend, Shorty Bell | The Buck Ends Here

We miss our friend, Forrest "Shorty" Bell who died last week at St. Mary's hospital after a brief illness.

Shorty was well known in the community and in recent years he was well known as the smiling man who put the parking tickets on the windshield of your car or truck.

"Some people get pretty mad when you give them a ticket for overtime parking," Shorty told me one day. "But I don't mind. I like to talk to people."

He also served as bailiff in Otoe county district court. His assignment was sort of a sergeant-at-arms over the jury and any other duty handed him by the district judge.

We thanked him many times for calling us to the courthouse at nights when the jury had reached a decision and was ready to announce it to the judge and parties involved.

Shorty's friendly attitude is missed and we miss him as a friend.

Bill Jenkins' Junior High bandsmen put on a good show the other night, but there was one young man who wiggled and frowned as he pounded the drums.

Jeff Cullin, son of Mr. and Mrs. Tom Cullin, 2019 First Corso, tapped his toe along with the beat of the music and when he sat down at a set of drums, he really got with the wiggling and bouncing.

Jeff did a fine job. He made a boo-boo once and even if the rest of us didn't notice it, he let everyone know he goofed by shaking his head, frowning and continued on pounding the drums.

Jeff practices on his drums in the basement of the Cullin home. His dad says a lot of noise comes from the basement when Jeff starts whacking away with the drum sticks.

And then a few days later, we saw Jeff in action again at a wrestling match winning in a decision over his Auburn opponent.

We saw a young man who showed everyone lots of energy at the drums and he displayed the same energy and tossed in some muscle on the wrestling mat.

Jeff has been recognized for his energy and ability. He holds the Ed Harshbarger Memorial trophy for baseball. And if you've ever seen him in action as a catcher, you've seen an active youngster.

A long-haired professional football player was getting his hair cut at Tom's Barber shop.

"Gee," said Tom, "I'll bet no one would recognize you if I cut all your hair off!" (snicker, snicker).

"You're probably right," the hairy-chested tackle answered, "and I'll bet you no one would recognize you either."

The minister was on the golf course when he heard a fellow golfer let loose with a string of profanity that would have curled hair.

"I have often noticed," remarked Rev. Vic, "that the best golfers are not addicted to the use of foul language."

"Of course not," Garry shouted from the sand trap. "What in ——— do they have to swear about?"

Philosopher Vern Livingston sez:

"There's no fool like an old fool. After all — you can't beat experience."

And then there was the conversation in the courthouse:

Judge: "You say it was an accident that you shot your wife?"

Defendant: "That's right, your honor. She stepped in front of my mother-in-law just as I was about to pull the trigger."

Sam Ells of Brownville writes

Dere Mr. Beaumont.

Yer litle inakurate colum of the 25th and slitly more akkurate retrakshion on the 4th did not tel the hole story. Member i tole you Belle and me was goin to Omaha to c the elephant (bote and trabl sho). Wile we wax thar, we met 1 of yer reeders an he mindid me that not ever 1 shutes blak powder.

Jist fer the rekord the lode in a 20 gage skater gun is bilt like this. It taks 60 grans of blak powder an then 2 sheets of toilit papr and then 7-8 oz of shot and then 1 sheet of toilit papr to hold the hole mes m the barrl. A cap on the nipl and yer reddy for enny ol blu rok.

Now this gentilman minded me thet in the good ol daz we dint have eny toilit papr so sted we used the pags of last years Sears male order book. That startid me thinking. He probibly aint oldnuff to member whin we still used corn cobs. We had to import thim from Ioway cause Nebraskey cobs wuz 2 big for anythm but a 6 gage.

Yers til the Sioux rise again.

SAM'L H. ELLS.

p. s. Pleze egskuse the typwriter. Belle wont let me have nothin sharp.

Meanwhile, Up on the North 40.

"K-e-e-r-r-a-c-k! Wham! Bam! B-o-o-i-n-g!"

"Ivan, what on earth is going on in there?" the mother bear demands.

The sounds are coming from No. 1 son's bedroom where the king, master and karate expert is holding his own against Billy Jack and Kung Fu, alias No. 1 son and his best friend Steve Wusk.

"Ah! Chop! Zip! Zap! Y-i-k-e-s!"

Zoing go the pillows, swish go the covers, splat goes a bare hand on you-known-where and two boys are awakened for breakfast.

"Ohhhhhhh, get out of here. Let us sleep."

Comes the Billy Jack lingo . . . "you know mister, I'm going to put my right foot right there (points to youngster's chin and cheek) and there's not a thing you can do about it."

"Ka-pow!" (Demonstration purposes only. That's a pretty high kick).

Then comes the attack to the other side of the bed where the other hotshot is flopped out . . . you know, the guy who wants to stay up and watch television until late?

Kung Fu is in his stance and calls his challenge.

"Uhhhhhh . . . ah . . . uh . . . ah ack!" Without warning the hands move again (a swat on you-know-where) and the swift feet of Kung Fu go to the air.

(This is really getting me down in the morning.)

The boys are rubbing their eyes now and realizing that it's time to get up (thank heavens) and challenge some of those fruity breakfast dishes.

The master speaks:

"Grasshopper, it is good for you to get up to greet the morning sun and absorb the strength of its rays. Remember it is the early bird that gets the worm."