Dear Mom: You ain't gonna believe this . . . That's Pete Weddle, Al DeJong and "Hoss" Hoskins playing golf on Christmas Day 1975 at Wildwood. The truth is they settled on using the tee as a driving range and probably sent some poor lil' chiluns' out in the cold to pick up the balls for a coin apiece.
If this was February you'd probably believe it since we've had such pleasant temperatures. But it isn't. It's Christmas 1975 and Pete Weddle, Ray Hoskins and Al DeJong.
Actually, if the truth was known we surmise the frosty golfers swished a few balls off a frozen tee, bought off a well bundled chile' and headed for the hothouse in comfort whilst the boy shagged the balls.
We have to agree with "Hoss" Hoskins about his game. He said he really got more bounce out of a ball that day . . . frozen ground, of course.
Scott Mactier, Omaha Livestock Exchange executive who spoke to Rotarians and farmers the other day, didn't paint a very bright picture for his listeners. In fact, his talk was anything but success.
He said cow numbers were down, pointed out faults in the new grading system of cattle, cautioned about over production of grain when the price is down and warned farmers that everyone in the world was competing with them in the grain business.
Maybe Mr. Mactier's message was designed to hit the farmer with the truth. Perhaps it hurt, but as farmers always do . . . they leave the room with a smile, boiling beneath their skin and return to work growing food to keep the rest of the world fat.
If anyone had expected to hear a report of how great life was down on the farm, they got just the opposite. Mr. Mactier leveled with them, telling it like it is and held the interest of his audience.
You don't have to tell a farmer he's not making any money or that the government has its fingers into the farm pie again . . . he knows that. Perhaps he appreciated Mr. Mactier telling it to the Rotarians.
It was a turn-around for a farmer-Rotary luncheon engineered by Verne Jones, president, and Wayne Anthony, program chairman. It was good . . . sorta the brutal truth.
May Whyte, our Hamburg correspondent, sent a note about The Old Depression Days.
The article said the depression days weren't good by any means. In fact they made farmers change their ways. Poor crops and cheap cattle helped lose the battle.
A $4,000 loan was a lot of money on 320 acres and there were mortgages on everything, "even the chickens that just were hatched. Corn was 10 cents and hogs were two cents."
Mrs. Whyte added, "I still read the good old News Press. I look forward to it everyday."
The fish are bitin'.
The unusually warm temps have been drawing the fishermen from their homes and putting them on the banks of streams. We've heard a number of reports of good fishing and the latest came from Bill Berger and Eldon Allgood, whose nooner resulted in a couple 20 pound cats in the river.
Dunno if that's a fish story, but judging from the instruction I got from Grand Angler Bill about an 80 pound test line, he wasn't huffin' and puffin' about an untruth.
The Good Life
"Vaarooom vaaroooom."
"What's that sound down the street?" Millie asked.
"Father Tom (Ozanne)."
"What? That sound?"
"Yup," I assured her. "I can tell by the sound that it's The Rev. Thomas Ozanne of the Precious Blood Order, assistant pastor at St. Mary's Catholic church, and a four seasons motorcyclist."
Of course I was right because in a moment a cyclist came roaring up the street (within the speed limit, of course) wearing a silver flaked helmet, safety visor, dark trousers, a red plaid scarf and a yeah, man . . . a black leather jacket with a Christian cross affixed.
The sleek motorcycle with the stylish windshield (that's called a fairing in cycle talk) pulled into the drive, the driver cut his engine, removed his helmet and said.
"Hi, Ivan. Whatya doing?"
"Hi, Father. Oh, just piddling around with my bike. Been getting the yen to hit the road so thought I'd do a little tinkering."
(Clarissa's dog, Love, came charging around the corner wagging her tail and got a friendly pat from the priest. ( . . . she also got mud on his black trousers)
"Can I help?" the priest asked. "Whatya doing?"
"Sure. Hop to it. I'm removing my seat and going to put on this solo." (That's a seat much larger, but shaped the same as the conventional bicycle seat).
"Gee," he said, "I don't want to be a prude, but that'll ruin the appearance of a motorcycle as beautiful as the one you have."
(Omigosh, I thought. How am I ever going to top that kind of a compliment?)
"Millie," I called.
"I'm coming," came the reply. "Hello, Father Tom, would you join Ivan in some coffee and chocolate chip cookies?" (She always finds a way to do the right things.)
"I really shouldn't . . . no, I really shouldn't . . . you see I do 10 pushups every night and elevate my legs for a minute and a half. I really shouldn't . . . oh, well . . . maybe just one."
Meanwhile we Great Mechanics tore into the seat job. When I slipped with a wrench and smacked my knuckles on cold steel, I looked at Father, opened my mouth . . . and out came "oh . . . gracious!"
Father Tom, meanwhile, made suggestions, took over the wrenches and improved my sloppy efforts and ever so often . . . he walked to the cookie jar.
The little gray-haired puppy followed him wagging her tail.
Now, you have to picture this to understand it.
Remember the description of the priest? The friendly pup? The cookie jar?
How about this for a conversation that took place several times during the afternoon?
"Hey, look," Father Tom said, "Love is standing on her hind legs and dancing in a circle!"
"Ummm uh," I answered.
"She wants something," he said.
"Ummm . . . huh," I answered.
"I know!" he almost shouted. "She wants a cookie!"
So there was the pattern for the day:
Love would do her fancy dance, Father Tom would walk over to the cookie jar, break off a small portion for the small puppy and . . . wh-o-o-ps, the rest disappeared.
When we got the job done (and the cookie jar supply about depleted) we sat back and looked over the solo seat project.
"I don't like it," I said.
"Ummm uh," the priest said. "Told you so."
"Whatya think?" I asked.
"I think you ought to take it off and put the original equipment back on."
"Agreed," I said, "but it's getting dark. Let's go see if Millie has any homemade chili."
She did. Ice cream, also.
"How did you two do this afternoon?" she asked.
"Just fine," we answered.
She picked up the cookie jar and started to offer it to Father Tom with his dish of ice cream.
"What happened to my chocolate chip cookies?" she questioned.
"Vaarooom vaarooom."
"Where you going, Father?" I asked.
"Gotta go uh uh . . . just remembered I've got to practice for a wedding tomorrow night . . . and do 30 pushups tonight."
"Okay . . . you come back again . . . next time we'll work into some ham hocks, Navy beans and homemade bread."