Three Scoops is a Blast! Page 14

  Looking back to his childhood, the man never remembered seeing his father on a bike. It had all been serious transportation by means of a shiny new company-bought car each year. There wasn’t the emphasis on healthy exercise that came later with the post-war baby boom generation.

  When his father was in his 70s and far from completely steady on his legs, he’d surprised everyone by purchasing a bicycle for himself. He was supposedly acting on doctor’s orders to maintain as much physical good toning as was likely to be achieved. The suspicion was his father really wanted to re-capture some of the joy of youth that came with hopping on a two-wheeler.

  ~~

  The three of them saddled up and headed back to the cottage. This time, they panted and puffed to ascend San Garganza Hill and felt the exhilaration of mountain climbers when they crested the peak. From there, it was mainly a straight-line hillocky ride for two kilometres.

  The son started to pull ahead. The man understood the boy needed some independence. He watched him speed out front. The boy would disappear over the top of one gentle hill to quickly re-appear on the upward slope of the next. Each time, he was moving further and further away.

  The man had a flashback to the exhilaration the youth must be feeling. There would be the pleasant breeze in his face and the throbbing stretch of leg muscles. He couldn’t have kept up with his son now if he wanted to. Besides, he had to stay with his daughter to make sure she was safe in traffic. Thank goodness he had that excuse. And the sun was in his eyes, he laughed.

  This was another nugget to be deposited in his memory bank. The results from panning his slowing stream of years needed to be treasured and hoarded. He knew no such thoughts were entering the mind of his son. The boy embodied the moment and the future in an instant. For the boy, there was infinitely more to look forward to. The man was fleetingly envious.

  They all met back at the cottage. The son was waiting for the man and the daughter.

  The son asked, “Dad, do you suppose I can have a little more allowance each week?”

  “Yes. You’re getting older and you’ll need to learn how to handle money better.”

  “And can I stay up later on school nights?”

  “If your mother agrees, that’s okay with me. It might actually help you sleep better.”

  “Can I go on your computer?”

  “Absolutely not. Use the hand-down from your brother.”

  Queen’s Jester to King’s Betterment

  April 2, 2010

  The following is an edifying tale wherein a king learns a valuable lesson from his queen and the whole nation is better off as a consequence. The court jester plays a pivotal role as well, although he probably came to wish he’d stayed out of it.

  There once lived a king who was always mad. Not mad like crazy, but mad like angry. He was angry about everything. As a result, all of his chief ministers were angry. So were his peasants and so were his dogs. And on and on it went in a downwardly cascading catastrophe of annoyance. The land was always in turmoil.

  It wasn’t as if the king didn’t have a sense of humor. The queen once asked him why he was so angry at neighboring realms, since they lived in a relatively peaceful time, for the thirteenth century that is. The king’s answer was revealing.

  “It’s because they have more wealth than I do. They have richer fields and more abundant natural resources. They can finance better armies. If they want to, they can overrun my kingdom. I agonize about my vulnerability all of the time.

  Come to think of it, though, there is another side to this predicament. Should the day ever come when my shiftless peasants fail to meet their crop quotas and I have to sell a castle or two to meet my regal payroll, it will be good to have some other royal dupe out there with enough coinage or cattle to buy my assets.”

  It was this kind of sardonic humor that endeared the king to the queen, despite his numerous flaws. But this didn’t take away from the fact that almost everyone in the court and within the broader surrounding land’s borders was always angry.

  It seemed the queen and the court jester were the only ones able to maintain some sense of equanimity. The fact that they shared similar dispositions drew them together to share each other’s company more than might have been healthy.

  In the pauses between their laughter, they spent time exploring what was the root cause of their nation’s problems. The king was always in high dudgeon and the nobles, peasantry, dogs, cats, ponies and livestock took their lead from him.

  What was the cause of the unchecked anger? The jester was as near to being a psychologist as the Middle Ages was likely to produce. It was his conclusion that anger is a side effect. It is almost always a symptom of fear. And there is no limit to the number of things men and women can be afraid of if they choose.

  The king was afraid of being de-throned. He was afraid of usurpers and back stabbers. He was also fearful of a host of horrific diseases that plagued the land. His other anxieties centered on growing older, loneliness and his wife’s fidelity.

  The nobles were afraid of many of the same things as the king. Plus they were scared of each other. They clung to their power and perks. The infighting to achieve and maintain status was fierce. There was rarely a relaxing moment.

  The peasants were fearful of everything including the king, the nobles, the weather, tax collectors and where their next meal was coming from. And so it went.

  Some of these fears were legitimate, but many were irrational. This was hardly a surprise for the era. There were only so many hurdles over which anyone had control. The queen and jester pondered how to get this message across.

  On one lovely first-of-April morning, just as spring was about to play its winning hand, the jester was in a more than usually high-spirited mood. That’s when the king, while holding public court in his fortress keep, singled the jester out for special attention.

  The king was annoyed, once again, because the jester was spending too much time with his wife, the queen. He was growing suspicious. When the king asked the jester how he planned to entertain him that day, the jester acted coy. He hinted he had a secret he wanted to share with the king. The queen looked alarmed.

  “What is it? Speak up man,” said the king.

  “But it concerns the queen, your highness, and it is a matter of some delicacy.”

  “I have neither time nor patience for secrets. Tell me what you know.”

  “You wonder about my relationship with the queen, but it’s not me she’s interested in. There is another gentleman she has a great and loving regard for.”

  “You’d better be careful with your accusations. Who is this man?”

  “He is an individual of exceptional bearing. A prince in his community, one might say.”

  “Do I know this man? Are we equals? Does he have my same high standing?”

  “Yes. Every bit of it. He has many underlings at his beck and call.”

  The king was becoming visibly upset. “Tell me more,” he demanded.

  “He has a fine black stallion he likes to ride while hunting in his vast estates. He’s handsome and brave and his followers talk of his judgment and wisdom.”

  The king was now in a frothing state. He turned to his queen and said, “I won’t stand for this. This is intolerable. I’ll find your paramour and defeat him in battle.”

  His jealousy was a green standard under which he was eager to hop onto his magnificent ebony-colored destrier and ride off at the head of his more than scrappy troops.

  The lord high chamberlain of the land, who was no dummy, finally put an end to the king’s excitation. “I believe the mystery man the jester is referring to is you, my lord. I think he has been putting you on and having some sport with all of us.”

  The king’s royal purple veins nearly popped. Gradually, and with the help of several swigs from a goblet of wine, he calmed down. It sank in that he’d jumped to a conclusion and nearly waged war on himself. It was almost comical.

  He faced his queen again. �
�Is this true?”

  “Yes, of course, my dear. I love you very much. You’re a big bad bear of a man on the outside, but I know there’s a warm and cuddly spot near your heart.”

  The king was slightly mollified. He was pleased with his wife’s affectionate endorsement but he had just been made to look foolish in front of his entire court. Such a weakening of his prestige might prove to be dangerous.

  “Did the two of you cook this up?” he asked his wife.

  “Not exactly. But I am pleased if the jester’s practical joke teaches you a lesson. Anger comes from fear. If you can learn to control fear, the anger will go away.”

  “I do see your point and it was especially silly of me to be afraid of myself. Nevertheless, this mockery of the king does not set a good example. For the sake of appearances, I’m going to have to punish the two of you.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I’ve just professed my love for you as clear as can be and I’m the mother of your children and future heirs.” The queen was distraught.

  “You, my queen, will be confined to your quarters until further notice. Your friend, the jester, will be beheaded. That’s the kind of joke I am likely to find amusing.”

  Further pleading and carrying on before the king by all and sundry was to no avail.

  Three days later, the jester was led to the top of a wooden platform and made to kneel before a blood-soaked block. With the decisive chop imminent, he was asked for any last words to pass on to the assembled nobility and common folk.

  “I’m feeling vindicated,” he said in a firm loud voice. “I told you life was funny.”

  The king roared with laughter.

  Down came the broadsword, THWACK, and from that day forward the king stopped taking himself so seriously.

  One Shot in the Hot Seat

  April 10, 2010

  My name is Earl Thomas and I’m a reporter with the Tombstone Tabloid. Every week we try to bring our readers an interview with one of the Wild West’s more prominent citizens. This week we have “One Shot” Calhoun in the Hot Seat in our saloon studio. One Shot, as surely most people know, is the notorious gunslinger and part-time Texas Ranger nearly everyone is talking about.

  EARL: How are you doing today, One Shot?

  ONE SHOT: “I’m very well, thank you. How ‘bout you?”

  EARL: Just great! You can probably tell how excited I am to finally meet you. Let’s get this interview underway quickly. For starters, how did you get the name One Shot? Because you’re so deadly accurate with a gun?

  ONE SHOT: Funny you should ask, Earl. People are always getting that wrong. No, it’s because I only drink one shot of whiskey before I go out and face a man. One shot is good for the nerves. More than one shot slows the reflexes.

  EARL: Isn’t that interesting. And of course, it makes perfect sense. How many men have you shot over the years?

  ONE SHOT: Well of course I don’t keep track of every one. But there are 35 notches on my gun. That’s the same number as my age.

  EARL: 35? That’s an amazing figure.

  ONE SHOT: Yes and it doesn’t include lawyers and politicians.

  EARL: Why not?

  ONE SHOT: They’re only good for target practice.

  EARL: Boy I’m glad reporters aren’t on your bad side.

  ONE SHOT: Heh, heh. Well not so far.

  EARL: I see you brought the little woman with you today. She’s a very attractive lady. How did the two of you meet?

  ONE SHOT: I met her in a Kitty bar.

  EARL: Do you find that strange? That all saloons in the old west seem to be run by a Kitty?

  ONE SHOT: It’s not strange at all. Kitty is the name the ladies adopt to keep the censors happy. I always drink tea in a Kitty bar.

  EARL: Moving on quickly, what’s your wife’s real name?

  ONE SHOT: When I first met her, she said she was Mabel Anne Weddy. Later, she said she was Mabel Anne Rilling. I don’t think her teeth fit properly. Anyway, she was telling the truth on both counts.

  EARL: What has been the funniest moment in your life as a gunslinger?

  ONE SHOT: That would be when I shot Pecos Pete.

  EARL: Please share with our readers.

  ONE SHOT: Okay Earl. I was chasing a bunch of cattle rustlers across the Rio Grande. They got spread out and separated during a stampede I started. I’d been riding and working all night when I finally caught up with Pecos Pete sleeping alone beside his campfire as dawn was breaking.

  When he woke up and saw me, he was really nervous. He knew me by reputation, but I was able to calm him down. I told him I knew he was a good guy and he was the last person I’d kill under the circumstances. Me being tired and hungry and all.

  EARL: That sounds fair enough.

  ONE SHOT: Certainly. Then we sat down together and had a nice breakfast. Pecos even brewed me a fresh pot of coffee. Then, of course, I shot him.

  EARL: What? Why’d you do that?

  ONE SHOT: Cause I said I would. I’d taken care of the rest of his gang. He was the last one.

  EARL: What was your saddest shooting?

  ONE SHOT: Let me think a moment. (pause) I guess that would be “Mad Dog” McCall.

  EARL: What was so sad about it?

  ONE SHOT: Well it wasn’t sad for me. But he looked sad. He had such a long face. And now I remember why it affected me so much.

  EARL: And?

  ONE SHOT: He reminded me of my horse. You know, the long face and all. Also he had an overbite and he whinnied when he had sex.

  EARL: You know that how?

  ONE SHOT: I heard it from my sister-in-law, Betty Pader.

  EARL: How is that famous horse of yours, by the way? Boots. What a fine looking beast.

  ONE SHOT: He’s my best friend. He’s also a great listener. And a really good spooner when we’re alone on the trail at night. But he’s not the first Boots, you know.

  EARL: No?

  ONE SHOT: There was another Boots before him. I’m now riding Boots II. If something works the first time, I’m reluctant to change it. I don’t like to switch saddles, so to speak.

  EARL: That’s a nice metaphor. So you’ve had a pair of Boots?

  ONE SHOT: One more comment or joke like that and I’ll have to shoot you.

  They both laugh good-naturedly.

  EARL: Have you ever had a side-kick?

  ONE SHOT: Yes, there was a Mexican gentleman I used to chum around with, a Senor Julio.

  EARL: What happened?

  ONE SHOT: He got too clingy. I had to tell him he was no pal-o-mi-no. That’s a bit of western humor, Earl.

  EARL (smiling back): Out of curiosity, where do you get your bullets?

  ONE SHOT: I used to buy them from Mike’s Roe and Tackle Shop in Abilene. But he’s gone now and I’m looking for a new supplier. In the meantime, I’m making my own. It’s not that difficult.

  EARL: What happened to Mike?

  ONE SHOT: I had to shoot him.

  EARL: Any particular reason.