Open Writing

Larry and I didn't often go out when our sons were small. It was not until we lived in Hotchkiss and Larry joined the Elks Lodge that we started socializing. One Christmas we went with Don and Reita to the Elk's Charity Ball. A few hours into the party Don was more than a little tipsy. That did not sit well with Reita. She watched as he attempted to retrieve his jacket from a coat rack. She smirked, nudged me and motioned with a jerk of her head. "Look at Don, he can't find his coat."

We watched Don take what he thought was his coat, but instead, he picked a three-quarter-length woman's jacket the same color as his. Don tugged the coat over his broad shoulders, and looked puzzled at the tightness of the too small jacket. We were hooting with laughter. I began to feel sorry for him, but Reita was clearly enjoying his discomfort.

"Stop laughing at him, Reita. Can't you see he's confused?"

"Confused hell, he's drunk!"

Poor Don had no chance to correct his error before the owner of the coat marched up, and indignantly ripped her coat off him.

Although alcohol was never an issue with Reita, who was an occasional social drinker, she could never tolerate anyone drinking to excess the way our parents did.

We didn't see Willie often but after we moved to Colorado he came to visit us, usually to hunt elk on the Western Slope. We all looked forward to those visits as Willie, now in his late twenties, was still our most favored family member. We loved to listen to his stories; he was and still is a wonderful storyteller.

Most of the family accompanied Willie to hunting camp. He brought John Harris his old friend and boss with him a few times until John became too decrepit to go hunting. John, a big, raw-boned man, had a booming voice that was in part a reaction to his poor hearing.

The last time he came to Colorado to hunt with Willie he stayed in camp instead of trekking through the rough terrain. One morning after the other hunters had left; he was sitting on a small log by the campfire, peering through his rifle scope at the lovely mountain meadows. Suddenly, he was shocked to see three elk running straight at him.

Terrified, he fell backward off the log and accidentally discharged his rifle. He finally got to his knees, expecting to be run over by the stampeding elk. But he was astonished to see that the elk had slowed to a walk in the middle of the meadow at least a hundred yards away. He had forgotten that the animals appeared larger and closer when magnified by the scope. That was the last time John came to Colorado to hunt.

The next time Willie came to hunt we asked how John was doing. Willie shook his head and grinned. "Well, the poor old man's been sick and I finally convinced him to go the doctor the other day. Afterward, I took him by the drug store to pick up a prescription. It never occurred to me to go over the instructions with him and I didn't notice that the prescription was for rectal suppositories." Willie chuckled softly and readjusted his cap. "The next day, I noticed he looked worse than before he went to the doctor—all pasty and pale." He chuckled louder and longer this time. "I asked him, John ain't that medicine helpin' you any?" Willie laughed and finished his story. "It ain't worth a damned," old John groaned. "That medicine's awful. It would a done me just as much good if I'd stuck it up my ass."

At that point Willie stoked our good mood with a story about his Mexican friend who had shot his first deer earlier that year while hunting in New Mexico.

"Jose had just turned twenty and was so proud of his kill he could hardly stand it," Willie said. "He isn't a very big guy so we asked him how he planned on packing the deer carcass down off the mountain. He told us to help him just a little by hoisting the deer onto his shoulders so he could grab it by its legs and carry it off the mountain. He said he planned to stop and sit down on a stump or rock to rest along the way."

Willie shook his head and continued his story, "We lifted the deer onto Jose's shoulders and he stood there "bench'legged" under the weight of the deer." Demonstrating this stance, Willie stood with his feet spread apart and his knees slightly bent.

"Jose's plan might have worked except that he was standing with his back to the downhill side of the mountain. When the weight of his gun was added to that of the deer, the poor kid lost his balance and began flipping heels over head backward." Willie joined our laughter and continued, "He didn't turn loose of the gun or the deer and was able to regain his balance just long enough to shout chingao! before again flipping backward down the mountainside.

**

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