Shakin' Off The Devil

A true to life tale that I have set to liberty's pen of my Dad in his teenage years living with his aunt & Uncle in Sylvester, Texas.

Shakin' Off The Devil

Written By Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn de Graham

Copyright © 2012 Marvin Thomas Cox

DBA: Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn de Graham

All Rights Reserved

(In loving memory of my Dad, Martin T. Cox, who lived this true life tale)

One sure fire sign of bein’ a little older in life and slower in your gait, is wakin’ up in the mornin’ to the knowledge that your parents are long since dead and gone, no longer there to greet you with hot breakfast chides of, “Son you better take a bath this evenin', wash behind those ears, and the grass better be mowed when I get home.”  The task masters endowed with the responsibility of steerin' each of us onto the safe and successful course of life’s stream, have retired to speechless chats with old friends and strangers galore deep within the cool grounds of cemeteries we now seldom visit for fear of thinkin’ we may take up residence there ourselves soon enough.

Last evenin' my Dad, tired of hangin’ out with the speechless, cold shouldered, sort at the ole cemetery, wandered into my memory for a visit.  Man it was good to see him again.  We visited in the annals of my mind’s distant eye for hours, rehashin' old times, childish stunts I pulled that he should have whooped my butt for but didn’t, and fishin’ trips we both will never forget.

Dad seemed a bit uneasy, but jovial, while we chatted together.  He was never much on shoulderin’ up his troubles upon others, but I kind of got the feelin’ he was goin’ a little stir crazy out at the ole Corpse Manor Estate.  I don’t reckon he much cared for the likes of what passed for company as next door neighbors, seein’ as how we buried him in a plot right next to a family of folks he couldn’t stand the sight of when alive, much less twelve years cold and dead in the grave.  I guess the old fart ain’t never gonna forgive me for that thoughtless piece of work.

I offered Dad coffee and somethin’ to snack on.

“Nah I’ll pass, the old digestive system just ain’t what it used to be, if you know what I mean.”

Dad was always crackin’ jokes, findin’ a way to bring a smile out of even the saddest of moments.  He had been gifted like that all his life, makin’ people laugh and smile.  Death had not diminished his charm a single iota.

“So what’s up Dad? How you been gettin’ along?,” I asked him, sipping my coffee.

“Not worth a cotton-pickin’ flip,” Dad snorted.  “My joints are goin’ to hades, and my skin is plum tryin’ to rot off ‘em.  Son, I tell you I think I’m fallin' to pieces here, and nothin’ don’t seem to help.”

Choking back a laugh at the irony of his words, and burning my tongue on the hot coffee, I glanced up to see Dad grinning from ear to ear …

____________

Even on his death bed Dad had found a way to bring a smile to my tear stained face as he looked up at me with the most serious of expressions ...

“Now I’m fixin’ to take a little nap.  When I get to sleepin’ real good, you let me rest, you hear?  And be sure to weight my coffin down good and proper, so when it comes a gully washer I don’t go a floatin’ back up to the surface and stink y’all out.”

My Dad always found a way to laugh, to make me laugh, even the last moments before he died.  I loved that old man …

____________

Hours later I knew he didn’t just drop by my memory's revere of reliving those old times for a short visit, only.  He had come set to spend the night, just like old times on the river campin’ out together, chewin’ the fat and tellin’ stories.  Right about my bedtime, Dad was just gettin’ warmed up.  I told him that -- that he was gettin’ warmed up that is -- but he just looked at me like I was makin' a sick joke, trying as best he could to hide that smile that springs from the pride every man takes in a son who has learned something worthwhile.

Yep, I would spend this night with my Dad rememberin’ the stories he had told me so many times; stories that never grew old. A good story never dies; it lives on in a father’s son… Dad’s a touch short on wind now, so if he don’t mind, I will attempt to fill my father’s shoes in telling this story he continues to hold dear, even beyond his dying day; a story which will turn back the hands of time to his teenage years, long before I was a yet to be that sparkling gleam in his eyes the day he saw my mom for the very first time.

____________

Dad's mom brought him into this world but, for a large portion of his young life, she did not raise him.  He spent many years on his uncle’s farm, in Sylvester, Texas living with his aunt and uncle.  Life on a farm in 1940’s West Texas was hard, but good; the things great memories are made of.

Every year on that dusty old farm, my Dad helped his uncle and cousin plow the sun baked fields plantin’ crops to keep the family fed and the mortgage paid.  Seein’ as how Dad was a guest, his cousin always got to use the farm's only tractor, and Dad was forced to use an old fashion team driven plow.  My Dad never did care too much for horses.  He said they was meaner than Hades.  Of course, he always pointed out that had someone hooked him up to a plow he might have gotten a tad mean himself.

Early one spring, just before plantin’ time, Dad’s uncle drove into town early one mornin’.  His uncle stayed in town all that day on business, while the two boys worked 'round the farm doin’ chores and cleanin’ up outside the old house.  Shortly before sundown the boys looked up to see a cloud of dust headin’ up the road toward the farm.  A short time later, Dad’s uncle wheeled up outside the barn pullin’ a trailer with a good lookin’ tractor on it.  Both boys were runnin’ to the barn as fast as their feet could carry them when he pulled in, excitement and wonderment spillin' forth upon their faces.

Dad was happier than all get out, until he heard his uncle tellin' his son that the new tractor would be his to use for spring plowin'.  All the light went out of my Dad’s face.

Walkin' over to his uncle he asked him, “hey Unc’, what am I gonna plow with?”

His uncle smiled at him, pullin' a chaw off a plug of tobacco and shovin' it into his jaw, “Why Martin, you finally get to put that old team out to pasture, and plow with ole 'Grunt-an-get-it,' our old farm tractor.”

All the wind went out of Dad’s sails, when he heard this news.  His uncle and cousin unloaded the new tractor off the trailer, not seemin' to notice that Dad had grown unusually quiet, shufflin' his feet off towards the barn.

Saturday mornin’ came along, a time of the week when everybody looked forward to headin’ into town to spend the day havin’ some fun.  Dad claimed he had lessons from school to tend to, and besides he was tired of goin’ to town anyway.  His uncle and aunt looked at each other, wonderin’ what had gotten into Martin; the boy hated his lessons and was always the first to jump in the back of the pickup come Saturday mornin’s.  His uncle put his hand on Dad’s shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze while he opened the door of his pickup.

Slammin' the door as he got in, his uncle looked at him, still a bit puzzled.  “Have it your way Martin.  Guess we’ll see you when we get in this evenin’.”

Unc had been a young man once himself.  He sort of suspicioned what was eatin’ at his nephew, but then every boy has to grow up, if he’s gonna make a man.

____________

Dad watched the family drive off down the old dirt road; watchin' until every trace of their dust in the air was gone.  He stood there by himself, head down, kickin’ at the dirt with the toe of his shoe for a while before makin’ his way out towards the barn.

The new tractor was sittin out front.  To him, it was the best lookin tractor he’d ever seen.  He looked at it, then looked over at ole 'Grunt-an-get-it,' his uncle's worn out old tractor; ready for puttin’ out to pasture many years ago.  Unc’ had given the old junker that name out of reverence for the old tractor’s seemin'ly undaunted determination to 'Grunt-an-get-it,' come plowin’ time each year, regardless of its rickety age and poor mechanical condition.

Dad walked around the new tractor, givin' it his best visual inspection.  The tractor looked to be in top notch shape, no oil leaks, and the paint wasn’t bad either.  He had heard it run and, shoot-fire, it even had electric start.  That old tractor had to be cranked by hand.  He loved his cousin, but the boy always found a way to snooker him into crankin’ that old piece of junk for him, so he wouldn’t be the one to purt’ near get his arm broke doin’ it.

Standin' just inside the drive wheel, Dad looked up at the driver’s seat, admirin' it.  It was then that he felt his aunt’s cat rubbin’ up against his britches leg.  Dad shook his leg in an effort to get the cat to go on.  He suffered from hay fever somethin’ fierce.  Cats made him sicker than a dog, his nose runnin’ watery hot snot miserable.  It’s kind of funny, but cats sometimes like people that hate them.  This cat loved my Dad, refusin' to take all hints.

It always took a lot to get Dad mad, but he was mad that day; mad at the world, and mad at this cat. He said that thinkin’ back over the years, the Devil himself must have been sittin’ on his shoulder that day, ‘Cause outta the blue Dad got the most evil notion. It was one of those notions that made you smile all over, even though you knew darn well it was wrong.

It dawned on Dad that he had a small roll of bare telephone wire in his britches front pocket. Reachin' inside the pocket, he pulled out the wire, fashionin’ himself a crude noose of sorts out of one end, and proceeded to slip it ever so gently ‘round the cat’s neck.   Uncoilin’ the rest of the wire, he stretched it out for length. It seemed plenty long enough for what he had in mind, so he took the other end and wrapped it ‘round the tip of one of the spark plugs on the tractor motor.

Grinnin' all evil like while he was lookin’ down at his aunt’s cat, Dad could not help but loose a little chuckle.

“Let’s see how you like this.”

Hoppin’ up on the tractor, Dad sat himself in the seat to where he could get a bird’s eye view of the show that was ‘bout to commence down below. Slidin’ the throttle lever up to mid-range, he reached over and turned the switch on. Then, not takin' his eyes off his aunt’s cat, he pushed the start button. The engine fired instantly, leapin' its way to high rpm.

As my Dad bent down to get a better view of the fun, that cat did somethin’ he never thought about.  His aunt’s cat suddenly arched its back, claws extended, fur standin’ straight up into the air …

… Then that cat did somethin’ else my Dad had never considered a cat might do.  The cat leapt straight up into the air.  It landed square on top of my Dad’s head, solidly impregnatin' its claws within his scalp.  Dad screamed in pain, but you could not have heard it over the roar of the tractor motor.

At times like this a boy better get to thinkin’ and thinkin’ quick.  But...Somethin’ ‘bout havin cat claws embedded in your skull tends to slow down the thinkin’ process.  Dad didn’t know what in Hades to do.  He reached up desperately with one hand to pull the cat off.  The cat promptly bit that hand, leavin’ a nasty gash.  This prompted my Dad to turn loose of the steering wheel he had a hold of, in an effort to grab this devil cat with both hands.

'Bout now you’re probably thinkin’ that my Dad must’ve had blood runnin’ down his face, a hand bleedin' and hurtin’, with sparks jumpin out of his backside all at the same time.  Dad would be the first one to tell you the cat was not the only one experiencin’ an electrifyin’ moment; no sir, they both was.

To make things worse, Dad somehow managed to get a hold of that cat with his freed hand, thinkin' that he was sendin' a fresh soldier into battle in defense of its five fingered twin, which was rapidly being turned into hamburger meat by this now savage beast.

A few seconds more was all that was needed for Dad to concede defeat, as he jerked his gnawed, chewed, and bleedin' hand away to be followed by its brother, which now boasted a full set of of cat claws set like fish hooks in the mouth of a trophy sized bass.

Yep, my dear old Dad had seen better days than this; that's for sure. With blood streamin' from feline impregnated wounds, and my Dad screamin' for dear life, this critter was givin' no quarter in its tissy-fit-frenzied, fury-dance, on the top of his head.  Dad was wearin’ that cat like one of them skull caps you see in New York City nowadays, while buckin’ a bronc nobody could see, the tractor oblivious to the rodeo underway upon its seat.

His wits havin' failed him, Dad's body instinctively hit that internalized button in charge of overridin' any and all decisions to be made in regards to tractors, copper wire, and cats. It was time for vacatin' the premises, and Dad's body was in no mood for quibblin'. His headlong dive from the tractor was not a pretty one. He landed face first in the dirt. Cussin' as he rolled over and got up to dust himself off, Dad looked up to see the cat high tailin' it for the barn.

Smartin' from his mischievous adventure gone wrong, my Dad surveyed the damage; first himself and then the tractor. Tiny rivulets of blood continued to ease their way downhill, while he swiped at his forehead with his shirt sleeve. No doubt, his face was a mess. This thought brought his attention to his hands, which were a sight; his left was chewed up pretty good, and his right still sported a prize set of cat claws, each one oozing some blood. Dad concluded that he would probably live, and so turned his attention to the tractor, which was faithfully hummin' away like nobodies business. Walking the few feet over to the tractor, Dad reached up and slid the throttle lever back down to idle, and turned off the switch. The air around him became quiet as the motor came to a stop.

The silence seemed to help clear his head. An obvious thought suddenly bubbled its way to the surface of his mind ...

“All you had to do was turn off the switch, stupid!”

As Dad turned and began walkin' towards his uncle's house, he began to laugh to himself ...

“My Cuz can have that fancy electric start tractor, 'cause it ain't nothin' but trouble no how.”

____________

Dad found himself a spot on the porch shortly after that. He just sat thinkin' about things the rest of that day.  He was still sittin’ there when his aunt and uncle pulled up outside with his cousin in the back of the pickup.  Dad didn’t look up when they stepped onto the porch; his aunt headed inside to see bout' fixin’ some supper.

Dad’s Unc’ stopped at the porch, before going in.  “How was your day, Martin.”

His uncle had already spotted the boy's bloody hands and, as Martin looked up to face him, he also saw the dried blood on his forehead and face.

“Cat get the best of ya boy?,”  his uncle asked, with a grin.

“Yep, sure did Unc’,” my Dad answered quietly.

His uncle never said another word after that, but my Dad knew that his uncle had left him alone on that farm with a nicely coiled length of rope.  Yes siree, a little spool of copper wire rope to hang himself with, if he wasn’t ready to grow up yet and be a man …

____________

Over breakfast the next mornin’, me eatin’ and Dad watchin’, I asked him how I did sharin’ his story with y’all.  He finished watchin’ me eat and drink my coffee, before standin’ up to leave.

“You did fine Son.   ‘Course, if you was in the grave as long as me, you'd a probably tried to put a bit more life into it.”

Dad always made certain that he never left folks with anything but a smile and a hearty laugh. That was my cue he was goin' home for now. Visitin' was over till next time 'round.

“See ya next time, Son ...”

“Bye Dad … Love you,” I whispered softly to myself as he faded from view of my memory.

(Written November 3^rd, 2012)

Reviews

[Thomas W Case]

Brilliant writing. Great dialogue.

[Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn de Graham]

Thanks Thomas, for the kind words.