A summer day that was grey, dreary, with a light all day rain falling was putting a damper on the day. It was one of those summers down on the Choptank when I was 14, and being done with my chores on the Lady Anne, I was on my time. It seemed like a good day to check out the liers circle.
I peddled the old Schwinn down to the Jenkins store, and I was in luck, it was a full house. All taking shelter from the rain. Bill the trapper was there, slumping in a chair half asleep with a few empty Pabst cans laying beside him. Mr. Jenkins was bent over his latest project, making the ball in a cage. Matt Rankin was in another chair working on a new gasket for his silencer on his .22 rifle that was his "deer control" tool. Even Percy Lambert was there, reputed to be the best chicken thief on the eastern shore. It was shaping up to be a great afternoon after all. I was looking forward to any knowledge I could gleen from the esteemed members of the liers circle.
I dropped my nickle in the big red machine, cranked the handle, and a cold 6 once bottle of Coke dropped out. Back then it was the real Coke, made with suger instead of coorn syrup. Just as I was taking my first swig, Mrs Jenkins stepped into the doorway. My luck was improving.
Mrs. jenkins made the best oatmeal cookies around, and a kid counted himself lucky if he got there at the right time. I had. There was fresh made cookies, and the kindly lady gave me two, to go with my coke. Mr. Jenkins looked up.
"Come on over here and learn ya something." he said.
I moved an up ended crate over by him and watched as he whittled. He had a beautifull stag handle pen knife in hand, with the small pen blade out, working on his ball in the cage. I had never seen it done before, and watched in awe as he carefully took out chip by chip, the last bit of wood from the bars. He almost had the ball free.
"What kind of knife is that, sir?" I asked him.
He held out his palm with the knife laying across it, and it was flat out gorgous. Perfectly grooved and popcorned stag, with great bark and color, it was a two blade penknife of about 3 to 3 1/4 inches. With his permission, I picked it up and examined it and saw the tang mark of Bertram, and the Hen and Rooster mark. Like my grandad, Mr. Jenkins was partial to fine pocket knives.
"My grandad has a Hen and Rooster." I said.
"Thats because your grandad is man of good taste, like me." said Mr. Jenkins.
Matt Rankin made a snorting sound, but was still working a a gasket, cutting a new one out of an old bicycle inner tube with a small pair of sissors. Mr. Jenkins glowered at him a moment, then went back to his work on the ball in cage. I watched as the razor sharp blade did it's work, taking tiny bits of wood out just where Mr. Jenkins needed.
"Now the object is" Mr. jenkins was saying, "to not get in a hurry and take too much at a time. Ya jist wanta take tiny little bits out."
On the other side of the porch Matt Rankin stood up with his newly fixed deer control tool, and took aim at a tree stump just off the porch. There was a loud whump sound like somebody closing a thick book suddenly, and Mr. Jenkins who had been bent over intent on his work jumped.
"GOD D--, IT RANKIN, " he yelled, "YOU ALMOST MADE ME BREAK MY CAGE!"
The sudden yelling woke up Bill the trapper, who jumped up out of his chair thinking the game wardens were after him. He stumbled around still half asleep, accidently kicking the empty beer cans around.
Mrs. Jenkins stepped out on the porch at the ruckus, and pointed a finger at each of them.
"Okay, thats it!" she scolded them, "From now on the first day of each month you all are paying rent on those chairs. Maybe I can make up for some of the customers that won't come because of gunfire on the porch that's littered with drunks and reprobates!"
She disapeard back in the store, and Bill looked almighty worried.
"Ya don't think she'll really charge us money, do ya?"
"Nah, she'll settle for you doing some chores maybe."
The idea of work seemed to worry Bill more than cash money for the chair rent.
At that moment, Lizzy Rankin pulled in the dirt parking lot with her pickup, and sauntered across the porch to the store, ever looking the tawny haired long legged vixen. She winked at me and looked over at Matt Rankin.
"Hi daddy."
As she disapeared into the depths of the store, all eyes would have followed her, but with Matt sitting there with a possably still loaded rifle, it seemed best to give study to something else. After all, he was the most deadly shot in Dorchester county. With a shock, I realised he was looking right at me with those light green eyes that didn't seem to have an expression in them at the moment I could read. It was most uncomfortable.
After a few moments the normal routine settled back on the front porch, and Mr. Jenkins was cutting the last bit of wood away from his ball, and Matt was showing me how the new gasket was working. I was getting a good bit of learning done if I didn't get shot along the way. So far I was learning about whittling from a proffesional loafer, and making a good silencer for .22 rifles from a proffesional poacher.
Lizzy came out with a paper sack of some groceries, and as she passed me, crooked a index finger at me on the side of the bag her father couldn't see. This was the summer of our little affair, and I felt a flush down my back. We all watched her do that saunter to her truck, Matt or no Matt. I guess some things are worth the risk.
I waited a little bit and made my exuses for departing. I peddled the Schwinn back along the damp pavement, and right past the driveway to my grandfolks place. A while later I was turning off down the long dirt and gravel driveway to the little cabin back in the piney woods. It was a dark shadowed place, and Lizzy opened the door and yanked me inside.
We didn't have color tv's or computers, or even video games back in those days. A young man was expected to be resoursefull in finding things to keep him occupied on long rainy days.
Life back then on the Choptank was never boring. None of the modern stuff we have now, but never boring.
I peddled the old Schwinn down to the Jenkins store, and I was in luck, it was a full house. All taking shelter from the rain. Bill the trapper was there, slumping in a chair half asleep with a few empty Pabst cans laying beside him. Mr. Jenkins was bent over his latest project, making the ball in a cage. Matt Rankin was in another chair working on a new gasket for his silencer on his .22 rifle that was his "deer control" tool. Even Percy Lambert was there, reputed to be the best chicken thief on the eastern shore. It was shaping up to be a great afternoon after all. I was looking forward to any knowledge I could gleen from the esteemed members of the liers circle.
I dropped my nickle in the big red machine, cranked the handle, and a cold 6 once bottle of Coke dropped out. Back then it was the real Coke, made with suger instead of coorn syrup. Just as I was taking my first swig, Mrs Jenkins stepped into the doorway. My luck was improving.
Mrs. jenkins made the best oatmeal cookies around, and a kid counted himself lucky if he got there at the right time. I had. There was fresh made cookies, and the kindly lady gave me two, to go with my coke. Mr. Jenkins looked up.
"Come on over here and learn ya something." he said.
I moved an up ended crate over by him and watched as he whittled. He had a beautifull stag handle pen knife in hand, with the small pen blade out, working on his ball in the cage. I had never seen it done before, and watched in awe as he carefully took out chip by chip, the last bit of wood from the bars. He almost had the ball free.
"What kind of knife is that, sir?" I asked him.
He held out his palm with the knife laying across it, and it was flat out gorgous. Perfectly grooved and popcorned stag, with great bark and color, it was a two blade penknife of about 3 to 3 1/4 inches. With his permission, I picked it up and examined it and saw the tang mark of Bertram, and the Hen and Rooster mark. Like my grandad, Mr. Jenkins was partial to fine pocket knives.
"My grandad has a Hen and Rooster." I said.
"Thats because your grandad is man of good taste, like me." said Mr. Jenkins.
Matt Rankin made a snorting sound, but was still working a a gasket, cutting a new one out of an old bicycle inner tube with a small pair of sissors. Mr. Jenkins glowered at him a moment, then went back to his work on the ball in cage. I watched as the razor sharp blade did it's work, taking tiny bits of wood out just where Mr. Jenkins needed.
"Now the object is" Mr. jenkins was saying, "to not get in a hurry and take too much at a time. Ya jist wanta take tiny little bits out."
On the other side of the porch Matt Rankin stood up with his newly fixed deer control tool, and took aim at a tree stump just off the porch. There was a loud whump sound like somebody closing a thick book suddenly, and Mr. Jenkins who had been bent over intent on his work jumped.
"GOD D--, IT RANKIN, " he yelled, "YOU ALMOST MADE ME BREAK MY CAGE!"
The sudden yelling woke up Bill the trapper, who jumped up out of his chair thinking the game wardens were after him. He stumbled around still half asleep, accidently kicking the empty beer cans around.
Mrs. Jenkins stepped out on the porch at the ruckus, and pointed a finger at each of them.
"Okay, thats it!" she scolded them, "From now on the first day of each month you all are paying rent on those chairs. Maybe I can make up for some of the customers that won't come because of gunfire on the porch that's littered with drunks and reprobates!"
She disapeard back in the store, and Bill looked almighty worried.
"Ya don't think she'll really charge us money, do ya?"
"Nah, she'll settle for you doing some chores maybe."
The idea of work seemed to worry Bill more than cash money for the chair rent.
At that moment, Lizzy Rankin pulled in the dirt parking lot with her pickup, and sauntered across the porch to the store, ever looking the tawny haired long legged vixen. She winked at me and looked over at Matt Rankin.
"Hi daddy."
As she disapeared into the depths of the store, all eyes would have followed her, but with Matt sitting there with a possably still loaded rifle, it seemed best to give study to something else. After all, he was the most deadly shot in Dorchester county. With a shock, I realised he was looking right at me with those light green eyes that didn't seem to have an expression in them at the moment I could read. It was most uncomfortable.
After a few moments the normal routine settled back on the front porch, and Mr. Jenkins was cutting the last bit of wood away from his ball, and Matt was showing me how the new gasket was working. I was getting a good bit of learning done if I didn't get shot along the way. So far I was learning about whittling from a proffesional loafer, and making a good silencer for .22 rifles from a proffesional poacher.
Lizzy came out with a paper sack of some groceries, and as she passed me, crooked a index finger at me on the side of the bag her father couldn't see. This was the summer of our little affair, and I felt a flush down my back. We all watched her do that saunter to her truck, Matt or no Matt. I guess some things are worth the risk.
I waited a little bit and made my exuses for departing. I peddled the Schwinn back along the damp pavement, and right past the driveway to my grandfolks place. A while later I was turning off down the long dirt and gravel driveway to the little cabin back in the piney woods. It was a dark shadowed place, and Lizzy opened the door and yanked me inside.
We didn't have color tv's or computers, or even video games back in those days. A young man was expected to be resoursefull in finding things to keep him occupied on long rainy days.
Life back then on the Choptank was never boring. None of the modern stuff we have now, but never boring.
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