The summer of 1952 was a hot one down on the Choptank, and folks were sitting around talking about how long it had been since it had been that hot a summer. Being at the mouth of the Choptank river we at least got some nice breezes off the wide Chesapeake bay, but hot was hot, no matter if it was breezy or not.
When not helping grandad on the Lady Anne, I found reasons to ride my bicycle down to Jenkins store for a cold Coke out of the machine on the front porch. It was one of those old style machines where you dropped in your nickle and got the little 6 once bottle of cold Coke. The real Coke, when they used real suger instead of corn syrup. There was nothing else quite like it. I feel a little sorry for the young guys these days, that stuff in the plastic botttles only tastes sort of like Coke.
Mr. Jenkins, who was the owner of what the local church ladies called a den of chicken thieves, loafers, and no-goods, could usually be found on the front porch of the weather beaten wood building, whittling or holding court with his fellow no-goods. It was a prime place for a young fellow to be to pick up priceless information on life. After all, one never knew when one would have to pluck a fresh stole chicken or set a muskrat trap where the game warden won't find it.
This one occasion Mr. Jenkins was still carefully whittling on a wooden chain. I was captivated by his skill in turning the long piece of 1X2 lumber into a wood chain. He'd been at it for the last couple of times I'd stopped by for a cold Coke. Now it was almost finished, all 5 or 6 feet of it. He was working carefully away with a small two blade pen knife, and I was ever curious about knives. I asked him about it.
Mr. Jenkins looked up at me over his Ben Franklin glasses he wore to see close.
"That there is a Ger-main Tree brand knife boy. Can't say as I like them krauts much, but they do make darn good knives and guns" he said.
This of course sparked an argument over whether the German knives were any good, or to stick with good old U.S.A. made stuff.
"Well I won't have anything to do with buying thier stuff," Matt Rankin replied hotly. "And niether should you boy, them hiennies near killed your Uncle Mike when they sunk his PT boat"
Uncle Mike had his boat sunk when they had tangled with a German S-boat, but I'd never heard him or other family members hold it personel. In fact Hen and Rooster had become grandads favorite post war pocket knife.
"Well, I'm not gonna hold any grudges," Mr. Jenkins went on, " we kicked thier bratwurst good, so's we're even up. And I like the guns they make. My boy brought back a Luger and its the best pistol I ever had."
Now may I say, I don't think Mr. Jenkins had ever had a handgun aside from maybe a .22 revolver for shooting trapped muskrats.
"Luger hell, a good ol 'merican made Smith and Wesson will put that kraut junk to shame" argued Matt Rankin.
I'd just about finished my cold Coke by this time and it was just getting interesting. They decided to have a contest on the spot with Jenkins shooting his war prize Luger that his son had brought back, and Rankin shooting his old 1917 Smith and Wesson .45. Now this idea may or may not have been a good idea, as there was the usual empty Pabst Blue Ribbon cans on the porch. Trapper Bill was sleeping through this whole altercation, with a sizable pile beside his rocker.
Jenkins came out of the store with his luger, and Rankin fetched his Old WW1 revolver from under the seat of his pick-up. A couple of cans were set out at the edge of the dirt parking lot, and the shooters stood by. In those days the eastern shore was a strange isolated place, and it was not unusual to hear gunfire now and then as someone poached, plinked, or otherwise just shot for the fun of it.
Mr. Jenkins was holding the Luger sideways, squiting at the safty, fiddling with it not recalling if it went up or down. There was a sudden shot and a loud metalic wang sound as the Luger went off unexpectedly. They all looked over to where it hit. And there in the lower portion of Matt Rankin's old rusty Ford truck door was a neat little hole with some shiney metal around the edge.
"You shot my truck!" yelled Rankin.
"Well I was just figgerin out the safty on this thing." said Jenkins.
By this time attention was drawn to a loud howling back at the porch. Trapper Bill, suddenly awoken from his beer induced afternoon slumber, had jarred awake by the shot thinking the game warden was after him. He had bolted from the porch half asleep and stumbled over Mr. Jenkins wooden chain he had been working on. It had tripped him up and he fell down the porch steps and was yeling his leg might be broke. In treading on the whittled chain he had broken it in two.
"You broke my chain!" yelled Mr. Jenkins at Trapper Bill.
"You shot my truck" yelled Rankin at Jenkins.
I'd long finished my last swallow of Coke, and as I hastily placed the empty bottle in the box besides the machine, I thought it was a good time to leave.
"YOU SHOT MY TRUCK!" Rankin was still yelling. It seemed to be the only speach he was now capable of.
I quickly pedeled my bicycle up the rode thinking I'd better not tell grandmom about the truck getting shot. She just may forbid me to go to the Jenkins store again. By the next time I visited the store, peace had come again to the front porch, with only a now and then "well you shot my truck!" comming up in conversation from Matt Rankin. Bill the Trapper recovered from a sprained ankle, and Mr. Jenkins was watched carefully least he pick up some sort of firearm.
When not helping grandad on the Lady Anne, I found reasons to ride my bicycle down to Jenkins store for a cold Coke out of the machine on the front porch. It was one of those old style machines where you dropped in your nickle and got the little 6 once bottle of cold Coke. The real Coke, when they used real suger instead of corn syrup. There was nothing else quite like it. I feel a little sorry for the young guys these days, that stuff in the plastic botttles only tastes sort of like Coke.
Mr. Jenkins, who was the owner of what the local church ladies called a den of chicken thieves, loafers, and no-goods, could usually be found on the front porch of the weather beaten wood building, whittling or holding court with his fellow no-goods. It was a prime place for a young fellow to be to pick up priceless information on life. After all, one never knew when one would have to pluck a fresh stole chicken or set a muskrat trap where the game warden won't find it.
This one occasion Mr. Jenkins was still carefully whittling on a wooden chain. I was captivated by his skill in turning the long piece of 1X2 lumber into a wood chain. He'd been at it for the last couple of times I'd stopped by for a cold Coke. Now it was almost finished, all 5 or 6 feet of it. He was working carefully away with a small two blade pen knife, and I was ever curious about knives. I asked him about it.
Mr. Jenkins looked up at me over his Ben Franklin glasses he wore to see close.
"That there is a Ger-main Tree brand knife boy. Can't say as I like them krauts much, but they do make darn good knives and guns" he said.
This of course sparked an argument over whether the German knives were any good, or to stick with good old U.S.A. made stuff.
"Well I won't have anything to do with buying thier stuff," Matt Rankin replied hotly. "And niether should you boy, them hiennies near killed your Uncle Mike when they sunk his PT boat"
Uncle Mike had his boat sunk when they had tangled with a German S-boat, but I'd never heard him or other family members hold it personel. In fact Hen and Rooster had become grandads favorite post war pocket knife.
"Well, I'm not gonna hold any grudges," Mr. Jenkins went on, " we kicked thier bratwurst good, so's we're even up. And I like the guns they make. My boy brought back a Luger and its the best pistol I ever had."
Now may I say, I don't think Mr. Jenkins had ever had a handgun aside from maybe a .22 revolver for shooting trapped muskrats.
"Luger hell, a good ol 'merican made Smith and Wesson will put that kraut junk to shame" argued Matt Rankin.
I'd just about finished my cold Coke by this time and it was just getting interesting. They decided to have a contest on the spot with Jenkins shooting his war prize Luger that his son had brought back, and Rankin shooting his old 1917 Smith and Wesson .45. Now this idea may or may not have been a good idea, as there was the usual empty Pabst Blue Ribbon cans on the porch. Trapper Bill was sleeping through this whole altercation, with a sizable pile beside his rocker.
Jenkins came out of the store with his luger, and Rankin fetched his Old WW1 revolver from under the seat of his pick-up. A couple of cans were set out at the edge of the dirt parking lot, and the shooters stood by. In those days the eastern shore was a strange isolated place, and it was not unusual to hear gunfire now and then as someone poached, plinked, or otherwise just shot for the fun of it.
Mr. Jenkins was holding the Luger sideways, squiting at the safty, fiddling with it not recalling if it went up or down. There was a sudden shot and a loud metalic wang sound as the Luger went off unexpectedly. They all looked over to where it hit. And there in the lower portion of Matt Rankin's old rusty Ford truck door was a neat little hole with some shiney metal around the edge.
"You shot my truck!" yelled Rankin.
"Well I was just figgerin out the safty on this thing." said Jenkins.
By this time attention was drawn to a loud howling back at the porch. Trapper Bill, suddenly awoken from his beer induced afternoon slumber, had jarred awake by the shot thinking the game warden was after him. He had bolted from the porch half asleep and stumbled over Mr. Jenkins wooden chain he had been working on. It had tripped him up and he fell down the porch steps and was yeling his leg might be broke. In treading on the whittled chain he had broken it in two.
"You broke my chain!" yelled Mr. Jenkins at Trapper Bill.
"You shot my truck" yelled Rankin at Jenkins.
I'd long finished my last swallow of Coke, and as I hastily placed the empty bottle in the box besides the machine, I thought it was a good time to leave.
"YOU SHOT MY TRUCK!" Rankin was still yelling. It seemed to be the only speach he was now capable of.
I quickly pedeled my bicycle up the rode thinking I'd better not tell grandmom about the truck getting shot. She just may forbid me to go to the Jenkins store again. By the next time I visited the store, peace had come again to the front porch, with only a now and then "well you shot my truck!" comming up in conversation from Matt Rankin. Bill the Trapper recovered from a sprained ankle, and Mr. Jenkins was watched carefully least he pick up some sort of firearm.
