The brick story as told by my father: (A Guest Entry)
I reckon it was the summer of ‘51 when my city-slicker cousin, Willie Swifty, and his friend, Hagar, came to spend the summer with us southern, goat-ropin’ cowboys out on The Ranch. Even the hound dog knew they’z nothin’ but trouble from the git.
It all started when the two rambunctious Yanks spotted some pre-WWII rubber innertubes Dad had lying around at the south side of the barn. These wuz the real stretchy type, like the surgical tubing those Red Cross Vampires use to wrap around your bicep before they stick that long, blood-sucking straw into your arm. This was back when rubber was real rubber, and when Swifty saw that dead cottonwood snag out on the back forty with a six-foot fork at the top, he figured they could build a slingshot that would shoot a “half a brick a half of mile,” and there wern’t nobody around to tell ‘em different.
With his finger, Swifty quickly sketched out a draft of the sling in the soil of that dusty, desert gyp. The mouldy coyote hide with two tails Momma kept hanging on the clothes line (a different story entirely) would make a perfect brick-huggin pouch if it were positioned properly and sewn inbetween two of those ‘ol tubes. He figured the trickiest part of the plan would be how they wuz going to attach the bands to each leg of the “Y” of that dead tree. After a thorough thirty-second examination, he realized they could just hook the ends over the top, and secure ‘em with two wraps of baling twine and a rabbit’s foot for good luck.
After the construction was complete, Swifty grabbed the half a brick Dad used to prop open the tack room door and told Hagar to place it snugly inside the coyote pouch. Clasping the pouch while pinching the brick inside, the two boys pulled back on the bands in hopes to shoot the brick into the wild blue yonder. However, the sling kept pullin’ em forward and they never seemed to get their wobbly legs to hold her steady enough or pull it back far enough to shoot the brick a measly two feet. Swifty had to think up another launching plan.
After a few moments of deep city thinkin’, Swifty realized he knew where the key wuz to the crimson red ‘48 Ford pickup parked out back. What he didn’t know was the snag was as rotten as his idea.
Once Swifty parked the pickup a few feet from the tree, he fetched a piece of hemp rope about two feet long, tied one end to the chrome bumper, and the other to the pouch of the sling. Then he ordered Hagar to hop in the truck and back it up until the bands was stretched tight enough so Swifty could cut the rope and send that half a brick sailing into the scorching desert sun.
Hagar slowly backed up until the bands were taut, but Swifty motioned him to stretch it more. After all, the tighter those bands were, the farther that brick would fly. Hagar revved up that flat head V8 and backed up a few more feet. Swifty still didn’t feel it was quite tight enough yet and motioned again. Hagar put his foot to the pedal and the next thing he saw was Swifty beatin’ feet away from the truck as that old rotten cottonwood came barreling out of the ground and straight through the windshield!
Those two saw more than flying glass when Dad got back from the auction.
Now, you may not believe this story, but I promise every word is true, except maybe the part about the rabbit’s foot.
Photos:
1. Swifty, Hagar, and my Grandfather working on a well powered by a windmill.
2. Swifty and my Grandfather again.
Notice the ‘48 Ford in the background of these photos. This was the one in the story.
