Robert Cory’s poem Arthur: of Volutsia Street appeared here in September 2011.
A Truncated Scrap of History
(A memoir)
By Robert Cory
i.
Cramped in the back seat of a ’51
Chevrolet; two, up to 4 layers of garb.
(Five hunters all total.) Uncle Steve
behind the wheel. Then EJ, Eddie, old
John Graue and me plus a Coleman jug of
drinking water situated on the floor-
board among six legs with booted feet.
(Not to mention the boxes of ammo,
shotguns, mud, and peels of upholstery
stuffing.) My dbl. barrel Ithaca 12 ga.
broke at the breech, its butt on my
thigh, barrels down.
ii.
Two #6 shot shells, w/big brass in hand,
stood by, as we traversed mile after
mile, narrow country roads at 5, 10,
maybe 15 mph, or so, north of town
through landscape stoic as a scarecrow.
iii.
Most leaves had fallen. Veiled by an
overnight 2″ snow descended upon this
sand hill vista blowing cold under the
nose of a peek-a-boo sun across newly
planted winter wheat or after harvest
stubble and fallow field; through milo
stands and twisted cottonwoods; wind-
mills, shelter belts and random home-
steads. From inside out, all available
eyes scanned the underside of plum
thicket after hedge row after hedge row
after plum thicket and stymied tumble-
weeds queued along barbed wire fences;
grassy shoulders and bar ditches either
side of the road. This, where quail
would be hunted.
iv.
Uncle Steve could navigate an eighth of
a mile or better without glancing
ahead, both hands on the wheel,
mimicking the faux calliope player at
the State Fair. Window cranked down, he
could spot pheasant or quail like a
hawk its quarry provided, of course,
on blinked.
v.
Whoa! Ho! hold up. We’re stopping. The
coupe’s straight six keened in reverse.
Back window down. All ears tuned to the
spotter’s voice. Fire drill pending.
“Thought I saw … go back more a bit.”
Necks craned. Expectations idled in
simmer, however, this time nothing but
cold let in. We could stay put for now.
Re-squirming to within comfort’s reach,
Steve edged the 4-door forward. I could
see my breath.
vi.
Between static breaks, the few strained
to follow the ad by ad, play by play
voices of a KU vs Nebraska game. Five
torsos involuntarily choreographing the
roads’ tosses and sways as Gale Sayers
broke another tackle for a big gain.
vii.
Once in a great while, in the opposite
direction, another vehicle might pass.
Up crept one of my uncle’s index
fingers as if pointing to heaven.
“That looked like … was or wasn’t that
so-and-so?” Mr. Graue or Steve might
say. Occasionally followed by pithy,
on-the-spot commentary about some thing
or things known to be true. Ol’ John
the most likely to embellish, adding
some truncated scrap of history. (He
now sober as a life sentence.) Uncle
Steve, the sole practitioner of the law
in town, knew as much as anybody about
abstracts, wills and local affairs.
Much of which was privileged.
viii.
Nearing daylight’s end, we meandered
back toward home crossing the Union
Pacific tracks at the grain elevator, 3
by 3 cylinders square, three, maybe
four church steeples high. Then, down
Main Street where movie theatre, cafe
and drug store had been shut and
shuttered. A red light winked atop the
water tower. “Big Well” yet discernible
on its rounded face. Beneath, a
souvenir laden gift shop with a man-
sized meteorite, now in captivity, on
display.
ix.
Minutes before sundown we exited the
coupe, trunk ripe with quail except
those claimed by Mr. Graue upon drop-
ping him by home.
x.
Next, clean the birds over a 55 gal.
drum usually reserved for sacks of
family trash to be incinerated.
Across its mouth, a natty plank of
wood. Scene of jerked heads, legs, and
wings lopped off with dull knives;
sticky blood, gelid fingers, feathers
wafting in the air.
xi.
I eavesdropped, mostly, on their inter-
mittent chat. Hearsay of game bird
recipes, some with bacon, Big 8 foot-
ball or the one, two, perhaps three we
knocked down but somehow got away.
xii.
At last, a bucket of plucked breasts
soaking in salted tap water transported
to the kitchen where the wives would
know what to do. (Either without pomp
or ceremony.)
xiii.
A thorough wash of hands, comb of hair
and change of clothes forestalled the
call to supper. I retreated to the
ebbing glow of the family room hearth
and flipped through gimcrack mail
order magazines within reach of the
recliner.
xiv.
In short order, we assembled ’round
cut crystal glassware and patterned
china arranged on a linen tablecloth
complete with meat, potatoes and
rolls … folded cloth napkins and iced
tea. All prepared, set and presented with
panache amid the good humor commonly
known as “corn.” When all were seated
we bowed our heads, posed as if
auditioning for a cover of the Saturday
Evening Post.
xv.
Upon Steve giving the blessing,
as was the custom, from the head of the
table on this winter-like November eve,
I sensed the mantra that was
Greensburg, where, about this time in
’41 my folks cut short their visit
having listened and learned of Pearl
Harbor.
xvi.
As napkins found their laps and silver
teaspoons jinkled ice cubes blending
teas to taste. I inquired of my aunt if
there might be some of that hand-
cranked, homemade ice cream yet in the
freezer, left over from the dove hunt
Labor Day last. I was contemplating
dessert when Uncle Steve passed me the
vegetable bowl declaring it would be
okay, by him, if I wanted to eat every
carrot and pea in the dish.
