Lamar (Mike) Hammer - Mad Dogs & Bull Markets

One summer evening the three of us ventured nearly fours miles along the creek, and twilight was upon us as we started home. We usually followed the trail running along the creek banks, but, we were tired and the sun was going down. The path was getting difficult to follow, so we decided to cross the field and walk the road.

The pasture was no more than fifty yards across and we could make it in a few minutes. The trouble was that this particular field looked very much like the one that had a big bull in it, and the farmer also kept a mean dog that was usually chained.

Both animals had unsavory reputations in our minds, and we had, until then, made it a point to avoid confrontation. So, there we stood on the banks of the creek looking over the fence toward our objective, the road. The field was open and treeless, a no-man’s land that seemed harmless to the unwary eye, but we knew the enemy was out there waiting.

We spoke in whispers, “Do you hear anything?”

“No! Maybe we ought to go a little further before crossing!”

Finally it was decided, like Doughboys climbing out of the trenches we scaled the fence and started across. Instead of rifles, we each carried a fishing pole, and since I was of the lowest rank I got assigned the fishing box. By the time I cleared the fence Don and Lamar were already several paces ahead. We were moving swiftly across the field, but had gotten no more than a quarter of the way when the silhouette of the bull appeared off to our left. It was moving at a slow but deliberate pace toward us.

Panic! We made a dash for the road. I fell behind, my legs and arms pumping, the fishing pole whipping back and forth; the tackle box rattling and gyrating. It never occurred to me to drop the box. It was comforting to have something to hold on to, and I doubt that anyone could have pried it from my clutched fingers at that particular moment.

At the half-way point I realized that it was not the bull, but one of the milk cows that shared the field. I slowed my pace but only for a second. Somewhere behind, not far, came the baying of the mean dog. It was loose, out there, and gaining fast. A fourth of the remained to be crossed. The other two had climbed the fence to safety. My pace was near frantic. The tackle box swung violently back and forth. Its momentum forcing me in a zig-zag pattern - left to right, while my fishing pole hissed right to left.

The rattling provided a noise scent. The mean dog could have been half deaf and tracked the din I was leaving behind. I kept looking back. I had no wish to see the fangs and mighty jaws that would soon rip chunks from my backside, but I couldn’t help myself. Soon it was at my heels. The fence was just a head, but not close enough. Should I drop the box or turn and throw it at him? Maybe that would give me time to escape? I elected the diplomatic approach. I turned and said, “Nice doggie, nice doggie.” This was stated in a tone that was more pleading than friendly. It was then that I realized it was not the mean dog, but an old friendly one that had come out to greet us.
GO TO: Painting the house for a fishing trip.

Lamar (Mike) Hammer - Our Huck Finn

Central School stood one mile up Sycamore Street from our house. The two-story red brick building occupied a city block in the downtown area and sat two blocks east of the town square. Kokomo High School was across the street. The rest of the campus included a vocational building to the west, a gymnasium across the street to the east, and the football stadium behind the gym.

The Memorial Gym, the pride of Kokomo, was completed in 1949 with a capacity of 7000 fans. That’s fairly large when you consider the whole town numbered 30,000 at the time. I never saw an empty seat at a basketball game, another example of why basketball is known as “Hoosier Hysteria” in Indiana.

We met Lamar Hammer that first year at Central. He was in Don’s 6th grade class, and the three of us became inseparable over the next seven years. I remember the many times that we walked between his house and ours. We spent more time at our place. That was because ours was on the edge of town. Also, Lamar’s parents had divorced several years before we met, his three siblings were several years older, so he became more like a brother to us, and a member of the family. He often stayed over night and shared meals.

We had many adventures over those years, most centered on fishing and hunting. We were kids that a present-day Mark Twain might write about. Don was probably closest to being a Tom Sawyer and Lamar was undoubtedly Huck Finn. Me? Well, I did not fit any character in Twain’s stories. Tom and Huck did not have a younger sidekick following them around, so the parallel does not quite fit, but I could have been a good model for a third wheel in a story.

Don and Lamar gave me the privilege of carrying things for them, and often used me as their gofer. I was a full partner in our adventures on the river, though it was of a junior-grade.

Our river was not the mighty Mississippi, but the wee Wildcat - a creek small enough that the junior partner could throw a stone across it. The stream flowed parallel to Sycamore, a half mile south . We lived on the edge of town, ranged for miles along the creek, and knew most of the spots where a fish might be hiding. On many days we would not get home until evening. One time we had to run for our lives.

GO TO: Part 2, Mad Dogs & Bull Markets

Animal Farm - Part 1, Pets I’ve known

A steady procession of cats moved through our home while I was growing up. There was always one in residence, but few lasted more than a couple years. Mainly they were males that would go out tom-catting toward evenings, and wander back home the next morning, or the next.

Snowball, a pure white one, came back with a rat trap clamped to his paw on one occasion. He had been absent a week or more when he finally returned packing iron. He laid around recuperating for several weeks, and then went out again.

We had no idea what he got into when he came home with his face cut up and bloody - a scarface thereafter, not so pretty as before, not so precious to pet anymore. Snowball’s fate was similar to all our cats; a morning dawned but the cat didn’t.

Another cat always appeared shortly after the last went missing. Dad was the one that brought pets home. Most of the animals that appeared were pups or kittens, but a few were grown. Those were probably the ones given to Dad by Moose Lodge members who could no longer care for them. Dad was a softie.

I remember lots of cats, but few of their names. In contrast, we had only three dogs. Each lasted longer than the one before.

Rags was aptly named. It was a small, long-haired terrier with bangs covering its eyes. I don’t remember if it was a he or a she. I don’t remember its age, probably no more than a couple years. I have a vague memory of Dad building a dog house that sat in the back yard underneath the apricot tree. That was Rags’ home, and my only memory of Rags is seeing its furry little body lying in that dog house. Rags died of distemper. Not an uncommon end for dogs in those days. His/her end was my introduction to death. I was in the back yard with Mom shortly after Rags died. I asked her about that and she, in a matter-of-fact way, commented that we all die. That was a new concept to me - my first epiphany. I remember the shock I felt upon achieving the sudden insight of my future mortality.

Poochy was the family favorite. We all loved her. Its been more than fifty years since she died, and the only picture of her is one of Don or me sitting next to her in the front yard with a hand on the top of her head shoving forward and distorting how she really looked - not a good likeness. Poochy was not a big dog - 30 or 40 pounds. Her coat was nearly white, but I remember a large brown spot on top her back that ran down each side making it appear like she was wearing a saddle. Her tail was long and full, but not real bushy. Her ears stood up but were not especially long.
Poochy came to live with us shortly after we moved to Sycamore street - probably in 1951. She made a big impression on the whole family even though she lived only two years. She was smart and territorial in the respect that when the neighbor's free-range chickens wandered onto our yard she would chase them off, but would stop precisely at the boundary of our property. She never hurt one or pursued them beyond that imaginary border line.

On the whole, she was a homebody, and never wandered the neighborhood. I don’t recall her ever leaving the yard or crossing the street. One time she did accompany the three of us (Don, Lamar, and Me) along the creek out east of town. We hiked two or three miles along the shore before coming to a swinging foot bridge that crossed the creek. It had rope rails and wooden plank flooring. We climbed stairs to a raised platform. The bridge swung rhythmically back and forth as we crossed the span of water.

Poochy was left on the far bank. We called to and cajoled her to come across to us. She finally took courage and swam the creek. We cheered as she dog-paddled the seventy-five foot span of water. I think it was the first time she had ever gone swimming, and she seemed proud of her accomplishment. We walked back toward town on the opposite side and noticed that she plunged into the creek at every opportunity.

Poochy died in 1952 or 1953 of distemper. I think the whole family cried. I know I did. Mom was standing in the kitchen next to Grandma Frank washing dishes. I remember seeing her shoulders lurch fore and back as she tried to stifle her sobs.

Susie came to live with us as a mature dog. She was the last family dog we had while I was growing up. In ways, hers was the saddest story, because she had a tough act to follow. Susie was a fully grown black Cocker Spaniel given to Dad by somebody at the Moose lodge. I never knew the particulars, but he brought her home about a year after Poochy died.

She was a shy, insecure, little dog, and we thought she might have been mistreated. When she first came to live with us she behaved as if we were going to be hit when anyone approached. She never entirely got over it.

Susie lived with us several years when she developed a fear of our car. That had not always been the case, so we concluded she must have been accidentally bumped, though no one recalled any such occurrence. Whenever our car started her response was always immediate and the same. Her favorite outdoor bed was in the narrow strip of flower garden that lay between the drive and the neighbor’s property. She hurriedly got up, moved around the car, giving it as much space as possible, and trotted into the garage, and would not come out until it had left the drive.

We were never cruel, always fed and took care of Susie, but we never really did right by her. Part of it might have been that Don and I were moving into our teen years and our focus was changing. To us she was another fixture around the house. I don’t remember playing or doing much with her, as neither Don nor I were much attached. We just tolerated Susie's presence. She lived ten years with us, growing old as an outsider in her own home.

Susie did teach me one important thing. It had to do with an incident by which I came to view her in a new light. A large pile of lumber lay in our back yard - old trash waiting to be carried away. One day Susie and I were back there and I climbed onto the pile and it shifted a bit under my weight. Two big rats ran out from under the pile heading toward the field next door. I would have expected Susie to cower in fear, but instinct took over and she sprang into action. I never saw her move so fast. She was instantly on the closest rat, grabbing it across its back and flipping it over her head as she continued, without breaking pace, toward the other. The second rat didn’t get much farther before meeting an identical fate.

I was astonished. I had known her for several years and thought I knew all there was to know about her. She taught me to be willing to look into a dog’s life a bit deeper than what’s on the surface, and that goes for people too.

GO TO: Part 2

Sycamore Street - Part 4, The Great Chicken Massacre

Dad bought a used chicken coop in 1952, and placed it on the west side of our lot next to the new fence. It was about a hundred feet behind the house and we built a fenced area directly behind. The chickens could access their yard by a small opening in the back side.

The coop, eight by twelve feet, seemed larger at the time. A panel of windows faced the house and could be opened for ventilation. A row of shelves at the back offered nesting places for the mature hens. A layer of fresh wood shavings covered the floor; a new galvanized steel feeder, and two watering trays with gallon bottles on top sat in the middle awaiting the new occupants.

Two big boxes sat on the kitchen floor one evening. Each was about thirty inches on a side, and six inches high. The lids opened to reveal a sea of yellow furry chicks, chirping loudly, cute and cuddly. Each box had fifty chicks. We took them out to the coop that evening and set up lights that hung just above the floor to keep them warm. All was new and clean. It even possessed a pleasant aroma that emanated from wood shavings, but that was soon to change.

Don and I were given the job of caring for the brood. It was not long until the cute little chicks grew into not so cute teenagers, and then into full sized adults. The birds scratched, pecked and crapped all over the place. By August the wood shavings had been supplemented with droppings till there was four inches of "dungwood" on the floor. It was no longer pleasant to enter the coop as a miasma of ammonia rose to assault ones nostrils. Don and I cleaned it in August, just before school started. August is always hot and humid, so the job was a sweaty one, like working in a combination sauna-outhouse.

Most of the chickens were caged and carted off to a local business that did the dirty work. The next time we saw them they were shrouded in white paper and entombed in our deep freeze. We kept a couple dozen females for eggs and one cranky rooster to service them. There might have been another generation of cute yellow chicks the following year - if so, it was the last.

The egg layers stayed on another year or two. There was one hen that came close to being a pet. She had crippled toes that curled to the side, so she walked in a wobbly manner. We could pet her as she was not able to escape us, and in time seemed to accept our friendly gestures. The deformity saved her life. She was selected when we picked keeper hens.

The rooster was not so grateful that he had been selected as a keeper. He was protective of his hens, maybe a bit jealous, so we soon learned to keep an eye on him when we were in the chicken yard. Normally he would jump one of us from behind, beating our legs with his wings as he attempted to dig his spurs in, but he wasn’t averse to frontal attacks. He never managed to do us any harm. It was mainly the surprise attacks that got our hormones flowing.

Dad, Don and I were standing at the fence one day when the rooster took offence at our presence. His neck feathers stood out as he repeatedly collided with the fence while trying to get at us. Dad feigned with his open palm a couple times, teasing him. The next time the rooster jumped Dad grabbed it around the neck - perfect timing. He shook the rooster back and forth several times - nothing hard, more in a playful manner, and then dropped it back into the yard. We thought it was one of the funniest sights we’d ever seen. The rooster, a bit ruffled and confused, momentarily lost his dignity, so the incident served only to hardened his negative attitude.

Late in the summer of 1953 we went to the coop one morning and found all the chickens dead, their bodies carpeting the floor, a sea of white feathers. There was no blood that I remember. They had not shown any signs of sickness, so it was a mystery as to what had happened. The two of us dug a trench that afternoon and buried them, including cripple-toes and the rooster.

That evening, or the next, we heard a ruckus coming from the direction of Stock’s place - chickens excitedly clucking, wings beating, etc., so we hopped the fence, and ran through the orchard to the chicken yard. When we got to the coop we saw two dogs inside. Don grabbed a big coffee can used to feed and water the chickens and thrust it in the small opening where they had gotten in. As soon as the dogs knew we were present they stopped their mayhem, and laid down. It was an eerie scene. The dogs, one about 30 pounds, the other closer to fifty seemed normal and friendly. They lay there amongst the chickens, many dead, some alive but moving about in stunned silence.

What were we to do next? Don and I were the only ones home. There were no adults to ask for guidance - no one to pass the buck to. For several minutes we crouched there periodically looking through the hole. The dogs continued in their Zen like serenity; the chickens had calmed down and begun moving with a guarded caution, seemingly oblivious to their dead compatriots. It was finally decided that I should go home and call the sheriff’s office.

I fumbled through the telephone book, eventually finding the number. I was thirteen, making my first call to authority, and can only image how it went. I remember only a few particulars. I described the situation.

Sheriff‘s Office. “Do you have a gun?”
Me, “Yes”.
Sheriff’s Office, “Shoot the dogs” .
Me (gulp), “I don’t have any bullets”.
Sheriff’s Office, “We’ll send out a Deputy”.
Me. “Okay”.

We waited at the coop for what seemed like an interminable time before a patrol car drove into the Stock’s drive. Two deputies got out and walked over to the coop. They looked in, conversed for a second, then one drew his pistol, opened the door, crotched in a shooting position and fired. The larger dog died where it lay; the smaller one became agitated. The second shot hit it in the foot, causing it to howl and run around for a while. When it settled down the Deputy dispatched it with one more shot. He holstered his revolver; they returned to their car and drove away. It was surreal.

Don and I were in shock. I don’t remember us saying anything afterward. We quietly went home, leaving the dead dogs and chickens in the coop for the neighbors to attend. I felt sorry for the dogs. They were probably family pets out on a night of fun, but were playing a deadly game that cost them their lives.
GO TO: Part 5, The Store Across the Street

Moonshine’s Obituary

b. 12 Sep 1997 - d. 17 Jun 2010

We said goodbye to Moonshine this past Thursday. She came for Christmas nearly thirteen years ago and stayed to become a beloved family member. Moonshine was one of the most joyous beings we ever meet - she was full of herself. “Its all about me!” best represents her philosophy of life, and she possessed such strong feelings of entitlement that she would have been a great politician.
Moonshine was an athlete in her prime, a "weight puller"who hauled nearly 700 pounds. She gave up the chance for fame early, but was a disinterested contender. She traveled and camped with us all over Alaska, and loved visiting our cabin on the ocean in Seldovia. She rode the Alaskan Highway three times - six if you count both ways, swam in nearly every river west of the Mississippi, and spent winters snow-birding in California and Arizona. She wanted to play with every dog she met, and never met a human she didn’t like.
Moonshine developed a slight limp when we left Tucson near the first of March; a lump appeared on her front right shoulder by the time we returned to Anchorage a month later. Lab tests proved it to be cancerous and the vet recommended against surgery because of her advanced age, size and general condition.
She also had an open sore near her rectum, and wore a diaper to prevent her from pestering it. The vet described it as cancerous, another burden for her and us to bear, but said it was not the one that would kill her. He gave her a month to live.

We wanted time to say goodbye. It was a bit selfish on our part, but we also did not want her to suffer unduly. The vet said that we would know when the time came. She lived a month longer than she was given. At first she hurled herself downstairs, excited, as usual, about the prospect of a ride; later she had trouble getting up or down without assistance. The lump continued to grow, she needed an increasing number of pain pills, and slept more with each passing day.
But there were two things she enjoyed to the very last. She never lost her appetite, and never passed a chance to go riding. She shared hamburgers and fries at The Spenard McDonald’s. Then on the way to the vet we drove Moon by Lake Hood, one of her favorate swimming holes, and a couple of her favorite hangouts, including Turnagain Elementary and Lyn Ary Park overlooking Cook Inlet.

She walked into the vets under her own power (with a little help), but was diverted momentarily while passing through their food storage area. She was exhausted by the short walk to the treatment room, and immediately laid down on the elevator table that raised her to waist high. She lay quietly, her head down on the table, eyes open, and with a paw next to her face. She died peacefully in that position.