Note to the new reader.
Over a period of time you may come to the same conclusion that Origins Publications have .
We suspect as you to may well come to suspect that the Tales of Elwood P. Lawrence were based on at least a bit fact and that Mr. Lawrence simply changed a few things around so as to present the stories as fiction.
If you should be able to help us settle this question please contact us.
But for now , why not relax and see what has been happening.
excerpt from Greywolfs Fireside Tales # 1
In G.FT. # 1 ( in Mrs. McGuires Tomcat) Elwood soon finds out that his new friend and his retirement home of Hooper has more to them than meets the eye. There is a hint that the shabbily dressed old man may have preternatural powers and that the whole town could be hiding a secret.
In the second story in this volume Elwoods suspicions deepen to the point where he begins to doubt his own sanity.
In the third story Elwood is to caught up in local affairs concerning chicken thieves to pay much attention to anything else. After the chicken thieves are dealt with the Elwood then decides to get to the bottom of things, only to find more puzzles.
Join us now now for a bit of fun from the fiirst G.F.T. tale.
excerpt # 1
MRS. MCGUIRES TOM CAT
My introduction to small town lifestyles can be better described as a culture explosion rather than as a culture shock. I had not been settled for quite two weeks when the mayhem and madness reared it's ugly head. Nor had my cosmopolitan upbringing and exposure to various cultures around the world prepared me what was about to transpire. My nearest comparison would be to what I have read of that notorious insane asylum named of the nineteenth century, Bedlam.
Insanity is the most suitable term that comes to mind to describe what happened then, although even that sounds less than appropriate. The old gentleman that was to become my friend as a result of the mishap, later asked if I would recount the developments of that day. I am sure that he was hoping that I would duplicate own his horrid style of authorship, but I have my dignity and a good ancestral name to protect. Yet, out of respect for his friendship and the literary style of the towns people I have struck a middle ground, meaning by this, that I have written something that is readable, but not necessarily comprehensible. I think that Greywolf may also have been too embarrassed to present this tale himself, especially since he advised me continuously of certain "facts" regarding the days events. This then is what happened on the eleventh day of my retirement in a small town.
8:56 A.M.
John Sager, tossed his chainsaw in the back of his pickup, the pick up that he acidly called the dromedary because of the slightly humped backed look it had since an encounter with a beaver dam last February. John had just kissed his wife and hugged the kids. Lerissa Sager was the town beauty and the kids were models of good behavior. Every one in town agreed on how fortunate John was, and what a good husband and father he had become.
John cast a quick pride filled look at the set of new tires on his truck. He loved the huge side lugs on the all terrain tires and could hardly wait for some fresh snow to show off the tread pattern. He playfully kicked a tire, got into his truck, turned the key and let the engine warm up.
A mile down the road Mrs. McGuire was letting her tom cat out, and the town was about to open for business. Doc Ramsey's secretary had just let the first customers of the day in, and Phil Hagerman, the town drunk was planning a new day of oblivion. And the Native called Greywolf thought that a cup of free coffee would help start the day out right.
Any misfortune has a beginning and John's misfortune was born of indolence his decision to play instead of work. John, although a model father and husband had one failing. He had begun a misguided love affair with Doc Ramsey's secretary. It was a total secret, which met that in a town of this size, every one knew exactly what everyone else was doing, but ignored the fact that their own private lives were also held up to minute public scrutiny.
John suddenly, on a whim born of passion and laziness decided that if he were to meet for a clandestine rendezvous with his secret lady love in the afternoon he may as well enjoy the morning also.
This was what started the chain of events that nearly put the town in the newspaper and did put a number of its' citizens in Doc Ramsey's infirmary.
John had been driving north toward work, when with his usual disrespect for the law he did an illegal u turn and headed south to play. With his mind clouded with thoughts of love and a few sips of whiskey he was less observant than usual. John's lack of attention was a liability at the best of times. Today his powers of attention were non-existent.
Mrs. McGuire's tom cat had an unreasoning hate for practically everything. But ford pickups, for some undetermined reason topped the list. It was also fully aware of the fact that it owned the road, why else had everyone else turned aside for it over the years? It also knew that it's every whim and desire was to be met with immediate compliance. Nor had it ever forgiven humans for failing to worship its' species as deities for over two thousand years.
Mrs. McGuire's tom cat was positive that this human, like all others would turn aside. When John did not, and when the tire ran over the tip of it’s tail, the tom cat yodeled a few octaves higher than the human voice can achieve, spit at the truck, and gave chase. The cat had decided to teach some manners to this lesser being.
excerpt # 2
In the second story Elwood gets a big surprise that the medical proffession can't explain and that G.W. won't. Nor will anyone else.
Although Elwood says little to the reader at this point in time, he begins to ponder the implications of his retirement in Hooper. It is also around this time that he begins to wonder why Hooper is found on no map.
Soon, although little is mentioned as yet, other distubing questions will surface.
Such as , Why did the Beaver Clan suddenly dissappear with no trace?
Why is the town so archaic?
Why does no one know G.W.s age.
and eventually,
Just why the heck does the rest of the world not know about Hooper? Especially the rest of Ontario and Canada. Or even the nearest town?
Have fun now as we get a further glimpse into the life of the mysterious Greywolf.
GREYWOLF'S CHRISTMAS PRESENT
I first met Greywolf in the summer of 1987. I had only been settled in for two weeks and was trying to educate myself on small town living and interactions. I first saw Greywolf or, G.W., as I later nicknamed him on the day when John Sager almost ran over him and Phil. John had only liquor and his secret love affair with the doctor's receptionist on his mind, not elderly Native pedestrians. I was standing on the sidewalk outside of the doctors' office when I saw Greywolf jump aside at the last second to avoid the swerving truck. He started shaking his fist at John's pick up truck and yelled something about sitting on a porcupine. It was only seconds later, that a minor riot developed involving John, the town drunk, a cat and the doctor's receptionist. About twenty people had quickly gathered up to watch the festivities when I felt a tug on my sleeve.
I turned to see the old Native American pointing a finger towards the restaurant. He muttered "c'mon ", and something that sounded like,,, ",I bet this fixes John real good."
It was then, for the very first time that I saw that shimmering haze appear around the old man, and an incredible transformation begin to take place.
For the first time I heard the distant chuckle carried to me by the wind,,,, and heard the faint whisper in my ear saying, "this is gonna be a good one Elwood, just watch and see."
This was when I first noted the twinkle in Greywolfs eyes and the lopsided grin on his lips that were the harbingers of mischief and mayhem.
*
Elwood goes on to tell us of his close involvment with his new friend.
Greywolf occasionally mentioned to me that he was a writer. When asked if I might read his stories though, he would become evasive. But as with all things, time works its' wonders and eventually our mutual sarcasm and trust grew to the point were the old man sensed that I was indeed his friend.
In mid September he let me read some of the short stories he had written. The old grade school scribbler that he wrote in was tattered and the writing sometimes in ink, sometimes in pencil.
At first I felt that deciphering the coffee stained script was a waste of my time. Then, after a while, I saw the stories for their actual value. They were an intriguing and often bizarre sounding mix of his ancestor's era and our own present times. Somehow he would blend both time periods together in the most off beat tale imaginable. It was when one read them a second time that one realised that they were a social commentary on the foibles of human nature, and actually had some razor sharp insights hidden behind their caustic sarcasm. They were so very much like the old man himself.
*
On our October fishing trip I told him of my friend in Europe who owned a small publishing house and that I would be visiting with him in early December.
"Harold might very well be interested in stories such as these", I said," he deals in some rather unusual material". He started to look nervous at this point.
"May I show him a copy of the manuscript ", I asked.
"Does he fiddle with the stuff", G.W. grumped back at me.
"Wellllll,,, he may have to do a small amount of editing, but they all do you know, they have to make their publications presentable."
"My granddad had a scalping knife he used to edit with" The old man crabbed at me. "I still got it around somewhere. He best not edit too much."
His pride had been pinched and when that happened I had learned to pay his crusty talk no heed, but this time I felt an odd chill travel up my back. And for some reason my mind went back to the day of our first meeting and the improbable riot that put John Sager in the hospital after he had nearly driven over Greywolf and Phil. I also remembered my strange befuddlement and the old man's comment as he had been extricating me from the riot.
It had all seemed so innocent and ridiculous then. But now, sitting around the campfire, surrounded by darkness, listening to this tone in his voice (and watching his hand rest on the hilt of the old hunting knife attached to his belt), it did not seem so ridiculous.
I looked at the raggedy old man and noticed something that I had not seen before. Perhaps the flickering light of the campfire was playing tricks on me eyes, yet there, seemed to be a deeper dimension to him. A solidity that I had not recognised, and something ephemeral at the same time. There was a slight shimmer around him and his appearance seemed shift and change. Once more he looked younger and his garb was different. Then came that damned whisper of wind in my ear that was to become so familiar saying, "yep, they sure better not edit it too much." And in the distance I swear I could hear a faint chuckle coming from the pine trees.
*
Financially my trip to Europe was a success. My trip down a set of icy stone stairs was a catastrophe. As I left the publishing house I was thinking of Harold's instant approval of the old gentlemans stories. Even the editing would be minimal. Greywolf, I felt was sure to dance around his campfire over this. I was feeling quite smug with the realisation that none of the town folk could have helped him to improve himself the way I had. I was also was certain that he would never feel superior to me again. His sarcasm might even turn into gratitude. With these thoughts in mind I was too preoccupied to see the patch of ice.
I woke up in the hospital and received some very bad news. The doctor explained that I would probably be able to walk again, but not very well. The stiffness and pain would prove limiting. Narcotics would help. And that my stay in the hospital would be lengthy. Compound fractures and breaks, "are very serious things" he explained in a supercilious manner. He made my condition worse by suggesting that I should pay more heed to where I was walking and that I was at the age were one should consider pacing themselves wisely.
I asked if he were married and, he informed me that he did not have time for such pursuits. That clinched my evaluation of the gentleman's congenial personality. I decided not to spend the Christmas Holidays in the same hospital with him.
The flight back was sheer agony but at least I had no self-centred doctor to listen to.
*
I had managed to suffer alone for a week before the doorbell rang. Of course it was G.W. I raised my voice to tell him that that the door was unlocked and that I was in the downstairs bedroom. He hobbled in, took one look at the plaster cast, grinned, and said, "Bad trip eh?,,,, so this is were ya bin hiding all week."
I felt like hitting the inconsiderate old wretch for his play on words.
His eyes took on a familiar twinkle, then he asked," How ya feelin Elwood "?
I gritted my teeth and said almost politely, "How do suppose I would be feeling G.W.?"
He grinned again and said, "Probably dumb after fallin’ down them slippery steps."
*
I muttered a prayer of thanks as he went silent for a moment, then a thought occurred to me. I lurched upward in the bed and said, "how did you know about the steps?" A jolt of sheer agony shot up my leg in response to my effort.
G.W. grinned and replied, "What steps?" He paused for a moment, looked at me quizzically, and told me," "gonna be back on the twenty forth, watch yer step till then, okay "?
With this Parthian statement he left, slamming the door on his way out. After the tremor of his departure had passed through my leg and the twinge of pain had subsided, I wondered again how he could have known about the icy stairs in England? No one else in town did.
*
By the twenty fourth of December I was sick and tired of bedsores, mental atrophy and, my own company. G.W. did not even knock when he came this time. I simply looked up from my book of early European history and there he was at the foot of the bed starring at me. I was so surprised that I flinched and suffered a jolt of pain. He just grinned.
"C'mon.
"Come on where G.W"?
"Campin’".
"You are crazy if you expect me to move from this bed."
"Yep", he said.
"You are certifiably insane G.W". I said in my most convincing manner.
"Yep", he said.
*
I will not try to describe in detail the next two hours. G.W had a way about him that was totally non-negotiable. I yelled at one point and threw the two and a half-pound tome of Early European History. He did not even have the grace to flinch as it sailed past his head and collided with my grandmother's beautiful porcelain vase.
I then resorted to using words that no gentleman would ever use and afterwards felt ashamed for my lapse. He just stood there placidly and said, "bet that hurt, yer leg, eh? C,mon, we gotta git goin’."
Somehow Greywolf contrived to clothe me, bundle me into his four-wheel drive truck, and take me fifty miles away from my warm bed. The old vehicle was loaded with camping gear and the pain from the drive was a sadist's dream come true. He then somehow wrestled me and the camping supplies onto a splintered old toboggan, which he skidded for a half an hour through the woods. The old man never once paused for a rest. It was as if as if he had the constitution of one a third of his age.
The pain from my leg was beyond enduring now. Shouted obscenities could be heard for miles. But the only response to my invective seemed to be faint whispering chuckle coming from the cedar trees. This made me rant all the louder and to become more creative with lower forms he English language. I suspect that much of the wildlife in the forest must have fled the area and did not return until next spring so loud and coarse was my swearing.
*
Finally (after what seemed an infinity of time) we came to a small clearing. There was a tiny lean-too shelter made of cedar boughs that looked as though it would provide minimum shelter. I suspected that the surrounding trees would probably supply a more substantial wind brake than the lean to would. A small warming fire welcomed us as we approached.
*
We ate our supper with no conversation. I was just beginning feel a sense of relaxation when G.W. announced that it was bedtime. I tried to explain that it was still early in the evening. He countered by saying that some people worked harder than others do and needed their rest.
I had to at least try one jibe.
"Is there not an Native tradition about heating rocks to put under one's self in severely cold weather?" I said with great authority.
"Sounds like a white people's notion ta me, but if ya wanna sleep on hot rocks go ahead."
"G.W.?"
"Yep?"
"I used to think that you were mildly disturbed. After what you did today I believe that you are far beyond any human help. No amount of counselling or therapy could ever restore you to the normal standards of our society", I said, sounding solidly convinced of my evaluation.
"Thanks, I'm kinda glad ta hear that Elwood", he said.
I nearly choked on a reply, then I thought of strange old men and their customs, and that yes, this was Christmas Eve.
"G.W?"
"What now?"
"Merry Christmas G.W."
"Ya ,,,, same ta you,,, now shut up."
In less than a minute he was snoring.
*
A gentle lassitude and a sense of well being came over me as I watched the merry little campfire. I began to feel comfortable and relaxed. It was a pleasant respite after days of pain and immobility. After awhile my eyes strayed to the stars that could be seen between the fire and the roof of the lean-too. They seemed, sharper, brighter, and more colourful than I had ever noticed before. There was a clarity to the air and the stars such as one rarely experiences. It was as though a window had suddenly been washed sparkling clean. I was mildly disconcerted by their strangeness, yet admired them as I drifted off to sleep. A sleep that was more restorative than any before.
*
I awoke to the aroma of Greywolf's coffee and a mutterance about lazy people sleeping all day.
It is with some hesitation that I relate the next portion of my experience. Once I had visited a friend that had been sent to an institution for the mentally ill. His stay had been gratefully short.
But, the stories that I had overheard from his fellow patients when I had visited him rivalled what happened next. When my friend was released my relief was indescribable, but there is no such relief when one's own self is the principle actor in the bizarre and inexplicable. I also recall my friend telling me that some tales are better left untold. So, it is as I said, with hesitation and doubt that I recount what followed.
excerpt # 3
This next excerpt is totally hilarious and all too much like rural Ontario at the turn of the century.
In it we find Elwood caught up in a series of outrageous events. Not only that, but at the end we see that Elwood is adapting to Hooper. In true Greywolf style he lets matters unfold, as they will, then sits back to enjoy the fun. In this tale we also have a vague glimpse of how Elwood may fall into G.W.s plans for him and Hooper, and just maybe the world.
CHICKENS
One day Greywolf and I were sitting in the restaurant sipping thin coffee and reassuring Betty the waitress that her new dentures were perfect. It was a fresh sunny morning of the sort that we seldom see in England and I was pleased with my relocation. I was beginning to think that my retirement in a new country and small town was worth it after all, even if it did include having a strange old Indian for a friend.
G.W. looked over at the police officer having his morning coffee break, glanced back to me, then said, "Ya heard bout the thief out at old Cyrus Williams chicken ranch?'
I knew Cyrus to see him in the store and now understood the lingering aroma that he was known to leave at the cash register. Cyrus was a loner and recluse. He came to town only long enough for his monthly purchase of groceries, and the occasional interim trip for ford tractor parts. Cyrus rarely lingered to talk to anyone, which was probably a good thing considering his aromatic ambience. Most of the town's people knew that he shopped every third Saturday of the month at 10:00 a.m. and stayed away from the grocery store until the manager had aired it out. This usually gave the restaurant economy a small boost for an hour.
It was true that there had been a minor out break of chicken stealing in the area, but everyone thought it was just the new crop of teenagers acting up. This was a cycle that came and went with each new generation and gave people some stories to pass on to their grand children. It was the general consensus that a shot or two in the air would bring them to their senses. The police of course resented people doing this part of their job for them, but did agree that it was at times educational for the teenagers. Officer Calhoun often said that "a shot or two in the dark is worth twenty in the daylight".
*
I could not resist a small jibe; "did they taste good G.W."?
Greywolf shot me a look of surprise then said; "well I don't know bout this new bunch he raised, but the last bunch was tasty."
Then after a moments consideration he said," meet me out by the old Simmons place after dark, it's not far from Cyrus ranch n' we can sneak in the back way and watch. And bring yer scatter gun."
*
I felt foolish stumbling through the darkness and prickly ash with my two thousand-dollar duck gun and lightweight summer pants. The old Indian seemed to know every rabbit path and was continually hissing at me to be quieter.
At one point I realized that he probably was a good chicken thief and nearly broke out laughing at the thought.
I have to give him credit though, he was as soundless as a shadow, and I soon began to wonder why he had invited me along, because Greywolf seldom asked anyone for help.
*
Cyrus dog, Harry, must have heard the sound as well. Harry is one of the most feared animals around and is nearly a legend. He is huge in stature, with pointed ears and bobbed tail. His teeth are shiny and looked to be brushed at regular intervals. The Doberman is feared by all except Cyrus.
Harry started barking as if he had just had his non existent tail stepped on, and with in seconds Cyrus was at the door with his rusty old deer rifle. It is said by some of the better marksmen in the area that old Cyrus can knock down grasshoppers on the hop at one hundred paces with that old rifle. When he was wearing his glasses that is.
I knew that it outmatched my over priced duck gun at the three hundred paces that separated us. Nor would the cedar rail fence prove any protection. Not that Cyrus had any animosity toward me, but when it comes to chicken thieves in the dark, old timers like Cyrus seldom asked any questions until they ran out of ammunition and the smell of cordite cleared away. More than one reclusive type had over the years considered it their right, and not officer Calhoun's to protect their property.
Beside me the old man was muttering something about " this is gonna be a good one." Which gave me more to worry about. It seemed that every time the old man became as happy sounding as he was now, a riot broke out, or at least something that resembled a demented circus act designed by an insane asylum escapee. It was then that I felt a tingle go down my spine and had a premonition of the coming mayhem.
He had the uncanny ability to know when trouble and mischief were coming. It was rumored that some of the town people placed bets on what would happen next by judging the speed at which he drank his morning coffee and hurried out of the restaurant. Some people felt that the greater his hurry, the greater the impending disaster. I myself had made a few dollars on bets thanks to him.
Just as Cyrus came out onto the dark porch, two things occurred. One was the expected, in that Harry, all glistening teeth and slaver burst through the door hit old Cyrus behind the left leg and buckled his knee. The other was that Sally came grunting and snorting around the other corner of the barn.
Cyrus must have had his finger on the trigger and the hammer back to full cock when Harry knocked him askew. The rifle fired and the muzzle blast lighted up the front yard. With a zinging noise the bullet glanced off the cast iron rooster on the roof of the hen barn. The clanging sound it made when it hit the weather vane reminded me of the bell in a boxing ring. The ricocheting bullet veered downward and clanged again, this time on the hood of Cyrus old ford tractor. Harry growled and Sally grunted.
*
By now Cyrus had regained his equilibrium enough to spring into action. Unfortunately he had not put on his glasses. He pumped seven shots into what he thought in the darkness was the chicken thieves escape vehicle, thus doing irreparable damage to his old rusty tractor.
Coming in issue # 2 of Greywolfs Fireside Tales
excerpt # 4
This is a fun time for Elwood, he forgets some of his questions about Hooper and Greywolf for awhile. We find here that he begins to adapt even more to the Hooper lifestyle. This is something of an interlude for Elwood and the time when he starts to appreciate the funny side of the hamlets citizens and their daily dose of hilarious antics. This is also when we learn more about the eccentricites and foibles of the town folk.
Something else to note here is how many of the adventures start in Bills Cafe. It will be some time yet before Elwood notices this, or that Bill Harding (Bills Cafe) , Cyrus Williams, Doctor Felix Ramsey and the hot tempered editor of the Hooper Clarion are in cahoots about something very secet and very nysterious.
The Fishing Contest
The Café
The only sound in Bill’s café was Jenkins and his cutlery. His dull knife made a click, clack, click, clack, click as it continually slid off his meal and collided with his plate. Occasionally he would stop to mutter obscenities at the incinerated steak that defiantly resisted being carved and then he would repeat his attempt to cut it.
The blackened object on his chipped, cheap china plate was still completely intact and I was beginning to think that Mr. Jenkins was either a most stubborn person or obsessed. Five minutes of this relentless attack had not yielded the farmer any results but had been enough to get on my nerves. Most folks would have given up, but Hiram Jenkins seemed determined to either conquer his meal or wear out the cutlery.
G.W. must have been irritated as well because he said loudly enough to be heard out on the street, "cheer up Jenk. Bill’s sharpen’ up his chainsaw fer the next meal,,, he says it’ll be good enough ta cut rock with."
Hiram’s head went up for a second and he said, "Bill’s gonna need more than a chainsaw for his customers. If he keeps cookin’ like this he’s gonna have to keep Doc Ramsey on hand in case they get a chance to swallow something."
"What ya mean ,,, keeps cookin’ like this?" asked Greywolf, "doesn’t he always cook like this?"
"Ya got a point there G.W.", replied the elderly farmer. "He must have inherited the knack from his Dad ‘n Grandpa. They were mighty hard on people’s digestion too. But at least his old Dad was good enough to provide a hammer and chisel with supper. You’d kinda think Bill woulda learned that much from him."
I could hear a frying pan slam down in the kitchen as Bill responded to the remarks. I only hoped that the he would stay in the kitchen. Bill could become quite verbose in defense of his non-existent culinary skills when he lost his temper, and usually to emphasize the point that he was trying to make kitchen utensils would start flying through the air.
In and effort to minimize further damage to the building I kicked G.W. in the shins and pointed at the dent in the wall that Bill had made with a number twelve cast iron skillet when he had tossed his last tantrum.
G.W. gave me a wink and shut up.
Betty non-chalantly snapped her gum and approached us with the dregs of some coffee that had been on the heating element for hours.
"Refill???"
Both Greywolf and I shook our heads in disgust. Betty, totally nonplussed returned the carafe to the warmer where it lurked, waiting for the first innocent customer that would become its victim: then in an unladylike move the Kind Waitress lifted her leg high, burped loudly, and parked her tantalizing posterior on a counter stool.
Betty had learned long ago to ignore the inadequacies of the café and its patron’s complaints. She quickly applied her self to reading the unchanging menu so that she could distract herself from Hiram Jenkins futile efforts to enjoy a good meal.
I was glad to note that Hooper culture was still right up there at the absolute bottom of all other cultures in the world.
When three minutes or so had passed G.W., in a move designed to create more disharmony, (I should have known that he would not stay quiet for very long) looked toward Jenkins and said in a serious tone," Yer getting’ to much exercise tryin’ ta eat. If ya keep eatin’ here yer gonna git so skinny ya could crawl through a keyhole."
Mr. Jenkins did not interrupt his hacking this time when he replied, "Ya may be right G.W.,,, Henry Pritchard was startin’ ta look kinda like a starved racin’ sardine by the time he stopped eatin’ here."
Bill stuck his head out the kitchen door and hollered, "you keep that up and I ain’t gonna let you eat here anymore Greywolf."
"I only ever eat one meal here Bill and that was lots,,, I ain’t ever felt right since", yipped the old man.
I thought that now would perhaps be a good time to stop a potential brawl (Bill was getting ready to throw a skillet) and said, "Hmmmm, Gentlemen???"
The reference to gentlemen obtained me blank looks from G.W. and Bill but I forged onward regardless.
"I feel that we are obligated to apply ourselves to the endeavor of higher pursuits and achievements."
This statement must have been too much for the occupants of the room to comprehend because now everyone was beginning to look at me as though I were speaking a foreign language.
"Did you follow what he said Jenk?" asked Bill as a worried frown formed on his brow. (at least he was lowering the skillet)
Jenkins looked puzzled for a moment, then said dryly, "Almost,,, I heard something like it on the television onetime,,, I got Ralph and Willie (Willie is Ralph’s Basset Hound) to explain it to me and it kinda made sense", said the discouraged looking farmer. Jenkins, after delivering his opinion tried to stab his steak with his fork and looked surprised when the tines bent.
"Would ya mind talkin’ better English", said Betty, thus confirming my small opinion of the lovely waitress’s vocabulary.
"I’ve been around him the most ’n kinda understand him some", interjected Greywolf proudly. "It took some doin’ but I think I got his talk figured out. What he means is he thinks Old Claude’s up ta no good ‘n he wants ta skin him at his own game."
"Oh", grunted Bill and began to look happier (the skillet was now at waist level). "I thought he was tryin’ ta say somethin’ bad about my cookin’ agin."
"So, what ya gonna do Lawrence", asked Jenkins, then got up, went to the garbage can and dumped in his unscarred supper. It made a noisy clanging sound as it collided with the side of the can. The defeated farmer then tossed in the plate. It made less noise when it hit the side.
"I have not yet formulated a plan nor have I considered tactical or logistical methods that will lead to the attainment of a suitable culmination for us", I said in clear and succinct language.
Jenkins now tossed in his knife and fork, they to made less noise than the steak.
"Ya want to know something Bill", said Hiram.
"What?"
"Than damned steak’s the hardest thing in the café, maybe ya should be making steppin’ stones with your cookin."
Betty for some undetermined reason laughed so loud over this remark that her gum flew out of her mouth, stayed airborne for fifteen feet, and then landed in my cup.
"What that supposed to mean?" asked Bill as he watched the cold coffee splash over my hand.
"He said just leave it ta me", responded Greywolf before anyone could say anything else.
I had no doubt by now that fishing with a full contingent of Hooperites could have certain disadvantages. I also made a mental note to ask Doc Ramsey if he had a first aid kit that I could borrow for the contest.
coming in issue # 3 of Greywolfs Fireside Tales
excerpt # 5
in this story the mystery of Hooper deepens.
Sidney Franks looses his best friend Fred, who just happens to be a prize winning Blue Tick Hound that he won years ago in a card game.
The town folk have an encounter with the biggest meanest bear in Canada while they are seaching for Fred and the reward.
Elwood acts like a true Hooperite and a visitor from a distant place turns up.
FRED
Picture if you can a swamp of nine acres in size. This is affectionately known as Quaid's Skeeter Hatchery. Near the center is an oblong shaped piece of land, one hundred yards long, and fifty yards across at it broadest point. It is and completely covered in a dense growth of white cedar.This is called Skeeter Island.
Now, picture if you will an erratically spaced series of small spongy mounds leading from the shoreline to the island. This is known as the Rubber Bridge. It is the only way to get to the island. The swamp lies one hundred feet from where Mr. Quaid started his now bankrupt bed and breakfast business, complete with tennis court, swimming pool and lovely outdoor lounge area. This was the setting for the unfortunate series of events that were about to take place.
*
There were seventeen people, Greywolf and myself gathered at the edge of the swamp. Word had spread rapidly that Sid had lost Fred in "skeeter acres". Well-wishers and bet-takers had arrived on the scene to help and observe. The "smart" money was on Greywolf. Father O'Halahan and Fast Ed, out of stubbornness had of course bet the against G.W. As a tracker Greywolf is beyond compare. As an entrepreneur, he could very well have kidnapped Fred in order to make money from finding him, although that was not the case this time.
The spectators had just began to draw up a plan of action, when Ralph came braking to a dust scattering halt in his pick-up truck.
*
"I got it all figured", Ralph announced loudly to the crowd, the swamp, and anyone who might be flying over-head at the time.
"Figured what out?" asked Ed Myers (Fast Ed's Used Car and Rentals).
"I figured right where Fred is and I'm gonna catch him when he comes flyin by me". "I set my pack of beagles loose bout a mile up the road to flush him out so I can git that thousand dollar ree-ward Sid put up."
I groaned out loud when I heard this, for like all other gossip the tracking fee had been exaggerated and now seemed to be up for public grab as well, which explained all the dog hunters and bettors on the scene.
"This is gonna turn into a circus fer sure now that Ralph's here" G.W. whispered in my ear.
"Why is that G.W. "? I asked.
"Cause Ralph wouldn't know how to poor sand outta his boot if ya told him the instructions was printed on the bottom of the sole, is why".
I winced at G.W.'s disgusting description of a fellow human being.
*
Ralph exhibiting all the aplomb and agility of a drunken spider monkey started toward Skeeter Island. His splashes and curses, interspersed with loud references to "a thousand bucks" could be heard for miles. The sound of the slaps as he swatted himself silly killing mosquitoes frightened off every bat and night bird for miles around. Ralph was soon knee deep in muck, swatting mosquitoes. He was nearly half way to Skeeter Island when the pack of beagles gave tongue.
*
"Remember, don't run", G.W. whispered to me again.
"Why", I hissed at him.
"Cause she'll never see ya if ya stay still."
I had just begun to wonder what the old man meant when I heard the roar. Out of the cedars burst Big Mamma, the biggest black bear ever sighted in Ontario. She hit the Rubber Bridge at a trot and immediately gained momentum.
Big Mamma is so huge that she is and left alone by all the hunters in the area so that they can brag about her. In fact, probably the real reason that she is left alone is because anything less than an artillery piece would only irritate her. .
Ralph heard the roar, looked up, and turned very, very white. He suddenly completely forgot about mosquitoes and rewards.
*
A FEW FACTS ABOUT BEARS
researched by Greywolf
1. Nature is kind to the bear family. It keeps their area of hibernation sanitary. This occurs as the result of a process called constipation. All hibernating bears are subject to this condition.
2. Bears eat a lot in the fall to maintain them over the winter, but still wake up feeling extremely hungry.
3. Bears upon waking from hibernation are unpredictable. Actually they are quite predictable. When they wake up they are grumpy. What is not predicable is the degree of grumpiness that they will display.
4. Bears are fast runners.
5. Hungry bears chasing a food source are exceptionally fast runners.
6. Constipated, hungry, upset, grumpy bears leave few witnesses to the fact that they were, constipated, hungry, upset and grumpy.
*
Big Mamma had slept very late into the springtime this year and was very constipated, very grumpy, very hungry, and became exceedingly upset when she heard Ralph's beagles.
Ralph shrieked for help and began to run toward the crowd standing on the shoreline. He did not quite walk on water that evening, but he came as close to it as any human likely ever will. The fact that Big Mamma closed the distance in less than six seconds and ripped the seat out Ralph's trousers in an attempt to snack on the nearest h'ourderve inspired him to even greater speed.
Like a black, out of control, locomotive with a screaming human running before it, the angry bear and her reluctant supper grew rapidly closer. The crowd stood with open mouths and round eyes watching the spectacle.
When Greywolf hollered "hey Ralph, I think she likes ya", incredible as it may sound, Ralph actually increased his speed. A few days later Fast Ed assured everyone that Big Mama and Ralph were moving so fast that they threw up a spray of water behind them the way a water skier does. Phil and Father O'Halahan also agreed to the statement. The rest of the crowd claimed they were too busy watching the main attraction to pay attention to extraneous details.
Grey wolf growled "don't you dare move Elwood, no matter what." I did not bother to tell him that I could not have moved even if I had wanted to. I was frozen in place like a statue.
Ralph was within seventy feet or so when I realized that no one else was moving either. G.W. must have became aware of this when I did, or else his sense of timing was perfect, because suddenly he yelled," I'd be getting outta here if I was smart".
Like a covey of quail every one of the spectators turned tail and took flight in unison. A practiced, dance group could have shown such co-ordination. As if guided by one mind they all ran directly for Cyrus Williams' chicken barn, which was a quarter of a mile away.
Why they did not head for the abandoned Quaid house, which was located near the edge of the swamp, we may never know, but idle speculation claims that they simply ran that way because Fast Ed did. Every one in town trusts the used car salesman's good judgement and instincts.
As Ralph and Big Mamma passed by us in a blur of speed I heard a sound and glanced at G.W. He was chortling away to himself and looking quite smug.
He must have felt my gaze because he looked at me and said, " just stay still for the second half Elwood, then we can go git Fred."
I had just started to say "the second half of what"? when I heard the gunfire.
"Don't worry" giggled the old G.W., Cyrus always aims at the clouds cause he cain't see much else without his glasses, and he cain't ever find where he left 'em last."
"Wonderful G. W., just great", I said with scanty thanks for this tidbit of news.
The sound of stampeding feet had alerted Harry the Doberman and Sally the three hundred and fifty pound sow. Harry's barking and Sally's grunts alerted Cyrus. Cyrus met Sally and Harry at the front step, just as the unhappy travelers rounded the lilac bushes and headed for the barn and protection.
Cyrus, because of the growing darkness and lack of eyeglasses suspected that he was confronted with a band of chicken thieves. He hollered," I got ya now" and fired his rifle at the clouds, missed the clouds, and knocked his weather vane from its perch on the barn roof.
The cast iron rooster rolled down the tin roof and landed on the hood of Cyrus' old rusty ford tractor, the tractor that he had mistaken for a chicken thief getaway vehicle last fall… This was too much for his already shaky nerves. He shouted an obscenity and began to shoot at the shy again. Predictably Cyrrus missed the sky, and put eight new bullet holes in his barn roof.
Sid and Ralph separated themselves from the crowd and ran to the nearest structure, which was Cyrus's old outhouse.
Cyrus was ready for this tactic because of a previous experience and quickly propped a plank against the door, reloaded his rifle and gave chase after the crowd that was now headed back toward Quaids's swamp ( they assumed the mosquitoes to be less dangerous than Cyrus). Because of Cyrus gunfire everyone had forgotten that they where keeping company with Big Mamma who was now intelligently hiding in their midst.
The jaunty cavalcade came streaming past Quaid's abandoned swimming pool to be teamed up at last with Ralph's six beagles and one tired basset hound.
Sally had outdistanced Harry and was snapping at Phil's heels. Cyrus, only thirty feet in the rear, was firing his rifle at the sky and actually hitting it this time.
It was only about thirty seconds or less after the troop disappeared into a grove of hard woods on the other side of the swamp that the screams started.
After about three minutes the barking, grunting, growling, roars, screams and rifle fire ceased and the mosquitoes started buzzing again.
*
I let Sid out later. He ran off with a smile of joy over the coming reunion with Fred. Ralph refused to leave the safety of the outhouse. So, wishing to do the proper thing, I thanked him for all the help he had given us this evening and cheerfully propped the door closed again. Just as I was about to walk away I thought of Greywolf's comment about Ralph."
"Ralph?"
"Yeah?"
"If you ever get sand in your boot read the bottom of the sole."
"Thanks Elwood. G.W. told me ta do that one time too, but it don't work so good."
"Why is that Ralph?"
"Its cause I cain't read so good Elwood, so they's no sense in me turning them upside down."
"You should try sometime Ralph."
"Okay, if you say so Elwood."
"Oh,,,,, Elwood?????"
"Yes Ralph?"
"Could ya ask Cyrus ta bring me some breakfast later on?"
"Of course I will, goodnight Ralph."
"Goodnight Elwood."
A I walked away I pondered upon Hooper, it's inhabitants it's new visitor and Greywolf.
Greywolfs Fireside Tales are a collection of short stories by various authors. The stories range from sc-fi to fantasy-adventure to outrageous humor. The star attractions are the serializations by Mairl Swan and Elwood P. Lawrence.
Maril presents adventure characters from days gone by, in settings that that make you believe they are real. Maril Swans' heroines and heros are not only larger than life, they make you wish that you could be there with them.
Elwood presents characters founds living in a tiny hamlet in Ontario that is found on no map. And one of the characters may just be a very old, very tired Algonqiun diety.
The problem with Elwood P. Larences' tales is that he may actually be disguising the truth by presenting it as fiction.