Cauliflower Corners-Part 4

Hank

1894-Lansing’s Ford

Hank Coulsome came into the world prematurely on January 1, 1894. Dr. James Perkins did not expect either mother or son to survive the ordeal. Hank weighed under 4 pounds and his little heart was very weak.  His mother, Agnes, had lost much too much blood, and were it not for Dr. Perkins’ timely arrival and excellent care, she would have died soon after childbirth. As it was, Agnes was bedridden until April of that year, gathering a little more strength as each day passed.

On January 3, Mrs. Beatrice Colter, or Miss Beazy as she had been called all her life, was taken to the Coulsome home by her husband Gar. Gar stayed on for 2 weeks to ensure that more than sufficient water, food, and wood were stockpiled to get everyone to spring. Miss Beazy was Agnes’ sister in law and younger sister of Hank’s father, Thomas.

Thomas Coulsome was not present at his only child’s birth, having passed away accidentally a week earlier. Even though Thomas had worked the lumber camps of the Ottawa Valley for more than eighteen years, as a teamster, lumberjack and cook, his intelligent hands and agile mind did not render him immune to fickle, inscrutable nature. On Christmas Day, 1893, while driving a wedge into the base of a majestic white pine, the tree uncharacteristically split along an invisible vertical fault. The outer strand of the fault gave off a thunderous scream as it tore away from the trunk and was catapulted through Thomas’ torso before he could even think of diving to safety. Death was instantaneous. His body was packed in ice to be brought back to Lansing’s Ford at spring breakup for a proper burial. The terrible news was dispatched to Agnes on Boxing Day and reached her two days later. Most folks believe it was her shock that precipitated Hank’s premature birth.

Thomas was buried next to his parents in the tiny cemetery on the western edge of Lansing’s Ford. As was customary in all small communities of the time, anyone who was able to do so came to pay their respects. A wake was held and fond memories of Thomas Coulsome were recounted in quiet voices.

Lansing’s Ford did not have a large population but most of its residents were generous, as rural folk almost always are. A small sum was raised to ensure the surviving Coulsomes were taken care of. Dr. Perkins was appointed to administer the trust and he did so with a great sense of duty.

Hank Coulsome spent his childhood in Lansing’s Ford. He was a good son who doted upon his mother as best a young boy could. Hank would often help her with wool spinning and the seamstress work with which she supplemented their modest trust. When he wasn’t in school, Hank would hire himself out to local farmers who could use a dependable though inexperienced hand. By the time he was seven years old, Hank knew that some day he would have a farm of his own.

Hank especially loved going to visit his uncle Gar and Miss Beazy at Heart’s Content. From age five onwards, he would travel with his mother to the Colters place to help with the apple harvest. Uncle Gar was the most important man in his life. Nothing made Hank happier than to be in the presence of this gentle, caring man. Gar did his best to cram into those two short weeks of orchard picking as much of an education as he could provide his young nephew, a boy he loved as much as he would have loved his own. Miss Beazy and Gar were not able to have children. Hank was their blessing.

It should be pointed out that Hank, though a good boy, was no angel. He seemed to have picked up a little of his uncle’s benign mischievousness in the hours he spent shadowing him. Like all boys his age, Hank had more than once tied an old tin can to a stray’s tail for the sheer delight of it. His mischievousness reached its acme in the summer of his eighth year. That year, there was an incident whose details continue to be embellished to this day in the mutating folklore of Lansing’s Ford.

For his eighth birthday, Uncle Gar bought Hank his very first rifle: a Daisy Red Eagle, single pump, repeating B.B. gun with a stock of polished ash. Gar and Miss Beazy delivered it personally.

“Someday soon, Hank, you are going to need to learn how to use a real rifle. But first, you’ll need to master this one.”

“Oh, Uncle Gar and Miss Beazy, it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Can you teach me right now, Uncle Gar? Can you?”

With that, two smiling boys, one eight and the other forty five, scrambled outside to find as many tin cans as they could. Having collected four sorry-looking containers, they lined them up on fence posts in the back yard. For three hours, they practiced their marksmanship. Hank was a quick learner. The next day, before the Colters embarked upon their trip home, Hank and Uncle Gar were back outside, turning the tin cans into pulverized metal. Gar had no doubt his nephew would be ready for the real thing by summer’s end.

Now Lansing’s Ford had a tradition that dated back to its founding. Every first Saturday in July, the chapel would be reconfigured into a makeshift bingo hall. The bingo was for adults only. For three hours, the grownups would howl and squeal as numbers were tumbled from the bingo cage. There were no money prizes, but baked goods, donated by the members of the Women’s League, could be won with just the right amount of luck and timing. The monies raised were used to keep the chapel in a good state of repair.

The chapel had been built on a piece of property bequeathed by Seth Armstrong. The Armstrongs were cattle ranchers and from time immemorial had been farming the acreage surrounding the chapel. On this particular Saturday, the Armstrong’s only bull had been tethered to the back wall of the chapel. The bull, known to all as Serene Dean, was anything but. Serene Dean had not one chromosome that wasn’t tainted with anger and orneriness. If let loose, he would have stomped everything within his poor eyesight into a fine powder. This day, Serene Dean was unusually quiet. He stood impassive behind the chapel, slowly digesting his lunch. Inside the chapel, the unpracticed gamblers roared and taunted and teased, as they waited happily to strike off their cards the next number to escape the bingo cage.

As it so happened, Hank was on his way to the river with his Daisy Red Eagle, single pump repeater. Upon hearing the commotion coming from the chapel, he turned his gaze to his left and spotted Serene Dean lazily munching away. Serene Dean and Hank were not on the best of terms. Not since the bull had surprised him as he took a shortcut through the Armstrong’s back forty. Never had a boy’s underwear been so soiled on such a desperate run to safety.

No one really knows where young boys get their ideas. Most people wouldn’t even call them ideas…more like half-formed, irresistible notions. Well, a notion came to Hank as he unmindfully caressed his Daisy Red Eagle. He moved stealthily to the east side of the chapel, making sure to keep the fence between him and his nemesis. Without thinking further, he took aim and pulled the trigger. A B.B. spun through the barrel and violently launched itself upon the seat of Serene Dean’s sovereignty. In a nano-second, the leviathan sprang six feet straight up into the air. He seemed to levitate forever as his short tether yanked forcefully at the back wall of the chapel. Hank looked on, frozen, as the whole wall was separated from the rest of the ecclesiastical structure. Serene Dean returned to earth with a gigantic thud and visions of bullish revenge.

Milus Armstrong, acting as bingo caller, was the first to look beyond the vanished wall. He could see all the way up Serene Dean’s nostrils right into the malicious bovine intent that flooded his tiny brain.

“Run everybody, run!” Milus bellowed.

Out of the chapel the bingo players spilled, tripping over pews and knocking down the baptismal font. As the last of the gambling enthusiasts squeezed himself out of the pandemonium, Milus slammed the big iron bar across the massive oak doors and then collapsed in a puddle of shocked perspiration. Hank, finally exiting his daze, flung himself to the ground and lay hidden until nightfall. He would tell no one of his misdeed until he was much, much older.

Note: This will be the last of the Cauliflower Corners installments until September, at which time the story will resume. Will Gracie Birdsong get married? Will Hank Coulsome be the one? Will Gorgis Cornelius Gustavius Burden Squeers weasel his way into her heart? Will the shady dealings of the Reverend Cornelius Augustus Ramses Squeers, Doctor of Divinity, catch up to him or will he continue to prosper? Find out soon.