The Perils Of Being A Widow

I don't judge one's intentions on their being friendly and chatty, but rather on the content of their dialog and other things like crowding close and being over complimentary repeatedly.

 

The two situations I referred to in an earlier post were both in a supermarket parking lot started something like this

1. "Oh, could you help me with my groceries?" I replied "sure" and went to help and then excused myself when her conversation became a little more personal.
2. "That is a nice looking car and you look so good in it!" I replied "thank you", asked if she was interested in cars and responded to a question about how the care handled. When things started to get a little more personal (e.g.,"How old do you think I am?"), it was time to get the frozen stuff home before it melted.

How'd I do?

 

You did well under those unusual and extenuating circumstances, John.

Old man - "Could I help you with those groceries ma'am?"

Faye - "Do I look crippled to you?"

Old man - "Well, you are parked in a handicap spot and have a placard hanging."

Faye - "Good point old man, load em up and be careful with those eggs and don't smash the bread loaves."

Old man - "On second thought, I am late for a meeting."

 

True story from 1978
by Faye Fox

The Bear and the Buckskin Dress

During my mountain living years, in between a bridge-building job and helping push cattle off summer allotments to fall allotments, I embarked on a week survival journey about a mile above my cabin. This would be my first trip fully donned in apparel like an Indian woman.

I had finished my buckskin dress the winter before using hides I had collected and tanned myself. I was really proud of that dress that hung just below the knees. To go with it, I had fashioned knee-high elk hide mocassins and an elk hide flat-brimmed hat. For this mountain journey, I carried only my homemade muzzleloader with a well-supplied possibles bag and a full powder horn. Also my homemade 15" Bowie knife, a home-fashioned throwing knife, and my homemade tomahawk. A homemade canteen fashioned from tin-plated steel finished off my survival supplies. Instead of lead-soldered seams, it tested my skills at the old art of two folds and tapping the seam flat. It didn't leak a drop, nary a one. It did rust out, but it was intended to be a one-trick pony.

Arriving at the open meadow that was on the crest of the hill, the hill below the summit, I stopped. I had been there many times and it was ideal for camping since it would be open all around if I camped in the center. Since it was the crest, anyone or any animal would have to do some climbing to arrive at the meadow. There was a stand of small lodgepoles near that would work well for building my shelter.

On the first day, I fashioned a lean-to and made a bed of lichen, the lichen that was hanging from the trees. Little did I know that collecting that lichen would furnish more than just a comfortable night's sleep. After building a fire, filling my canteen at a close by spring, and filling my hat full of blueberries, I sat down and enjoyed the blueberries while the grouse that had met its end from a 54-caliber round ball carving a tunnel through its back end, roasted on a mountain mahogany spit I had fashioned just for this occasion. As dark set in I tested my bed and was soon asleep. The beauty of a buckskin dress is its dual purpose as day and nightwear, with no changing required.

I was awakened shortly before dawn by the music of the five pack of small gray timber wolves. They were once at nine, but the previous winter had taken a toll on them. I could tell by their song that they were close and had dined well that night. I did my best to reply with my monotone howl, as I had done in all the years I had lived there. They never bothered livestock and fed mostly on the abundant small game. I had established a good working relationship with them. They were native to the area and we both had a mutual disliking of coyotes. If they fed on small game, then I would see that the coyotes died from lead poisoning. It was a win-win for both parties.

Suddenly I realized that my normal monthly female curse was much too heavy and a week too early. Remembering my studies about how Indian women dealt with this situation, I was happy that I had chosen to go with the traditional Indian leather thong rather than the pioneer wool underwear. That thong was designed for holding tree lichen. As I readied to make my descent over toward the hermits, I heard a crashing through the trees and smelled the most awful smell ever. Was it now at this inconvenient moment that I encounter the legendary bigfoot said to inhabit that area?

I was relieved to see it was a huge old gray-faced bore that was probably blind and coming toward the smell of blood. That explained why my waving my arms was to no avail. I didn't want to shoot him or even waste a shot and reload for later hastily planned events. I yelled like a crazy woman, breaking into a chant, using words from the Navajo language I had learned listening to Navajo Hour growing up in Southwestern Colorado.

I was relieved when the old bore made an about-face and loped off through the trees with less care than he exited. With time being of the essence, I moved as fast as I could taking a downhill shortcut toward the hermits. I knew the path well and my focus was to stay calm. Howbeit not as calm as necessary for a rattlesnake bite, but calmer than running from a charging bull.

I arrived at the slope heading down to the hermits. It was an old line logging skid trail and a 250-yard shot to place a round ball through his metal woodstove pipe that was about four joints high from his roof peak and guyed with electric fence wire. He had told me stories about how he and a buddy used to shoot holes in each other's steel chimneys to announce their arrival. Sneaking up on someone so isolated was never a good idea.

My mother had worried about me having an old rather rough-looking hermit as my closest neighbor. I assured her that he had told me that in WW 2 he had lost his manhood when a German sniper aimed too low and since then always seated himself when using the outhouse. Once when my mother visited and I was away at work, she walked over to meet him and make her own appraisal of his character.

That evening she told me that he told her the true story of how he lost his manhood. It was after he had bought a new pistol and was at his buddies that he suffered a weakness in his arm, his arm dropped from the firing position, and his finger squeezed the trigger as the gun lowered with his hand bent in. Her assessment was that he was eccentric and had embellished his story for me, but a great neighbor if push came to shove. He did have a slightly bent hand that could have been from a stroke.

I had one shot and not a lot of energy to reload. I had made 250-yard shots on the mountain buck skinners range but the targets were two-foot steel clangers. With careful aim lower on the chimney since I realized a low shot would still hit the chimney and the vertical alignment had to be within 8 inches, the diameter of the pipe. I fired and then counted, one and, two and, then heard the thud with a slight ring. I was glad I had it loaded with 120 grains of Pyrodex as I knew the trajectory well with that load and 100% cotton blue and white striped overalls denim spit patch. Well-worn overalls were never discarded. Those old holey overalls had a higher purpose after their barn debut was over.

I nailed it dead center. He came running out carrying his 30-06. I yelled and waved and then pulled up my legs with the buckskin dress working as a sled and downhill I went, with dust flying behind me. He saw a big blood stain on my dress as I arrived at the bottom. He loaded me in the back of his old pickup so I could keep my legs up and slow the bleeding. It was a rough ride down that dusty Forest Service road to the nearest ranch. He flew down their drive taking out a few slow old hens, honking all the way.

The lady came out running and assessed my situation. She had medical training, so with the help of her husband and the hermit, loaded me in the back of her Jeep Waggoneer taking time to put a vinyl-covered foam pad under me. She called the paramedics and her husband drove while she attended to me.

We met the ambulance on the highway, the switch was made, and after an ER visit and night in the hospital, I was stable enough to stay with a friend until I could get to the gynecologist for a rather unpleasant procedure. I burned that buckskin dress and thanked it and God for saving my life. I took the old hermit a freshly baked loaf of cast iron dutch oven-made bread using my homegrown, harvested and stone ground coveted triticale flour and sourdough starter that the high elevation Idaho Basque had gifted me years earlier.

I offered to replace the stovepipe, now with smoke coming out of half-inch holes on either side, two joints down, but he said no, it was drafting better than ever.

 

Had you had a miscarriage?

 

I lost my baby at 6 months. She lived for an hour. Fully formed and beautiful, but didn't have the lung power needed.

 

{{{{{Faye}}}}} I'm sorry.

 

Thanks! I thought everyone that had been here since I joined knew. In short, after she died, my husband killed himself and it was shortly after that I moved to the mountains and lived alone. That was 52 years ago.

 

I won't put a "Like" on that because I don't want you to think I like it.

I still say you're a helluva woman.

 

This is why I wish Ken would put some basic emotions so we could have a sad, love, hug, etc. to choose from. I don't like forums that have a disagree button, but the ones of compassion and positivity would be nice, especially as we get older and every post isn't one we feel at ease giving a like.

 

Thanks, Shirley! Yes, my name and hell come up together quite frequently.