—JMQ
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Is it true, Dr. Bunker, that horseradish fumes still linger and make an invigorating atmosphere for tourists?”
“Absolutely, but please call me Tess.”
“Were your forebears horseradish farmers?”
“No, they were in shipping. Our town was the chief port for all of Lockmaster County, and my great-grandfather’s adventures as captain of the sailing vessel Princess have made him a legendary figure. You see, all sorts of commodities were being shipped in and out. There was still some gold-mining in the interior, as well as a thriving fur trade, especially beaver. This made cargo ships prey to bucca-neers. Did you know there were pirates on the lakes at one time?”
“Your cousin told me that their victims were often made to walk the plank. He never mentioned the Princess. ”
“Oh, she was famous in her day! On one occasion the 쑽쑽쑽
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Lilian Jackson Braun Princess sailed out of harbor with a cargo and had just lost sight of land when a craft with a black flag loomed on the horizon. Captain Bunker gave some unusual orders: When the pirate ship hove to, the crew would go below with crowbars and wet rags.
“A volley was fired across the bow of the Princess, and she dropped sail. Then all hands disappeared into the hold, which was stowed with kegs of grated horseradish mixed with vinegar. The pirates came aboard, stomping and curs-ing. Where was the blankety-blank crew? It was a blankety-blank ghost ship! They stormed down the hatch. . . .
Immediately the lids came off the kegs, and the fumes rose like poison gas! The pirates choked and staggered blindly, while the crew—masked with wet rags—threw handfuls of the stuff and swung their crowbars. Overpowered, the pirates were dragged to the deck and heaved overboard.
“The pirate story is true, but there are many Bun-yanesque tales about our town, like the cargo ship powered by horseradish fumes before steam boilers came into use.”
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11.
Wildcattin’ with
an Old Hog
The Recollections of an “Old Hoghead”
I first met Ozzie Penn in a retirement center for railroadmen—and immediately turned on my tape recorder. He spoke the Old Moose di-alect, which still falls pleasantly on the ear. He had the engineer’s symbolic gold watch—a re-ward for always coming in on time.
—JMQ
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You were a master of your craft, I’m told. What does it take to make a good engineer?”
“L’arnin’ to start up slow and stop smooth. . . . L’arnin’
to keep yer head when it be hell on the rails. . . . Prayin’ to God fer a good fireman. . . . And abidin’ by rule G.”
“What’s the fireman’s job on a steam locomotive?”
“He be the one stokes the firebox an’ keeps the boiler steamin’. Takes a good crew to make a good run and come in on time. Spent my whole life comin’ in on time. Eleventh commandment, it were called. Now, here I be, an’ time don’t mean nothin’.”
“Why was it so important to be on time?”
“Made money for the comp’ny. Made wrecks, too . . .
takin’ chances, takin’ shortcuts.”
“Were you in many wrecks?”
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Lilian Jackson Braun
“Yep, an’ on’y jumped once. I were a youngun, dead-headin’ to meet a crew in Flapjack. Highballin’ round a curve, we run into a rockslide. Engineer yelled ‘Jump!’ an’ I jumped. Fireman jumped, too. Engineer were killed.”
“What do you know about the famous wreck at Wildcat, Ozzie?”
“That were afore my time, but I heerd plenty o’ tales in the SC and L switchyard. In them days the yard had eighteen tracks and a roundhouse for twenty hogs.
“The town weren’t called Wildcat in them days. It were South Fork. Trains from up north slowed down to twenty at South Fork afore goin’ down a steep grade to a mighty bad curve and a wood trestle bridge. The rails, they be a hun’erd feet over the water. One day a train come roarin’ through South Fork, full steam, whistle screechin’.
It were a wildcat—a runaway train—headed for the gorge.
At the bottom—crash!—bang! Then hissin’ steam. Then dead quiet. Then the screamin’ started. Fergit how many killed, but it were the worst ever!”
“Did they ever find out what caused the wreck?”
“Musta been the brakes went blooey, but the railroad, they laid it on the engineer—said he were drinkin’.
Saved the comp’ny money, it did, to lay it on the engineer.
Poor feller! Steam boiler exploded, an’ he were scalded to death.”
“Horrible!”
“Yep. It were bad, ’cause he weren’t a drinkin’ man.”
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Short & Tall Tales
“So that’s why they changed the name of the town to Wildcat! You’re a very lucky man, Ozzie, to have survived so many dangers! If you had your life to live over again, would you be a hoghead?”
“Yep.”
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12.
The Scratching
Under the Door
As Recalled by Emma Huggins Wimsey, Age Eighty-nine
She was a frail little woman in a wheelchair when I interviewed her at a family reunion. A caregiver had brought her from the Senior Care Facility in order to maintain her record: She had not missed a reunion since the age of two.
Emma’s eyes still sparkled with loving memories when she talked about her cat, Punkin.
—JMQ
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When I was a little girl I had a cat named Punkin because she was orange. Such a dear kitty! We had a game we played. After my mother put me to bed each night and closed the bedroom door, Punkin would come and scratch under the door as if she was trying to get in. I’d jump out of bed and grab her paw. She’d pull it away and stick another paw under the door. Oh, we had such fun!