Cover art designed and created by the author. Train images on front and back covers were found in the Public Domain. Interior train images were found in the public domain.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.
“THE ADVENTURES OF GOPHER PIDDINGTON,” by David Michaelson. ISBN: 978-0-9885032-8-1 (softcover); 978-0-9885032-9-8 (eBook).
Published 2013 by Emjay Publishing. © 2013, David Michaelson. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of David Michelson.
Manufactured in the United States of America
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
David served his country as a U.S. Navy Patternmaker, achieving the rank of E-5 (PM-2). His basic training resulted in being awarded the title of Outstanding Recruit. He graduated as the Honorman of his Patternmaker ‘A’ School in 1963 and went on to serve aboard the USS Sperry (AS-12), a submarine tender based out of San Diego, CA.
David has been a wood shop foreman and the owner of a custom furniture shop. He, along with his Father and a few friends once designed and built the molds for a line of lightweight fiberglass trailers for the burgeoning motorcycle touring industry that began in 1980.
David spent three years as a Head Volleyball Coach boasting an undefeated record in high school league play. He has been a USVBA volleyball player and volleyball referee, as well as a tournament handball player. He was also a professional umpire.
No matter what trade or profession David ventured into, he always returned to the kitchen. He has been a line cook, a kitchen manager and an executive chef. He has served as Events Chair and Treasurer for his local chef’s association (of the American Culinary Federation).
David and his wife Dianne opened a small deli in an industrial park north of Ferndale, WA and operated that lunch business and catering company until they outgrew it and moved into Ferndale proper to open a small lunch and dinner house in an old Quonset hut. Within a year they had outgrown that location and moved into a much larger facility in the center of town.
The Cozy Café received one of the best restaurant reviews ever given by the feared and respected food critic for the Bellingham Herald, Stacee Sledge. She raved about the meal she and her entourage enjoyed during her visit, claiming the dining experience was the first time everything was perfect, from the food and wine to the ambiance and the service.
A career-ending heart attack forced the sale of the popular Cozy Cafe.
David and Dianne have retired and moved to Harrington, WA, where David has embarked on a rewarding writing career. THE ADVENTURES OF GOPHER PIDDINGTON is David’s fourteenth book.
Much of this work reflects David’s early years in grade school. His studies lagged, not because he was stupid but because he was bored. Consequently, he has taken a few grammar and punctuation liberties. In defense of these mistakes, David once met a nationally celebrated editor who claimed, “I would rather read a poorly constructed good story than a perfectly constructed poor one.”
Armed with that premise, David invites you to enjoy THE ADVENTURES OF GOPHER PIDDINGTON.
To view all David’s other books, visit his website: www.emjaypublishing.com.
CONTENTS
FOREWORD
THE SEWING CABINET
A WILD RIDE
RUNNING WITH REGINALD
TROUBLE WITH WORDS
SCHOOL DAYS
GOPHER’S FIRST FIGHT
MORE SCHOOL HIJINX
THE BOXING LESSONS
THE ARREST
THE TOY TRAIN
COTTONWOOD HILL
WHEN THE BOOM LOWERED
RESTAURANT WORK
A DAY BETWEEN TOWNS
LOVE AT FIRST LIGHT
OLSON’S WRATH
THE NIGHT OLD GUNNAR CAME TO TOWN
THE FIRST KISS
NOSE TO THE GRINDSTONE
THE FINAL DECISION
THE SECOND FINAL DECISION
RIDING THE RAILS
THE LONG WALK NOWHERE
RESOLUTIONS
A THIEF IN THE NIGHT
OLIVERI’S LAST SUPPER
BATHING AND BASE BALL
THE GREAT GAME
STIFF COMPETITION
WINTERING OVER
LEADVILLE, COLORADO
THE SAD GOOD BYE
WINTER IN LEADVILLE
LOCKUP
JUDGEMENT DAY
THE VERDICT
ENROUTE TO SANTA FE
AND A MAN EMERGED
AFTERWORD
FOREWORD
What was left of the Wild West in the latter part of the 19th century has largely been discounted as being boring and not up to the high drama following the Civil War. The celebrated era of cowboys and gunslingers lasted a mere twenty years, yet countless tales of the Old West have been spun in books and through motion pictures.
Life went on, even after the last big gunfights were distant memories. For many, the daily struggle to survive was just as harrowing in the 1880s and 1890s as it was in the previous decades—just not as well documented.
Behind the scenes, in the real-life stories most newshounds chose to ignore, there were many life and death struggles. Chief among them was the perennial adventure through childhood eventually into adulthood.
A boy was considered of age when he could do a man’s work and order up a man’s drink. Becoming a man had little to do with age or stature. Some were considered men simply because they carried a gun and knew how to use it, while others never quite grew up.
Gilbert Gopher Piddington was no different than any other boy living out west in the 1880s. His experiences and adventures will remind all of us what our youth was like—and when we met our own maturity face to face.
THE SEWING CABINET
One day when Gopher’s mother and father were taking a nap during the heat of the day, boredom began to set in and the five year-old searched for something to do.
The new house his parents were building was complete with the exception of trimming out the interior and hanging wallpaper. Gopher was pleased to be able to select his favorite pattern, at least for one wall. He wanted the colorful print titled, “Ballooning in Paris” for the entire room but his mother said there was no way to match the repeats and have the room look at all acceptable. So Gopher had to settle on a tightly spaced pattern featuring light blue French Flour-de-le print on the other three walls.
“It is important,” his mother often said, “To look respectable but not gaudy. We must always strive to appear refined and proper.”
These words echoed in Gopher’s thoughts while he searched for something to do.
In a closet near the front door he located his mother’s large foldout sewing box. When he opened it he was amazed at the sheer number of different colors of thread. There was black and white and tan and brown and all the colors of the rainbow—all beckoning, come play with me.
So, Gopher decided to drag the beautiful big box outside so he could better examine the contents in the bright sunlight.
The fun began when he tied one end of a thick thread to the handle on the front screen door. With ease he found the door would open because the thread was strong enough and didn’t break.
Then he wrapped the single thread around a distant fence post and pulled. The thread broke.
He tied two lengths of thread, then three. And still the door wouldn’t open when wrapped around the post.
Gopher wondered if the thread would be strong enough to keep the door shut if he wrapped it arou
nd the entire house.
In less than a minute he made three trips around the house. Both doors were now wrapped in three lengths of black thread. He grabbed the handle and jerked on the door. The threads broke and the door flew open, hitting him in the face.
Now Gopher was getting frustrated. If three lengths were not strong enough, maybe five or ten would do the job; or maybe different colors would hold the door closed.
Without a care as to the trouble he was about to get himself into, Gopher Piddington ran around the house many times. When one spool was empty, he grabbed another color and ran and ran and ran.
Soon the afternoon heat began to wear him out and he sat down under the shade of a big bush in the front yard to catch his breath.
Just then he heard his mother calling.
She was awake and searching the house for him.
Gopher dared not return the call, for he suspected she would not appreciate his artistic endeavor.
The house looked grand. It was wrapped tightly in dozens of bright colors perhaps a hundred layers deep. He had done a very nice job. The rows upon rows were neatly and accurately layered and he was proud of his accomplishment.
When his mother tried to open the door to call for her son, she found the door wouldn’t budge—not even a little bit. Then she discovered what the problem was. Her face turned an angry red.
“Gilbert Piddington, you just wait until I get my hands on you.”
Gopher was only his middle name but he had answered to it all his life. The only time he was ever called by his given name was when he was in trouble. And judging by the tone of his mother’s voice, he knew he was in trouble—big trouble. She only used her most angry voice when he had done something particularly bad, and by sealing up both the front and back doors with nearly all her precious sewing thread, Gopher had done something really bad.
Her screams for Gopher’s father sent chills down the boy’s spine. Now he was really going to feel the switch across his bottom, for his father was widely known as a man who failed to find humor in wrong doing.
When Able Piddington appeared at the front screen door and saw the miles and miles of thread holding the door closed, he gave it a firm shove. The threads held.
Gopher’s father then went to the back door only to find it was equally festooned with the valuable sewing aids.
When Gopher saw his father sawing through the glob of fine threads as strong as any rope with a large kitchen butcher knife, he knew it wouldn’t be long until his backside was feeling his father’s wrath.
At times like these, Gopher was often told to go cut his own switch—sort of an additional element of punishment his father had come up with.
Once, Gopher went out and cut a tiny, insignificant little twig for his switching punishment. His father wasn’t amused and cut his own sturdy, flexible branch.
At another such occasion, Gopher decided to drag a heavy limb inside. It was much too big for his father to wield, so Gopher figured he might just get away with a warning just this once.
Again, his father cut a switch and laid into his son’s backside; not to harm the boy, but hopefully to teach him a lesson that misbehavior doesn’t pay—and neither does cutting useless switches.
The rest of that long, hot summer, Gopher had to do extra work to repay his mother for the loss of her sewing thread collection. Most of the time he didn’t mind working outdoors but hated it when his parents made him work in the restaurant. But rules were rules and he had broken one of the cardinal rules of behavior; never waste, lose or damage anything of value.
Piddington’s International Dining Emporium enjoyed a loyal clientele and a continuous flow of travelers who were bent upon comparing Able’s cuisine to that of the many Harvey Houses springing up along the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe rail lines.
Gopher had never eaten anything at those other stopover eateries, so couldn’t say whether any of them were better than what Santa Fe enjoyed. Gopher liked his father’s cooking most of the time but he was especially fond of the Mexican dishes the morning cook, Guadalupe prepared on certain days. Hearty, spicy foods agreed with him and often led his father to say that kind of food may actually contribute to Gopher’s fiery disposition.
A WILD RIDE
During the week Gopher and his parents were moving into their new home, their freight wagon was making hourly trips to and from the main part of town. All sorts of furniture and furnishings were hauled up the dirt road that wound its way to the hilltop home.
The heaviest items found their way into the parlor, kitchen and living rooms first. Stoves were big, heavy and bulky, requiring many men to move them from the bed of the wagon and into position inside the house.
As the wagon arrived with each new load, Gopher found himself an outcast—a little kid always in the way of men’s work. Work fascinated Gopher. He could sit and watch it for hours without becoming bored.
Even the wagon held his interest. The narrow tailgate was fitted with chains at each side to extend the carrying capacity of the bed when longer loads were on board.
There were a number of bent iron attachments from which many ropes could be tied to secure any load for the trip up the hill.
But most fascinating of all was the braking lever and trailing mechanism that jammed a curved shoe against one of the wheels, preventing the heavy wagon from moving or slowing it down on hills. Here was a collection of gadgets, levers, arms and pivot points that could keep a curious little boy occupied for hours.
Of course the time came that Gopher simply had to mess around with that intriguing lever. And that meant waiting until the team was unhitched and the wagon empty, sitting by the side of the house and facing the access road, ready for the next day’s haul of furniture and household goods.
While Kirsten was preparing supper and Able was busy nailing door trim on entryways, Gopher decided he would see what made the braking system tick. He climbed up into the bench seat and imagined himself driving the four matched chestnut horses. He jerked at the lever but it didn’t move.
“Giddy up” and “Whoa” he yelled with vigor at the nonexistent animals, the reins whipping in the wind.
Then Gopher noticed a thick leather strap secured the lever, preventing it from moving. He wondered what would happen if he lifted that strap off the lever.
At first nothing whatsoever happened. He just sat there imagining he was in command of the onrushing wagon kicking up huge clouds of dust as thundering hooves charged down the road. He jumped up and down with glee as the wagon bounced down the side of the hill.
He could hear his father’s voice in the distance calling his name and swearing up a blue streak. His mother’s soprano-like shriek brought him back to reality; reality that he actually was on a moving wagon—a wagon rolling backwards down the hill, directly toward the Spiegelberg’s backyard smoke shack.
Gopher gripped the wooden bench seat tightly with both hands and leaned back against the backrest for additional support. The wagon bucked and wallowed, threatening to roll over at any second.
But the heavy tongue dragging behind kept the wagon upright and allowed the lumbering beast to roll all the way to the bottom without hitting anything—not even the smokehouse.
Gopher received a good measure of hugs that evening and was spared the usual switching by his father. All he got for his dangerous escapade was a stern lecture, first by his mother, then again from his father. Sometimes the words made more of an impression than the marks left by a good whipping.
Gopher had gained respect for wagons and never tried fiddling around with the brake again, at least not until he was much older and was given the opportunity to actually drive one.
The Piddington home was eventually finished, complete with Gopher’s balloon-theme paper covering one wall. He still wished the entire room had been papered with the colorful motif but when it came to logic and common sense. Gopher always lost those confrontations. His parents often said he was headstrong.
Headstrong? Here was
another word Gopher didn’t know. He had yet to understand many of the words adults used. He had heard the word “addlepated” used in conjunction with one of the town’s more colorful young residents but wasn’t exactly sure what it meant.
RUNNING WITH REGINALD
If there was one thing Gopher Piddington was good at, it was running. Oh, he was not fast like Reginald but it seemed he could run all day without tiring. Reginald, on the other hand, was fast—really fast. No one, not even the fully-grown men could keep up with Reginald.
Reginald was different in other ways. He didn’t speak and he collected anything shiny or bright. Among his favorite things were colorful bottles, the kind tossed onto trash heaps after their contents were empty.
Reginald lived in a house like anyone’s house except it wasn’t quite like anyone’s house at all. Where windows once had been, Reginald filled the gaping holes with bottles held in place with adobe mud.
The inside of Reginald’s house was therefore, somewhat dark and dinghy—that is until the sun was in the right place and shined down through one of the bottle-lined windows. Then the inside of the house was ablaze in colors nearly as bright and beautiful as the stained glass windows down at the Catholic Church.
Gopher liked being around Reginald. Neither of the boys had much use for the spoken word: Reginald because he didn’t speak at all, and Gopher because he didn’t have much to say. The two boys enjoyed a bond that went beyond mere conversation.
No one knew if Reginald could talk and no one really cared. As long as the boy stayed out of trouble and didn’t bother the horses too much he was tolerated.
Gopher often brought colorful things to his friend. In exchange for the good deed, Reginald would smile that big toothy grin and pat Gopher on the back in sincere appreciation. The only noise Reginald made during those pleasant moments was his signature guttural grunt of approval.
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