by Robert Ruark
This edition is published by PICKLE PARTNERS PUBLISHING—www.pp-publishing.com
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Text originally published in 1961 under the same title.
© Pickle Partners Publishing 2016, all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electrical, mechanical or otherwise without the written permission of the copyright holder.
Publisher’s Note
Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.
We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.
THE OLD MAN’S BOY GROWS OLDER
BY
ROBERT RUARK
With Line Drawings by Walter Dower
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Contents
TABLE OF CONTENTS 5
DEDICATION 6
FOREWORD 7
1—All He Left Me Was the World 13
2—Nobility Is Wrecking the Country 17
3—Uncle Rob Had Humphrey Bogart Beat a Mile 22
4—The Old Man Paid My Passage 27
5—How to Make a Hoorah’s Nest a Home 42
6—If You Don’t Care Where You Are You Ain’t Lost 47
7—Stories Grow Taller in the Fresh Air 53
8—Same Knife; Different Boy 58
9—You Got to Hurt to Be Happy 65
10—Hang Your Stocking in August 72
11—Good-bye, Cruel World 76
12—It Always Rains on Saturday 85
13—The Trouble with Dogs Is People 91
14—Cooties in the Knight Clothes 97
15—You Don’t Have to Shoot to Go Hunting 101
16—Lions and Liars 113
17—Fishing Is a State of Mind 118
18—Voodoo in the Skillet 130
19—Dogs, Boys, and the Unspared Rod 134
20—Second Childhood Is More Fun than the First—I 142
21—Second Childhood Is More Fun than the First—II 148
22—Hold Perfection in Your Hand 154
23—To Seek a Bear and Find a Boy 158
24—Nobody’s Too Old for a Physic 165
25—Only One Head to a Customer 170
26—Greedy Gut 175
27—Snakes Ain’t Hostile in November 180
28—Stoicism Is Bad for Boys 183
29—The House Comes Home 190
30—Even His Runts Were Giants 195
REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 201
DEDICATION
This book is
for two grown-up small boys,
who once shared an idea in a rowboat.
I do not recall that we caught any fish,
but the idea was a beaut.
FOREWORD
A Word from the Boy
It’s a popular pastime among adults, when the hair begins to gray and the aches of middle age grow more steadily persistent, to look back on the prodigious deeds of their youth and proclaim that we’ve all gone soft and that they don’t make boys like that anymore. The Old Man had a theory about this. He said that as a man grew older the miles that he used to walk to the Little Red Schoolhouse grew longer.
“I am convinced,” he said, “that what schoolin’ I had took place no farther than half a mile from the homestead, but the older I get the longer the trip seems to get. If you asked me right fast how far I walked through the snow I reckon I’d say ten mile without battin’ an eye.”
I wasn’t paying too much attention to what the old gentleman was saying, except I caught the word “snow.” It was steamy August, and I was torturing the crank handle of an ice cream freezer. Or, rather, the crank was torturing me. Sweat was streaming down my face, and only the promise of being allowed to lick the dasher kept me grunting at the task, as the cream in the cylinder, surrounded by a mixture of cracked ice and rock salt, got stiff and stiffer.
When it became almost immovably stiff the ice cream was done, and I would be onto that smoothly creamy wooden paddle like a duck on a June bug, and there would be wonderful chunks of frozen peaches making lovely hillocks under the satin surface of the ice cream. This was known as solider’s pay or extra incentive, and I was allowed an even start on the bulk of the ice cream with the family. I usually came out ahead despite impost.
It seems to me that this was the best ice cream ever tooled by the hand of man, when you consider the miracles one used, to work with Jersey cream, sugar, eggs, and vanilla extract, with a few peach nuggets or cherries stirred into the mixture. They don’t make ice cream like that today. They don’t make life that way today either.
This sobering thought occurred sharply as I was smitten by a violent crick in the back the other day, when I was trying to recapture my misty youth by producing some home-churned ice cream instead of sending somebody to the store for a carton or merely reaching down into the freezer for a rock-hard package that generally tastes of the same old sawdust, no matter how brilliant the stripes.
I reckon that in recent years I’ve ruined an awful lot of good meat cooking out of doors in pursuit of youth. I will go fishing or camping just for the fun of being frozen or sunstruck, fly bit or mosquito chewn—anything at all as long as it’s uncomfortable. I am a sucker for picnics, and savor anything at all to eat if it’s either raw or burnt and has sand in it.
In recent years I have consumed elephant heart, raw antelope liver, and half-cooked sand grouse or gazelle chops—meat that had been flying through the air or gamboling on the plains a few short minutes before. Let me catch a fish and I’m not happy until I’ve given it a clay pack and shoved it into the coals. If it comes out half raw it doesn’t hurt the taste, even on a tongue that may have been jaded by thirty years of nicotine and honed smooth by prohibition gin.
But it is true that things were different when I was a boy, and the Old Man represented the irretrievable mystery of yesteryear. I do not suppose that I would get very far in interesting today’s crop of nippers in what to me was high sport and great fun some thirty to thirty-five years a-past. It was altogether too simple then for this age of television and ballet in the circus. Progress, like nearly everything else, is relative, and I often wonder if its benefits are entirely undiluted.
Most of the fine things we did in the long-buried days happened out of doors. The seasons were sharply etched on the calendar as to potential. Winter was the infrequent snow, with icicles to suck and snow ice cream to be made, and traps for rabbits and the little snowbirds and waxwings that miraculously appeared with the first powdering. The traps were simple. A box was tilted and propped with a stick that had a cord attached. A trail of bread crumbs led to the box, and when the prey entered the trap you gave the cord a twitch from your hiding place and the box fell, imprisoning your quarry. Then the only problem was getting the birds out, and they usually flew free.
A thin skin of ice on the sweet-water ponds made duck hunting easier, because the ducks rafted in clumps and bunches in open water and were loath to fly in the flurrying snow. Somehow all animals and birds seemed tamer and easier to hunt in the snow, and it was tremendous fun to track a deer instead of running him with hounds.
Springtime was strawberry time and green peaches time and bellyache time and—blessed of all the blesseds—getting-out-of-school time. As May nudged lazily into June and the bobolin
ks swayed atop the long grasses and the black cherries sweated sweetness as their trees oozed jewels of gum the medicine cabinet took quite a thrashing and the castor oil lowered its level in the penance bottle. And it was time to swim again, strictly against parental orders, so you swam anyhow, and the goose-pimpling waters were rendered doubly pneumonically delicious by their very illegality.
Summer, with the horrors of the schoolhouse all but for-gotten, was a steady diet of fishing and swimming. There were some summer camps, even in my time—up in the mountains mostly. These were basically created for parents who wanted their children out of their hair for six weeks or so, and so remanded them to a kind of benevolent concentration camp with supervised archery, boating, swimming, hiking, campfire-making, basket-weaving, and suchlike.
The nicest thing about August was that it was a sort of preparatory school for September, when the real adult action started: when you started to train the puppies seriously, when the dove season opened, when the big nor’easters swelled the tides and fetched the marsh hens into sight, when the big bluefish and the channel bass supplanted the inside fish as a point of interest.
October gave you squirrels and chinquapins glossy brown on the bushes, alum-tart persimmons wrinkling, and the quail calling sweetly in the dusk, still innocently secure from the fusillade that would greet them in November. That was when it really got frosty and the undergrowth withered. The necks of the buck deer swelled, and you could hear the big fellows scraping the last of the velvet off their antlers and snorting in the thickets.
I tried to put some of all this on paper, and once it got going it came with a rush. It was exactly as if the stuff had been locked away, waiting for someone to shove a key in the door and let it all come tumbling out. The first of this outpouring made a companion book called The Old Man and the Boy.
Often the material almost wrote itself. I suspect that in reporting the fevered present I had somehow forgotten the old things: the smell of Christmas in a country house; the bugling of hounds hot after a coon; the sight of the wizened old Chinaman’s face of a possum curled in a tight ball in a persimmon tree; a colored boy singing to keep off the hants as he drove the cow home through the lowering evening woods; the spumy smash of norther-driven waves on a lonely beach; the rich swelling of song at a colored camp meeting; the convivial gaiety at an oyster roast, when the fruit jar passed freely in the shadows and the square dancers struck up a slightly unsteady reel.
The Old Man and the Boy made me think, made me fine-tooth-comb my memory. The smell of Christmas is a case in point. The old-fashioned Christmas smell was predominantly that of crushed evergreens against the constant resiny scent of a snapping fire. One was a cool, smell, the other hot, but both joined forces in delightful companionship. This aromatic back-drop was overlaid by the heady odors that drifted from the kitchen, the sage which went into the turkey stuffing predominating.
The whole was tinctured with spices and by alcohol, because brandies and wines were lavishly used in the preparation of sauces and in building the fruit cakes. There was, as well, an infusion of tropical scent, as the infrequent Christmas citrus fruits—the opulent golden oranges—added an oily sharpness to the mixture. This was counterbalanced by the clean, cidery bite of the hard, white-fleshed, scarlet apples. Bright Christmas candies—the clover-shaped and heart-shaped sugary ones you never saw at any other time of the year and the striped hard ones with the soft centers—helped the greasy Brazil nuts along, as did the winy aroma of the great clusters of raisins, sugary-sticky to the touch. The spices that went into the eggnog or the hot Tom and Jerrys stood off the warm friendship of the rum that gave character to the cream.
Now I had to turn back the clock a far piece to sort out all those various effluvia in my mental nostrils, and in the process I ran onto other stimuli. I could suddenly remember what it was like going to bed between icy sheets in an un-steam-heated house, and the torture of leaving a warm bed to crawl into your clothes in the black predawn of a duck-hunting day—of the tiny furnace that a hunter’s big breakfast built in your stomach when your ears were dropping off from cold and your legs were numb from the knees down.
It was easy, then, to reconstruct the bright droplet that always hung at the cherry end of a boy’s frozen nose, as he shivered in a duck blind and prayed for the mallards to come in. And such things as the dewdrops of spray standing distinctly on the Old Man’s mustache, and the smell of an old man—”old men and old dogs both smell bad”—which seemed compounded of tobacco juice, corn whisky, open fire, and just plain old man.
I was moved to think again, for the first time in many a year, of just how hell-conscious a small boy can be, and of that frightening span of two or three years when I was sure I was going to hell for telling a lie or for cutting Sunday school or for saying damn, and of how I was sore stricken with the enormity of eternity. These severe strokes of conscience generally took hold during a late afternoon in a swamp, when the doves mourned and the early evening snaps and pops and hoots began. Even today, as an adult, during a late fishing afternoon in a darkly mysterious swamp, surrounded by cypress knees and Spanish moss, I feel something of the old fear of the wrath of God, and a chilly finger runs up and down my spine.
Practically nothing of what we did in the old days was artificial or contrived. I shot a bow and arrow, but I had made the bow and the arrows according to a recipe in a book by Ernest Thompson Seton. I didn’t need a counselor to teach me archery. We could sling a hatchet, tomahawk fashion, and throw a spear, and make a deadfall, and hurl a knife, and row or sail a boat.
The barn walls in winter were generally tacked full of rabbit skins and the hide of an occasional coon or possum, and I daydreamed violently of meeting a bear to add to the trophies. I never did, but I saw one’s tracks once, and that was almost as good as seeing him and shooting him.
There was also a secret life that adults never shared—a life of interlocking caves, of out-of-the-way islands where pirates surely once had buried their loot, of tree houses and even log cabins, their beams out of plumb, to be sure, but a power of cozy comfort to the weary pioneer.
The train from Southport to Wilmington, North Carolina (called the W.B.&S., which meant “Wilmington, Brunswick and Southport,” but was corrupted to “Willing But Slow”), consumed the best part of half a day to travel thirty miles, but the trip was fraught with high adventure and a sense of vast travel. The trip on the river boat, of which my Uncle Rob was engineer, took longer, but you felt pretty near like Columbus once you passed the stinking fish meal factory. It took longer to make that thirty miles than it does to fly from New York to London today.
The Old Man and the Boy dealt with a small local segment of the American scene, so it is rather strange and rather amusing that its components should have been produced in practically every corner of the world. The first two chapters were written on a steamer bound for Genoa; subsequent ones were recorded on an African safari. In the years that followed, The Old Man and the Boy was written in such disparate places as the Hotel Savoy in London, the Hadden Rig sheep station in New South Wales, and in a camp in Goroka, high in the mountains of New Guinea, as well as in Rome, Paris, Madrid, the Philippines, Tokyo, Hong Kong, and a number of other places I won’t take the time to list. Altogether it has been one of the best-traveled pieces of work in history, and it is odd that the only place in which it has not been written is the locale where the incidents happened—Southport and Wilmington. Most of the contents of this book were written in Spain, Africa, and India, airplanes being what they are today.
It is probably perverse and cranky of me, but I can’t understand what the modern youngster sees of interest in rockets to the moon and satellites and such when there are still so many things to discover in the tangible sea. Nor how the extravagances of television can claim precedence over camping trips, or even over the limitless, understandable adventure to be found in books that do not deal with space cadets and moon dwellers.
But as a boy grown old I do no
t seem to be lonely in this appraisal of things not being like they used to be. The weather’s changed, and everybody talks about whether or not it’s the atom bomb’s fault. The safari business is booming, and is patronized largely by old boys with prominent veins and potbellies, men trying to torture themselves into a misty remembrance of things past. You never see any bluebirds any more, and the red-headed woodpeckers have joined the dodo. Things are definitely not the same as when I was a lad, and if you asked me right smart how many miles I walked to school through the snow I would probably top the Old Man and say, “Twenty.” That would be a lie, because all the time I had a bicycle and the schoolhouse was just around the corner. It wasn’t red either. That was the color of the seventh-grade teacher’s hair at just about the time the birds and the bees took on a slightly different significance.
Come to think of it, they ain’t making red-headed school-teachers the way they used to either. Not the last time I looked.
1—All He Left Me Was the World
The streets filled as far as you could see; past the oak grove one way, down toward the river another way. Most of the faces were black, the black bulk accented here and there by a white face. There were dogs in the crowd, too, and children as well as adults.
They had come to see the Old Man off, to “say good-bye” to the Cap’n. The only face among his kinry that was missing was mine. I had said good-bye to him; he had said good-bye to me. I didn’t want it all confused with a lot of mourners. I went and got the oars from under the house and rowed over to Battery Island. There didn’t figure to be anything on it but birds.
There is no way, absolutely no way, to describe the desolation I felt. The Old Man was gone, and I was fifteen years old and alone without a prop in a world that was too big for me without the Old Man. I rowed the boat hard, trying not to think of him dead, but not succeeding. Then I thought of what had sent me onto the water—his old axiom that a boat and open water would come pretty close to solving any problems you had at the time, if only because water cleared your head, fishing calmed your nerves, “and you can always eat the fish.” I suppose that some people would think it odd that I skipped the Old Man’s funeral services and went fishing. The Old Man would not have thought it odd.
