Rusty Pails #47: Moving On

by Rocky Macy

We closed down our camp last week and most of us found our way home. I say most of us because Shadetree Mike, who really didn’t want to go home anyway, fell under the influence of our resident witch. Yep, that’s right, Gladys Clench drove by our camp as we were packing it in, with smells of hot apple pie and freshly fried chicken just oozin’ from her Nash Rambler, and Mike followed her home. Talk about using dirty tactics! I saw the happy couple on Main Street yesterday. They were walking out of the dry goods store, arm-in-arm, where Gladys had just bought Shadetree Mike some new duds. She said that she wanted to spruce him up some for church. I suggested, politely of course, that a jackass in a suit was still a jackass. As Gladys pulled my buddy off down the street, I couldn’t help but notice that he had already put on a few pounds. Ermine seems to be doing fine with her husband taking up with another woman. Heck said that he saw her driving a carload of his stuff over to Gladys’ house earlier this week. He said that he might not have noticed her, but she was honking and waving at everyone and had an enormous smile on her face. Poor Ermine has really got to work on her grieving skills! Our never-ending domino game has been moved to the back room at Esther’s Pearls and Swine. She said now that we’re there, she can get rid of her collection of plastic pigs without having to change the name of her establishment! It’s nice to know we’re good for something! Esther came over to my place last night after supper. We sat out on my front porch, eating watermelon and spitting seeds, and talking about how much our lives have changed over the past few months. When the summer was young, Shadetree Mike was still living at the Pump and Git and being waited on hand-and-foot by Ermine, the Clench chicken coop was still standing, and me and none of my buddies had been to jail. What a difference a few short months could make! Esther has a theory that we are all just slipping quietly into old age, and the changes we experienced this summer was just life shaking out some of the wrinkles before we slide on into senility. I sat rocking in my chair, watching her scratch Baker behind the ear, and pondered her theory. She was wrong, of course. We all may be getting older, but as for me anyway, I am far from being old! And I would have told her so, too, if I hadn’t fallen asleep right about then! I woke just before sunup this morning still in the rocker on my front porch. Esther had tucked a quilt around me before she left last night. As the sun came peeking through the pines, I folded the quilt and went inside to put on a pot of coffee. It was going to be a beautiful day, and I needed to be ready for whatever adventures the day might bring.

Rusty Pails #46 The Great Camp Out

by Rocky Macy

We've been camped down by the river for a couple of weeks now. We each brought our own tent out of necessity. Nobody wanted to sleep with Shadetree Mike due to fear that he would talk all night about how awful Ermine had done him, and she had! Judge Redbone has his own tent and didn't invite any of his constituents to share his abode, not that we'd want to anyway. Rumor has it that he gives speeches in his sleep - and kisses babies! He can keep to his own tent! Sharing a tent with Truman Treetopper is out of the question unless you have a gas mask, which none of us did. And Heck Frye and I ain't overly fond of one another, leastways not fond enough to share tight living arrangements. So five tents it was, but Baker and I share. Our little encampment is becoming a jewel in the woods. Heck brought a bunch of Christmas lights and we strung them through the trees. They are hooked onto Heck's generator that also powers our coffee pot and Heck's hair dryer. (He wanted to bring his television, but the cable company refused to run us a wire. I'm sort of glad they didn't. Now instead of vegetating on mindless TV, we sit around the campfire each night and stretch our imaginations by telling tall tales!) We have trails set out and bordered with rocks so we don't get lost at night as we head off to our special trees and bushes - the well fertilized ones! Esther Pearl came by last week and set out some petunias. Ermine also came by trying to make nice with a platter of pastries and a big thermos of fancy coffee. That was appreciated, but we are still mad about the high-handed way that she disabused us of our domino parlor - leastways I'm still good and mad! Our other guest of note was the game warden. He came looking for a gang of fools that had apparently been setting off fireworks late one night. He nosed through most of our stuff while lecturing us on how many years we could spend in jail for setting the woods on fire. Fortunately, he wasn't up to sticking his nose in Truman's tent, so we have enough bottle rockets and Roman candles left for another war game late some night! We haven't had much luck living off the land. Truman and the Judge take their fishing seriously, but all they've pulled in so far are sun perch so small it's amazing that they could have swallowed the bait. Heck found a mulberry tree, but gorging on them caused us to have blue hands and the runs - and mature folks like us can't afford to spend much time running! I go home every evening to feed Annie and the emus, and to check on things. I know that Esther does some checking on my place, too. But that's all right. If she hadn't been conspiring with Ermine, we wouldn't be out here on the riverbank trying to restore Shadetree Mike's self-esteem. It would serve Esther right if we moved our domino game to her store when the weather starts getting cold! Until then...pass me another root beer. I'm on vacation!

Rusty Pails #45: The Return of the King

by Rocky Macy

Shadetree Mike is home! The boys and I were sitting under the big oak across the road from Ermine’s Coffee Bar, enjoying an afternoon game of dominoes, when a big rig pulled up and ejected the Dean of Dominoes and his claptrap suitcase. The trucker didn’t even come to a complete stop. We watched as Mike dusted himself off and picked up his suitcase. He took a long look at the new sign on his old “Pump and Git”, studied the lacy curtains in the clean windows, and then marched inside like he owned the place. Our interest in dominoes was suddenly put on hold. Heck suggested that we start a pool on how long it would take Ermine to show Mike the door. We each pitched in a dollar, and Truman, who had only pitched in an I.O.U., took the pot with his guess of seven minutes. (My dollar was on two minutes, so I was sorely disappointed when Ermine cut him some slack!) We were back into the game by the time Mike ambled across the road, empty-handed, to fill the air with gaseous tales about his trip to California. Heck was the first to acknowledge him. “Hey, Buddy, did the little woman forget to throw your suitcase out with you?” “She’s going to wash my vacation clothes.” “Yeah, so she can take them down to Esther’s place and sell them!” The Judge interjected. Shadetree Mike wasn’t going to get much slack from us! “What do you think about what she’s done to the place?” I ventured as Mike seated himself at the table. “Well, I’ll tell you this, Rusty…there must be twenty or more Sprung Hinge females in there sipping coffee and munching on pastry. I suspect that she’s making good money.” “But she’s destroyed our cultural heritage!” Heck blustered. “We can’t let her get away with that!” “Doesn’t seem to be much we can do about it.” Mike said, much too passively for our liking. “Back when we bought the place her mother, The Duke, put up the cash and insisted that the deed be put in Ermine’s name.” “You mean the place is really her’s!” I sputtered. "Lock, stock, and frilly curtains," he admitted. "But she says I can still live there if I earn my keep." We all shook our heads sadly 'cause we knew that work wasn't Shadetree Mike's strong suit. I guess he read our minds and agreed with our conclusion, because the next thing he said was, "Say, Rusty, I don't guess you'd mind making room for me at your place - just til I get things sorted out with Ermine?" "Yes," I admitted, "I guess I would mind. If you moved in, Baker would move out - and I'd miss her something fierce!" "If push comes to shove," Heck volunteered, "we can set up our tents down at the creek and fish until the weather turns cold. I can wait until spring to finish painting my barn." That made sense. He had already waited several springs to finish that little chore. "That would give you a couple of months to worm your way back into her good graces." "That's right!" I chimed in. "A worm like you ought to be able to move a ton of dirt in two months!" "Good plan!" Mike declared as he jumped to his feet. "We can start by moving my domino table and chairs to the campsite." "Your table!" Judge Redbone exploded. "The table and the chairs will be yours when you cough up the two-hundred-and-ninety-nine dollars and ten cents that we paid for them!" "You boys paid three hundred dollars for this pile of junk!" Mike said in disbelief. "Now I know she's gonna be successful in business!" And he laughed and laughed, but the rest of us didn't join in. It's hard to laugh at a joke when you're the punch line! Leastways, that's how I see it!

Rusty Pails #44 Ermine's Coffee Bar

by Rocky Macy

Shadetree Mike has been on vacation - which is why he wasn't around to help us burn down Gladys Clench's chicken coop. It wasn’t a normal vacation, of course, because Mike never does anything normal. Ermine packed him a bag with flowered shirts and shorts, and plenty of sunscreen, and took him down to Herb’s Truck Oasis. Miss Lola Longtooth, who works for Herb, found a trucker headed to California, and after some forceful negotiation on Ermine’s part, the trucker headed west with Mike in tow. I got a postcard saying that his ride had ditched him on the west coast. (I was surprised that he had been able to put up with Shadetree Mike all the way to the coast!) Mike said that as soon as he got a few things straightened out in California, he was going to hitchhike back to Spring Hinge. That was four weeks ago. Mike’s prolonged absence gave Ermine time to get some things done at the Pump and Git, which was the point of her evil plan all along. The first thing Ermine did was to have a sale. I never miss a sale, and I wasn’t about to miss this one. What kind of friend would I be if some of Mike’s treasures wound up in the hands of strangers? But surely, I thought, Ermine wouldn’t dishonor her man by selling off his unreplaceables! Wrong! The first thing to hit the auction block was our domino table, six rickety chairs, and Mike’s favorite set of well-worn dominoes. My face got red and I was shaking. This was personal! How could she sell something that had served as the launching pad of Sprung Hinge shenanigans for more years than I cared to remember? The crowd was in shock, and the auctioneer, Colonel Basil Ironweed Peppercorn, looked and sounded like he was about to cry as he called for an opening bid of fifty cents. Fifty cents! It wasn’t just Shadetree Mike being dishonored, it was every semi-retired, domino-loving, tall-tale-telling, root beer-swigging, adventuresome male in the community! It was an outrage! “One dollar!” I shouted. (Fifty cents, indeed!) “I have a bid of one dollar,” Colonel Peppercorn roared. “Who’ll give me two?” “Ten,” snapped Esther Pearl. Ten! Ten for that old thing? Why one leg didn’t even match! I quickly checked my wallet. “Twenty-five!” I’d show Esther a thing or two about messing with history and the social order of things! “Thirty,” she announced, before the Colonel could even ask for another bid. “Thirty!” I shouted. “For that old thing?” Esther gave me a sweet smile and a look that said “Put up or shut up.” “Going once for thirty dollars,” Colonel Peppercorn said solemnly. “Going twice…” I rechecked my wallet and the pockets of my overalls. “Thirty-seven dollars and fourteen cents.” “Forty.” Esther was being plum nonchalant about breaking me. My buddies began showing up to help. After shaking down Truman I was able to raise the bid to forty-six dollars and eleven cents. “Fifty,” Ester said calmly. Something smelled fishy, and I knew that I should cut bait, but my pride was at stake and she was bidding on my cultural inheritance. Heck was better healed than Truman and me, and I was able to jump the bid to one hundred and sixty-three dollars and a dime. It had been expensive, but that would settle Ms. Pearl’s hash! “One hundred and seventy-five dollars,” Esther replied, still smiling sweetly. I thought I was having a stroke! That crazy woman had done broke me and two of my buddies over a wobbly table and an old set of dominoes! Just as I was about to collapse and interrupt the sale with a medical emergency, Judge Rufus T. Redbone rushed up and handed me a roll of bills. “It’s all I got, Rusty. Make her pay, buddy! Make her pay!” Nobody moved and nobody spoke. After carefully counting out the Judge’s contribution, I smugly announced my final bid. “Two hundred and ninety-nine dollars and ten cents!” If Esther was intent on hijacking our heritage, it would cost her three bills! Everyone turned to Esther. Ester turned to Ermine who was smiling from ear-to-ear. Ermine shook her head no, and Esther smiled across the crowd at me and said, “You’ve beat me fair and square, Rusty. Enjoy your high-priced entertainment center.” She started laughing, and you know how laughter tends to spread. The only four people at the auction who weren’t busting a gut laughing carefully moved our table across the road under the big oak and proceeded to have a game of dominoes. There wasn’t any point in staying at the sale because none of us had any money! Over the next few days Ermine proceeded to fumigate and paint the Pump and Git from top to bottom. The comfortable old dirty green walls were suddenly mauve and tangerine. And then the men came to put down the carpet. Carpet! We all knew that Shadetree Mike was going to have a world class conniption fit when he got back and saw how Ermine had ruined the ambience that it had taken Mike years to create. But it didn’t end there! A few days later the soft-serve yogurt machine arrived, and before it was up and running, an espresso machine was also being installed. Then came the little bistro tables and their fancy little wrought iron chairs with padded seats that looked like bloated peppermints. And the tables had table cloths, and the windows, clean for the first time ever, had lacy curtains. The boys and I didn’t have to be told that we weren’t welcome to sit around the old Pump and Git and play dominoes anymore. Our old resting place had disappeared, and in its place, according to the new sign in the window, was Ermine’s Coffee Bar! And through its door Sprung Hinge women come and go, talking of Michaelangelo. Shadetree Mike will be home any day, and we’re all anxious to see how he handles this. We’ll be watching from our domino table – across the road and under the big oak!

Rusty Pails #43: The Ruby Bee Caper (Part 6 - Conclusion)

by Rocky Macy

The first thing that I noticed as I pulled up to Gladys’s was that construction was already underway on her chicken mansion. The concrete floor had been poured and the framing was up. It was going to be quite a place. Those girls would be living in style! Henry ambled out to meet me as I got out of the truck, and I handed over the baloney sandwich that I had packed for him. I followed him up to the back porch and was working up my nerve to knock when I noticed a sign pinned to the screen door: “Gentlemen Callers Please Report to the Front Door.” It was going to be one of those nights! I knocked timidly at the front door, hoping that she might not hear me and I could convince the Judge that I had made an honest attempt. But my luck had been rotten since the night we burned down her chicken coop, and it wasn’t about to get better tonight. Old bat ears, who could hear a mouse fart at fifty feet, swung open the door and clamped onto my arm with the gentle clasp of a bear trap and pulled me into her lair. “Why, Mr. Pails has come a-courting – and he’s brought me a corsage!” She jerked the flower away from me with one hand, and pushed me onto her sofa with the other. Normally my fight-or-flight instinct would have kicked in at that point, but the room was smothered in a smell of fresh-baked coconut pie that left me paralyzed. Gladys sashayed around the room making sure that I got a good look at the new dress she was wearing and then left for the kitchen. She came back with a tray that held a root beer for me, with a glass of ice, and a coffee for her. She seated herself on the couch next to me and then commenced to pouring my root beer over the ice. "What about the pie?" I asked. "That's for later." Then as I settled in for a cold drink, she pinned the corsage on herself. I hate to admit it, but with the new dress, the new hair do, and the corsage – she didn’t look half bad. Maybe I could make it through the evening after all. Gladys opened the passenger door and let herself into my truck, saving me the anguish of doing it for her. She looked as though she wanted to scoot across the seat and cuddle up next to me, but a convenient fresh oil stain in the middle of the seat kept her snuggled up next to the passenger door. Mama Pails didn't raise no fools! Gladys 'suggested' that we drive to the city and visit a new French restaurant that she had heard about. It was a long drive, but it was that much more time that I could stare at the highway and not at her. When we finally pulled up to Chez Bob's, I commented that the parking lot looked awfully full and there probably would be a long wait. Gladys said not to worry because she had called ahead that afternoon for a reservation. Chez Bob's is one of those fancy places where the only lighting comes from the candles on the tables. Under other circumstances, it might even be considered romantic, but not tonight. The low lighting served to keep customers from reading the prices on the menu or getting a good look at what they were eating. Gladys ordered something that I couldn't even pronounce, and told the waiter to bring her a nice glass of red wine. When she saw me wince, she said, "Oh, what the heck - bring the whole bottle!" Her meal turned out to be pot roast with mushrooms and green beans. I have to admit that it made my French toast and French fries look mighty puny. Gladys got a good buzz going from the wine. As we were pulling out of the parking lot, she had the passenger window rolled down and was singing, "Mademoiselle from Armentieres...parley-vous!" to the people lined up and waiting to eat..."parley-vous!" Ten miles back toward Sprung Hinge she was still feeling no pain as I pulled into the VFW Hall. "Up for a little dancing?" I asked. She was. We Texas-Two-Stepped around the glorified quanset hut two times, before I led my date to a table. I wiped the sweat from my brow and settled down to a cold root beer. I barely had the first bottle down when a handsome young man approached our table and asked Gladys to dance. The name sewn on the fool's shirt pocket was Hank. Gladys was dee-lighted to be whisked away by the young stud. Thirty minutes later when they made it back to the table, Gladys was smiling like a cat full of canaries. She reached for her purse and pulled out the form that the Judge had given her. She quickly signed my freedom papers and passed them over to me. "Rusty," she said coyly, "you are free to go. Hunk will be taking me home." I wanted to tell her that she was old enough to be "Hunk's" mother, but more than that I just wanted to get out of there with my virtue in tact. Even so, I found myself stammering, "What about my pie?" "I'm sorry, Rusty, but I have plans for that pie - and they don't include you!" I'll bet she had plans. I slowly made my way to the door, pretending to be mortally wounded. As I stepped out into the cool evening air, I turned and handed a fifty dollar bill to Hank who was right behind me. "Thanks, Uncle Rusty," he said. "I almost hate to take your money. She's a lot of fun!" "To each his own, Nephew. To each his own." He went back in to dance the night away, and I headed home - pie-less, but virtuous. It had been quite a night! Hinky, dinky, parley-vous!

Rusty Pails #42: The Ruby Bee Caper (Part 5)

by Rocky Macy

I served nineteen days in the Sprung Hinge jail, certain that Judge Leonidas T. Redbone would change his mind about his awful plans for me. But Hizzoner, knowing that torture was fine at the national level, stood firm in his plans to torture me. Esther Pearl continued to stop by jail every evening to offer me comfort and moral support. “Serve’s you right, you durned fool!” She cooed. “If you ask me, you’re getting off easy!” (Well, I hadn’t asked her, but that had never stopped her before, and it wasn’t going to stop her now.) On day nineteen I had a personal visit from the Judge. He informed me that the county was going to start selling off my belongings to pay for my “jail vacation.” It was then that I swallowed my pride, like a hunk of bad baloney, and told him that I would take Gladys on a date – but he couldn’t make me like it! “You don’t have to like it, Rusty,” he said, “but she does. I’m giving her a form to sign saying that the date was satisfactory. If Miss Clench ain’t happy with her big night out, it’s back to jail for you!” So things were set up for Saturday night. Esther came by that afternoon with her barber kit and a suit that she bought at the funeral home’s yard sale. My co-conspirators, feeling guilty for causing me so much grief, also came by to help. Heck and Judge Redbone (the stupid one, not the sadist) detailed my old pick-up and had her sparkling like never before. Truman drifted out to town and came back later with a boutonnière and a corsage. Turns out that the ladies in the flower shop donated them free if Truman promised to leave and not come back! Esther sent me back to the tub twice before she was satisfied that I was fit to wear the suit. As soon as I got my longhandles on, she hustled me out into the kitchen and proceeded to give me a manicure which I didn’t like, but tolerated. It was when she grabbed my foot and started trying to pedicure me that I drew the line. “Leave my toes alone! There ain’t no way that Gladys is going to see my feet!” “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” Somehow I knew that Esther was enjoying my suffering. “She’s right, Rusty.” Heck looked up from shining my best work boots and continued, “Gladys is a mighty determined woman!” “She’s out to assault your bachelorhood,” the Judge chimed in. “It’s a good thing there ain’t none of them all night wedding parlors around Sprung Hinge.” I tried to get up and start swinging, but Esther pushed me back down on the kitchen chair. “You just stay still!” Esther was pulling out her barbering clippers that looked suspiciously like the ones she uses to groom her goats. “I’ve still got to cut and grease your hair.” “Ain’t no need for that,” I declared. “I’m going to wear Heck’s!” Heck, afraid that I was serious, backed up so fast that he tripped over Baker and fell backward out the door. Baker refused to allow him back in the house after that stunt, so he had to finish shining my work boots on the back porch. Fifteen minutes before I was supposed to pick Gladys up, Esther doused me with lilac water and handed me the box containing the corsage. Then, in a solemn procession, my friends walked me out to my shiny pick-up truck. Before I got in Esther gave me a quick course on manners. “Be sure to tell her she looks lovely.” “Fat chance,” I grumbled. Gladys Clench is many things, but lovely ain’t on the list! “And if she asks you to pin on the corsage, don’t stick her,” Esther said. “And my girlfriends think is especially nice when I open the truck door and help them in and out,” Heck said. “And don’t blow your nose at the table,” the Judge chimed in. “And if you do,” Esther continued, “use the napkin and not the table cloth. As I drove off down the lane, I glanced in the side mirror and looked back at the group standing in my yard. Would I survive the horrors that surely awaited me this night? Was the good life that I had enjoyed all these years about to come to an end? And, most important, what did those laughing fools standing in my back yard think was so danged funny?

Rusty Pails #41 The Ruby Bee Caper (Part 4)

by Rocky Macy

A lot has happened over the last two weeks. Our gang managed to burn the Clench chicken coop to the ground, but we were able to save all of the hens. Gladys said, through her lawyer, that most of them “ain’t right” and may require therapy if they are to resume laying eggs. 

The fire brought out the sheriff, the paddy wagon, fire trucks from three communities, and every durned fool from fifty miles around. The Sprung Hinge Sewing Circle and Bucket Brigade hauled out their Weenie Wagon and made several hundred dollars selling food and drinks to the on-lookers. 

We were arrested, of course, which safely removed us from the wrath of Gladys and her shotgun, and Judge Leonidas T. Redbone (a real judge, unlike his cousin the road commissioner “judge” – who was now a defendant in one of the most heinous local crimes on record - ruled that we were to remain in jail until we could produce a plan to build Gladys a new coop. 

 Rebuilding the chicken coop could have been a major problem because Gladys’ nephew, an architect, drew up plans for a new henhouse that would make a big city Madam blush. As luck would have it though, the money issue took care of itself because our movie won the big bucks. The Hollywood people said it was the funniest arson film of the whole season. They especially liked the climax with us pitching hens out the doors and windows of the coop, and Gladys trying to beat each of us with her shotgun as we fled the fiery inferno. They also liked the part where Gladys snatched Heck by the hair and it came off in her hand! 

 Judge Redbone (the real judge) dragged us all into Court again last Wednesday and demanded that we sign our movie proceeds over to Gladys. If we didn’t, he assured us, we would rot in jail. We all signed, eager to get on with our lives - and three of us were released. “Rusty Pails,” the Judge thundered, “since you are obviously the leader of this dastardly crew, I’m imposing an extra requirement for your release.” 

“But, Judge,” I began to beg, “It wasn’t me. I was just sitting at home minding my own business when my buddies hatched this addle-pated scheme. I’m a victim of circumstance!” 

“Nonsense, Rusty. Miss Clench is the victim. Your evil plan caused her to lose a perfectly good henhouse.” 

“And we’re replacing it with a palace!” I self-righteously pointed out. 

The Judge was having none of it. “And because you had the audacity to lead your friends astray, I’ve asked Miss Clench to feel free to set an extra requirement for your release.” 

 “Leon!”  I screamed.  “Don’t do it!” 

“Miss Clench?” The Judge nodded solemnly toward Gladys who was parked on the front row. As Gladys rose to speak, I stood dumfounded watching my life flash before my eyes. 

 “Your Honor,” she said, with killer sweetness, “I would consider the account settled if Mr. Pails would take me out to dinner and dancing. Then we could go back to my place for dessert.” 

I woke up back in my cell. Apparently after hearing Gladys’ demand, I fell to the floor and began howling and slobbering like a hydro-phobic dog. They had to clear the courthouse until the vet arrived and shot me with his tranquilizer gun. Esther comes by every evening and brings Baker to visit. I’ve begged her to bring a gun to the jail and help me escape – or shoot me – but she tells me that I just need to “man-up” and do what the Judge ordered. It may come to that, but for the time being I’m going to stay in jail and wait on a miracle. Maybe those guys in Hollywood will offer a prize for the best jail escape movie. That might entice my buddies to rescue me. On second thought, they probably wouldn’t be able to get a plan together without their “leader!” What I wouldn’t give for a cold root beer – and a hacksaw!

Rusty Pails #40 The Ruby Bee Caper (Part 3)

by Rocky Macy

Ruby Bee is a big, fat hen, and she’s not just any hen. She is Gladys Clench’s champion Rhode Island Red, known far and wide for consistently laying the rich double-yolkers that are the not-so-secret ingredient to Gladys’s blue-ribbon pies. Ruby Bee is as admired as Gladys is feared! Our plan, if you could call it a plan, was to snatch Ruby Bee out of the Clench coop, spirit her away to a secret location, and hold her for ransom. My initial role in this criminal activity was to pull out my old Underwood typewriter and peck out the ransom note. After everyone got in their two-cents worth, this was the end product:

Gladys, We have your fat chicken. If you want her back you will need to bring four warm homemade pies (coconut, lemon meringue, strawberry-rhubarb, and chocolate cream) to the picnic table farthest from the road at the state park at eight o’clock tonight – and then go home. Your fowl will be returned to you by special courier – if the pies are worthy. If you fail to pay the ransom, or try to poison us, she will be returned to you as chicken salad! In order to keep any nosey truckers away from our pies, you are to wear your plaid bloomers, chartreuse bowling shirt, and your hair in pin curls when you make the delivery. Any deviation from the terms of this note will have dire consequences! Yours truly, Four Desperate Men

The real reason that we wanted her to show up in her bloomers was so that we could film her from a hidden camera. Our director thought that would make an artsy ending for our movie. It was getting on toward midnight by the time I finished the ransom note. Heck and Truman had come up with an empty burlap feed bag and a couple of kerosene lanterns, and the Judge had completed reading the parts of the camera’s instruction booklet that dealt with taking low-light movies. I quickly threw together a bologna sandwich and stuffed it into my emptiest pocket. It was time to get the show on the road! Things pretty well come to a stop around Sprung Hinge when the sun goes down, and if anyone is out running the roads late at night, they are probably up to no good. Fortunately that described us and only us, and we made it to Gladys’ lane without any pesky witnesses. Heck turned the truck around and backed into the lane. He killed the lights, turned off the engine, and put the truck in neutral. We were able to coast down the lane until we reached the edge of the yard, just feet from the chicken coop. Our get-away vehicle was headed toward the highway, ready for a speedy retreat! Judge Redbone got his camera cranked up and began filming the rest of us as we made ready to commit Grand Theft Chicken. Heck and Truman were lighting the lanterns while I dealt with the Clench security system. That system was Henry, Gladys’ Russian Wolfhound. He ambled over to the ragtag team of trespassers, stuck his long snout in my pocket, and retrieved the sandwich. After taking a minute to pee on Truman’s leg, Henry made his way back over to the porch and laid down to enjoy his late-night snack. The Judge was the first one into the coop so that he could film the rest of us as we entered. I stepped in next with a lantern, being careful not to make any undue noise and wake the sleeping hens. Heck followed me in with the burlap bag, and Truman was the last one through the door. He was standing just inside the doorway and concentrating on shaking his leg in an effort to dry the gift that Henry left on his coveralls. Gladys had about three dozen hens. Some were asleep in nesting boxes, while others were roosting on railings that were placed there for that purpose. The Judge panned the hen house interior with his movie camera, before focusing in on the large nesting box in the corner where Sprung Hinge’s most famous fowl was happily dreaming of fat bugs and earthworms. It was starting to look like we could pull this crime off, but our confidence was to be short-lived. Heck, bag in hand, moved over to the queen’s box and was gently lifting her out. We all shuffled in closer, providing a good group shot for the Judge. Ruby Bee, waking suddenly to a coop full of criminals, began with a squawk that could wake the dead two counties over, and the other three dozen hens took up the chorus. Henry, having finished eating, took the opportunity to change teams and began baying. Even with all of the commotion, we might have still made good on our escape. But when Gladys’ shotgun blasted through the bedlam, Truman dropped his lantern and set the coop on fire! Things were starting to heat up!

Rusty Pails #39 The Ruby Bee Caper (Part 2)

by Rocky Macy

After scribbling down the details for where to mail our movie, we adjourned to the kitchen to plan our small-time crime (and to be closer to the ice chest!). Heck and the Judge each took seats at the ends of my kitchen table thinking that would highlight their leadership of this adventure. I sat on one side, and directed Truman to the side nearest the back door in case he had a catastrophic eruption.

Heck called the meeting to order, and he promptly announced that he would be the director of this film. Judge Redbone almost knocked his root beer and mine off of the table as he shot straight up out of his chair and thundered, in a magisterial voice, “Sez who?”

“Sez me!” Heck shot back. “I’ve been to more movies than anyone here. Why, I have a reserved space on the back row at the Beau Jacks Drive-In!”

“Playing kissie-face with some bored waitress ain’t exactly like going to film school,” I pointed out.

“Rusty Pails, my waitresses ain’t never bored!” It seemed that I had inadvertently bruised Heck’s dignity.

The Judge was still standing, like a Roman candle waiting to shoot off another round. “It’s my camera, so I’m the director – and the producer – and the cameraman!”

“Then I’m the star,” Heck said.

“What qualifies you to be the star of our movie?” I asked, quite innocently.

“That should be obvious. I have the best hair.”

“You bought that hair out of a catalogue!”

“Doesn’t make any difference where it came from,” Heck snapped. “It’s still the best hair at this table!”

Judge Redbone opened two more root beers and sat down. He pushed one over to me. It was going to be a long night!

I took a slow sip out of the fresh bottle. “Okay, so you’re the star. Just remember, this has to be about small-time crime, so you’ll be the star criminal!” Then, anticipating the star’s next demand, I added, “And we split the ten grand equally – four ways!” It looked like I had become the gang’s business manager.

The next order of business was to plan the crime. Truman was in favor of the four of us streaking through the next meeting of the Sprung Hinge Sewing Circle and Bucket Brigade. "No can do,” said Judge Redbone, vetoing the plan. “The cameraman can’t be running around naked while he’s filming.” (Unspoken was the group’s suspicion that the Judge maintained his boyish physique with the aid of a girdle!)

“And what if we got caught?” Heck asked. “Would any of us really want to be strapped to the top of Gladys Clench’s Nash Rambler and hauled out of town like a trophy deer? Nekked?”

The Judge thought that particular ending would have great cinematic appeal, but I thought it was just plain terrifying!

We should have stopped right there, but the idea of focusing our mayhem on Gladys Clench had entered our collective psyche, and we were too weak to fight it off. Not surprisingly, along about the time the last round of root beer had been served, one fella mumbled, quite innocently and almost inaudibly, “Maybe we should kidnap Ruby Bee.”

Heck Frye jumped up and raised his bottle high. “I second Rusty’s motion!” Before I could clear my throat to withdraw my semi-coherent mumbling, Judge Redbone and Truman were also standing with their bottles saluting their host’s stupidity!

It was going to be a very long night indeed!

Rusty Pails #38: The Ruby Bee Caper (Part 1)

by Rocky Macy

I hate being in jail, especially when I didn’t have control of the events that brought me here. As per usual, I am the victim of my friends and their harebrained schemes.

It began last night when I had Heck and Truman over to my place for beanie weenies – and root beer – lots of root beer! I was busy doing the dishes, Truman was on his third or fourth trip to the bathroom, and Heck was asleep in front of some shoot-em-up on television when Baker set to howling. She’s my doorbell. I made it through the front room and pulled the door open just as Judge Rufus T. Redbone was preparing to knock.

“Rusty, I’ve come to show you what the Missus got me for my birthday!” He said as he pushed his way past me and followed his nose through the front room and into the kitchen.

I made my way back to the sink, resisting the urge to ask the scalawag “Whose Missus?” As I concentrated on the dishes I heard the Judge dishing up some beanie weenies. “So,” I finally asked, “What did she get you for your birthday.”

“Look at me,” he ordered. I turned and found the political fool pointing a small, black gadget in my direction. “Smile, and say something profound.”

“So which is it,” I asked. “A tape recorder or a camera?”

“Both,” he shouted almost gleefully. “It’s a video recorder. A movie camera!”

Fat chance. It was smaller than my Brownie Hawkeye! “Put that toy up and eat your beanie weenies so I can finish the dishes. There’s root beer in the ice chest.”

Heck was beginning to stir by the time we finished up in the kitchen. The Judge plopped his behind down in my recliner before I could get to it, so I dragged a kitchen chair in for my behind. The Judge was in the middle of a long dissertation on what his amazing movie camera could do when Truman came walking back from the john. (Truman can’t handle beanies or weenies, and the root beer just aggravated his brewing dyspepsia beyond human tolerance! We all knew to keep him away from open flames when he was in this state!)

Truman parked his skinny behind down in my only other comfortable chair (besides the sofa and the recliner) and the television channel immediately changed. As Truman reached down in under himself to fish out the remote, we were all treated to some toothy, slicked-up announcer telling us that we too could win $10,000 and a trip to Hollywood, California, for a family of four just for making a wacky home movie. This week’s theme, he grinned, had to be small-time crime.

The plug had hit the water and four suckers were fixing to bite!

Rusty Pails #37: The Hornet's Nest

by Rocky Macy

On those rare occasions when I need any of my tools, I head straight over to Heck Frye’s place to “re-borrow” them. It rained last night, and now that I knew where the new leaks in my roof were, I felt obligated to fix them. My ladder, of course, was at Heck’s.

Heck has been painting his barn for about three years, and it is nearly half-finished. I ain’t saying that he’s lazy, because saying that would demean the word “lazy.” Heck just works at his own pace, which most days is just a tad north of dead!

“It’s out behind the barn, Rusty.” He said as we headed out through the weeds toward is multi-colored barn. Somehow I knew that my expensive, twenty-four foot, solid aluminum, extension ladder would be outside in the weather.

I was watching the ground, looking for snakes of other earth-bound varmints in the weeds, as we stepped around to the backside of the barn. He must have been focused on his feet as well, because neither of us had the sense to look up.

As we reached the ladder, Heck grabbed it and tried to lower the extension. “It’s stuck. Give me a hand here, Rusty.” I grabbed onto the ladder to help, but just as I did a little
panicky voice in my head asked why a perfectly good ladder should be stuck to the barn.

Heck and I looked up at the same time. There, fifteen feet or so directly above our heads, was a two-gallon hornet’s nest cementing the top of the ladder to the barn. We could see dozens of mad hornets launching out of the nest and heading straight toward us!

“Run, fool!” We yelled in unison. I headed right, Heck fled left, and we collided in front of the barn. The hornets were still bombing us!

“The house!” Heck Screamed.

“My truck’s closer!” I screamed back.

We flung ourselves into the cab of my old pickup, the Rust Bucket, and took stock of our situation. I had taken on hit on the arm, and a know that a rattlesnake bite would have been less painful! Heck had been stung on the arm and the lip. His lip was already beginning to swell. He wouldn’t be doing much romancing for a while!

I started up the truck and headed off toward town. As we passed my place, Heck finally asked where we were headed.

“Hardware store!” I snapped angrily. “I’ve gotta get me a ladder!”

“Rusty, you’ve got a perfectly good ladder at my place. Don’t you think that buying a new one is kind of an extravagance?”

“I’m not buying it, buddy. You are!”

Heck had the good sense not to argue – probably because he could see that I was madder than a hornet!

Rusty Pails #36: Queenie Finds a Home

by Rocky Macy

Living in the country ain’t all sunshine and roses. There’s plenty thorns in the greenery, and I usually manage to find most of them! One thing about country life that particularly galls me is the propensity of stray critters that come ambling down my lane. It seems that when people get tired of their pets, they dump them out in the country so they can lead idyllic lives in some sylvan dell.

I’ve had more than my fair share of strays show up on my doorstep. Generally I feed them and then try to find them a home. Sometimes I wind up taking them to the local animal shelter and pay the fees that their original owners avoided by bringing them to me. Baker, who was in labor when she arrived at my back door, was already part of my family by the time her thirteen puppies were ready for new homes, so she stayed. I also kept Shadetree Mike’s calf, Annie, because he had the courtesy to ask if he could dump her on me – and also because Baker took a shine to her.

But no more! I have taken a vow that I will no longer care for other people’s castoffs. Old Rusty is done with being a welcome mat! Well, at least I was until yesterday afternoon.

It was getting late, and I had fallen asleep in my lawn chair while watering my small garden. My old hose has developed a few leaks over the years, probably because I keep forgetting to take it in during the winter. At the time that I nodded off, a couple of those leaks began to fill a big depression in my driveway.

I was dreaming about making the world’s most delicious Rustwich when a drumming sound began to weave itself into my dream. Knowing that it was about time to go in and start supper, I lazily propped open an eye to see who was beating the tom-tom. There, staring back at me at eye level, were two soft brown eyes and a big beak.

I was suddenly wide awake staring at a monster bird who was plopped down and lounging lazily in the lake that my leaky hose had made. As I struggled to get out of my chair, I fell over backwards. Then fighting my way out of the chair, I managed to trip the trigger on the hose and wound up giving myself a good soaking!

I ran toward the barn with the lawn chair in one hand and the hose in the other. When I thought that I might be safely out of reach, I glanced over my shoulder and saw that the big bird was still enjoying her bath.

Baker showed up about that time, better late than never, and quickly assessed the situation. She ambled over to the monster bird as though it was the most normal thing in the world to find bathing in your driveway. After taking a leisurely stroll around our visitor, Baker decided to gather more information by sticking her nose where most dogs do when they want to strike up a friendship.

That did it! The bird, all six feet of her, jumped up and looked way down on the bothersome dog. I could tell that one swift kick from those mighty legs would send poor Baker flying over the house. The bird really cranked up her noisy chest thumping, Baker began a low growl, and Old Rusty backed up even further. The stand-off was broken when Baker began barking. The bird turned and let Baker direct her toward the gate to the pasture. When she stopped to scoop up a couple of my cherry tomatoes, I rushed over and opened the gate. After a little more direction from Baker, our visitor lumbered into the pasture and I closed the gate behind her.

Today I learned that my new freeloader is an emu. Several years ago people were going to get rich by raising emus, but when that didn’t happen, some turned theirs loose. And, like every other neglected soul in these parts, this one found her way to my house!

I’m calling her Queenie, but the next time the vet is out this way I’ll find out if I need to change the name to King. She is very gentle and likes to be sprayed with the hose, and she has already cleaned out all of the cherry tomatoes within a neck’s reach of the pasture fence. But the best part is that Queenie is quickly bonding with Annie and Baker. If old Rusty can have his friends, I reckon other critters should be able to have theirs!

Rusty Pails #35 The Pearl Jam

by Rocky Macy

Every spring Esther Pearl drafts me to run her junk shop while she hightails it off to her family reunion – the Pearl Jam. This year was no exception. Her cousin-fueled catastrophes generally run from Friday through Sunday, and by the time they are over, Esther and I are both ready for a break.

I arrived on Friday morning just in time to help Esther stow her last suitcase into the big trunk of her Edsel. I couldn’t help but notice that there were two other suitcases of equal heft already in the trunk.

“Esther,” I laughed. “I wouldn’t wear that many clothes in a year!”

“A girl’s got to be prepared, Rusty. Besides, you ain’t got that many clothes.”

Well, she had me there. I could put my whole wardrobe in a grocery bag and still have room for a six pack of root beer!

Esther turned to give me marching orders as she was about to drive off. “Rusty,” she said, starting the engine. “Don’t rearrange stuff like you did last year. Junk ain’t supposed to be alphabetical.”

“That was Heck’s doing,” I protested.”

“And no loafers. This here’s a business.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, snapping a salute. If Shadetree Mike and the boys wanted to move the domino game over here, they wouldn’t technically be loafing. “Anything else?” Stupid question!

“And no more bartering! I darned near never got rid of that pair of goats that you traded for last year.”

“They were worth more than that old sofa.”

“Maybe,” she conceded. “But that sofa never ate my best rosebushes or head-butted the mailman.”

“No more goats. Check. Is that it?” I was spitting out stupid questions faster than Judge Redbone could kiss babies!

“Nope,” Esther replied. “There’s a fresh pot of coffee and a bucket of chili simmering on the stove – for you and all of the loafers that ain’t gonna be here.”

“And root beer?”

“A case for every day that I’ll be gone. What type of hostess do you take me for, anyway?”

“The best, Esther. The very best!”

Auction Tip: Examine every item before the bidding starts. Bargains aren’t accidents.

Rusty Pails #34 Shadetree Mike's Grand Plan

by Rocky Macy

When Shadetree Mike works up a sweat, it’s usually from exercising his imagination.

Last week the domino discourse at the Pump and Git was interrupted by Mike’s sudden pronouncement that he was making plans for his retirement. (Ermine, as she raised one of Mike’s feet to make a pass with her mop, responded that if Mike gets any more “retired,” she’s sending for the undertaker.) Mike ignored his Bread-and-Butter with a skill that can only come with decades of practice, and proceeded to tell the group about a business venture that he was considering for his golden years.

“The future,” declared Mike to everyone except his Missus, “ain’t in the stock market, it’s in the flea market.”

Mike’s sort of like a pet volcano, liable to pop off at any time and spew most anything. The folks at the domino table are so used to his surprises that this latest blast barely caused a ripple in the conversation.

Mike persisted. “I’ve been thinking about what this country needs, really needs, and I’ve decided flea markets are the answer!”

“Why’s that, Mike?” Some fool asked.

“Because, Rusty, they’re fun places to shop.” Mike leisurely dominoed as he continued. “The people that go to flea markets don’t know what they’re looking for, and they usually buy plenty of it.

“Granted. But Sprung Hinge already has three flea markets and Esther’s Pearls and Swine.” Despite knowing better, my interest was starting to percolate. “What’s yours going to have that the others don’t?”

“You’re thinking too ordinary, Rusty. I’m not talking about just one flea market. I’m fixing to open a chain. We’ll clean out every yard sale and auction in the country and stock our shelves with America’s finest seconds.”

I couldn’t help noticing that the venture had expanded subtly from “I” to “we”. “What’s my part in this operation going to be, Mike?”

“Why, Rusty Pails, you’ll be our chief buyer. Our stores will be filled with the treasures that you drag in from the sales.

“And what will we call our chain?”

“Flea Mart!”

I knew that he wasn’t serious all along. Where would Ermine find time to run a chain store? And me? I’m just going to walk my old trails and leave chain stores to the folks who haven’t learned to do the sales!

Auction tip: If you’re planning on paying for auction purchases by check, let the cashier know before you do any bidding. Taking a few minutes to learn the rules of payment might save a big embarrassment later in the day.

Rusty Pails #33 The Brunt of the Storm

by Rocky Macy

Heck Frye’s got a lot of good qualities - leastways, two or three – but dependability ain’t one of them. Just look at the catastrophe he nearly caused by driving me to the auction last Saturday.

The fact that it was fixing to storm caught everyone by surprise. As people were scurrying to pay off their purchases and hit the road, I noticed with a sudden panic that Heck was nowhere to be seen. To make matters worse, I spied Gladys Clench smiling across the crowd in my direction and waving her car keys!

I cautiously circled the group that remained, attempting to keep Gladys in my sights and at a safe distance. Try as I might, I couldn’t find nary a one of my cronies! Heck had probably slipped back into Sprung Hinge to entertain the new waitress at the “Spit and Whittle,” but that didn’t excuse the rest of the gang from not being there when on of the troops was in imminent danger! Hope was fading fast, when, all at once, Fate rolled into the picture.

“Now here’s a classic! The auctioneer bragged as he wheeled out a bicycle that could have been used by Gramma Pinkins when she started school. “Who will start the bidding at five dollars?”

“Ten!” I yelled.

Gladys Clench ain’t the smartest person in town, but even she could figure out what I was up to.

“Fifteen,” she chirped merrily.

“Twenty!” I shot back.

Gladys, with her innocent smile pasted firmly in place, tried to pound me into submission. “Fifty dollars!”

The few people who were left had taken root as they watch the insane bidding duel. “Seventy-five,” I thundered. “I need that bike!”

“One hundred,” she answered. “So do I!”

Reaching down into my overalls, I pulled out my wallet and took inventory of my finances. Seventeen dollars and twenty-three cents coupled with four grocery coupons was the best I could muster, and I was saving those coupons for Truman. Under normal circumstances, that stake would have bought at least two bicycles like the one that was on the block, but not today. It was time to start walking.

As I turned to leave I was almost run down by Heck Frye and his wandering truck. “Get in, pal,” he yelled. It’s fixing to storm!”

“I know,” I laughed, looking back at an angry Gladys who was counting out her money to the sale clerk, “but we’ve got plenty of time. The brunt of the storm’s riding in on a bicycle!”

Auction tip: If you can’t use it, you don’t need it.

Rusty Pails #32 More Work for Ermine

by Rocky Macy

“These days everything’s a bargain,” according to Shadetree Mike, “because by the time you get it home the price has gone up.” As always, the Dean of Dominoes is right on the mark…prices generally don’t go down.

That’s why Mike and I both make our major purchases on the used market. Seconds cost less than new merchandise, and if you shop shrewdly, used will appreciate.

I watched Mike in operation at a sale this past weekend. Mike stood quietly by as the auctioneer commenced working his way up and over the mountain of musty memories. Esther Pearl snagged the curtains, hand towels, and yarn. After she pulled her plunder, I found a postcard album that promised a full afternoon of quiet enjoyment. As other members of Sprung Hinge’s smart shopping cadre picked off their prizes, I began to wonder just what it was that Shadetree Mike was after.

It wasn’t long until I had my answer. There, buried beneath one last box of National Geographics and six or eight coats of different colored paints, sat a remarkably sturdy oak kitchen table. Not top of the line material, but a piece that could be restored with a small investment of stripper, glue, and elbow grease.

Truman Treetopper, who likes bidding but avoids buying, bid seventy-five cents and hurried on to the next pile. Esther and I smiled and stayed quiet. (After all, Shadetree Mike hadn’t bid up our purchases.) Some of the others sense a bargain, but Mike still managed to walk away with his gem-in-the-rough at a very reasonable price.

Somewhere today, probably out behind the Pump and Git, Ermine is busy restoring an oak table that will support elbows and dominoes for years to come. And the next time that old table surfaces at a sale, it will wear an expensive label like “antique” or “primitive” … and Mike will have proved his point!

Auction Tip: When something that you were interested in gets sold in a group of several items, step up and the winning bidder if he will sell you what you wanted. The other bidder may have been after something entirely different.

Rusty Pails #31 The Invitation

by Rocky Macy

The Ladies of the Sprung Hinge Sewing Circle and Bucket Brigade have done it again! Just when I think I’ve fought the final battle in defense of my bachelorhood, some “Desperate Dora” rides out from the ranch and tries to rope old Rusty into the tight, unrelenting, bonds of matrimony.

I was at a four-family yard sale a few days back checking out the pre-owned overalls. After picking out a pair that was in better repair than myself, I turned to pay for my purchase and came nose-to-nose with Hazel Harness. Hazel, a matronly type who always smells suspiciously of hot, home-baked bread, seized the initiative and my wrist in one swift motion.

“Rusty,” she gushed, “you’ve saved me a stamp.”

I stepped back quickly, but she managed to get an envelope in my hand with the skill and speed of a veteran process server.

“You’ll speak to our group next week, wont you?” A response was futile because Hazel was on the march. “Of course you will. Any topic, Rusty. Just anything!”

I tried to stammer out polite regrets, but my speech sailed into a sandstorm of dizzying chatter borne on bakery breezes.

“And after your fine talk, you’ll be our guest for an afternoon dessert. Most of us cook as well as we sew. You’ll be surprised!”

Nothing surprises me – especially in Sprung Hinge. I thanked Miss Hazel for the invitation and promised to do my best.

I think my “best” will be getting laryngitis and asking Judge Rufus T. Redbone to pinch-hit for me. (All politicians ought to be good for something – and besides, the Judge loves to hear himself talk!) The Sprung Hinge Sewing Circle and Bucket Brigade will get the surprise, and old Rusty will be free to roam the range and do the sales!

Auction Tip: I’ve known people who carry a general merchandise catalogue to sales to use as a price reference. Paying more for something used that it costs new can take the shine off of your apple!

Rusty Pails #30 Ermine's New Vacuum

by Rocky Macy

Some fish grow faster on dry land than they did in the water, ‘specially in Sprung Hinge!

Shadetree Mike outbid me on a vacuum cleaner a couple of weeks ago. It was a classic --leastways a relic -- that could have entered the used market at Mrs. McKinley’s White House yard sale. For less money that it would take to buy a good cane pole, Mike snagged his prize, complete with a few of its original attachments.

I helped him load the catch into his old pickup truck for the short ride back to town. The vacuum, I figured, would probably be spruced up and presented to Ermine as a birthday or anniversary gift. That Mike sure is a thoughtful cuss!

A few days later, as some of us sat around the domino table at the Pump and Git listening to Mike belch endlessly about matters of no great importance, I noticed Ermine clearing a path with her old straw broom. When Mike finally paused for effect, I interrupted with a question about the fate of the vacuum cleaner.

“Durndest thing I ever saw!” said the Dean of Dominoes, skillfully enticing me with a simple lure.

I nibbled. “It was a junker, wasn’t it?”

“Oh my, no!” Mike stretched his arms to stress the enormity of what was coming and continued. “That old sweeper was just too blamed powerful for the little woman to handle!”

Sensing that Mike’s fish tale was starting to grow, I made a vain attempt to bend the hook. “You mean it pulled the flowers off of the wallpaper?” I chortled.

“Or drew all the heat off of the wood stove and floated out the window?” interjected Judge Rufus T. Redbone, a seasoned political angler.

Now you boys are getting too far-fetched for this neighborhood,” Mike laughed, spit, and continued, “”Ermine had me get rid of it ‘cause she couldn’t change the bag.”

“How’s that?”

Mike laughed as he set the hook and began reeling me in. “The blamed thing sucked the carpet tacks out of the floor and nailed the bag inside the sweeper!”

Old Rusty had been nailed, too – leastways hooked and landed!

Auction Tip: If something you want is about to be auctioned off in a lot, ask the auctioneer to sell your item individually. There’s no point in bidding on things you don’t want.

Rusty Pails #29: And the Band Played On

by Rocky Macy

You may have already heard about it on the scanner, but, if not, notice is hereby given that the Sprung Hinge Clank ‘n Clatter Brigade (one of the best kitchen bands in town) is practicing again on Saturday nights behind Shadetree Mike’s Pump and Git.

Mike’s Ermine and Miss Lucy Longtooth are conspiring on some new vocal duets that could crack an engine block on a Mack truck as it flees down the Interstate. The ever-versatile Judge Rufus T. Redbone vacillates between playing lead saw, kazoo, and spoons. Esther Pearl is back on the washboard after one season with cowbells and the four-slice toaster. (Miss Lola Longtooth, our newest member, will debut on bells. Esther sold the toaster.) Gladys “Is there a man in the house?” Clench plunks a banjo she made from a cake pan and a girdle, while Truman Treetopper sits beside her playing his false teeth with one hand and his armpit with the other.

And Rusty? Well, I’m still on the electric blender. My high notes leave something to be desired, but man, can I puree!

Rusty Pails #28: Hat Pins and Lug Nuts

by Rocky Macy

It’s not a magic word, but just whispering it around an auction is guaranteed to drive the price up on almost anything. Would you like to know the most expensive word in an auctioneer’s vocabulary? Well, sirs (and ma’ams), here it is: collectibles.

That’s right. Collectibles. And it doesn’t make any difference what you hang it on – or what shape it’s in – just say it’s a collectible and some durned fool will plop down U.S. cash money!

Anyone can collect anything – salt and pepper shakers, political buttons, and costume jewelry are always in demand. Truman Treetopper, when he was still in his prime, ‘acquired’ a collection of ashtrays from every business within a fifty-mile radius of Sprung Hinge. His assortment was so complete that when the Chamber of Commerce needed a business address or phone number, they would just phone Truman and he’d check his collection!

Other collectors lean more toward the exotic. Take for example the case of the Longtooth spinsters. Miss Lucy works as the night cashier down at Herb’s Truck Oasis. She has a collection of lug nuts off of big rigs from every state in the nation. Her sister, Miss Lola, specializes in hatpins. (I speculate that the hatpins are for protection in case some crazed truckers ever figure out what’s happening to their lug nuts!)

Not even old jaded Rusty Pails is immune from the “collectible” craze. I have a collection of busted household furniture and appliances that are too big for the trash man to take. I’ve been working on it ever since the dump closed!

Auction Tip: Bad weather can be good news. It will keep some people away from a sale and increase your chances of getting bargains. Just break out the old umbrellas and see if it ain’t so!