Willard Jackson - Shot: A Rifle’s True Tales of a Prairie Farm

S HOT

S HOT

A Rifles True Tales of a Prairie Farm

Willard Jackson

2018 Willard Jackson

Shot

A Rifles True Tales of a Prairie Farm

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Library Congress Control Number: 2018953410

ISBN 978-1-595558916 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-595558930 (Hardbound)

ISBN 978-1-595558923 (eBook)

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THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO:

Rudy, of course.

Upon reading the book, youll see why.

C ONTENTS

F arm life somehow turns farmers into storytellersnot story fabricators. Because their actual experiences are genuinely remarkable, farmers rarely contrive their stories. They can speak forthrightly because, as the saying goes, truth is often stranger than fiction. Embellishment, though rarely a temptation, would render an account beyond anyones reach.

Every farm has unique and sensational moments. They come to life with the farmers rumination. While plowing the North Forty, or driving cows down the lane, or waiting out a long winter, farmers have time to reflect and recognize the intrigue of their seemingly routine work. They ponder the distinct circumstances and form the prose that enlivens their accounts.

Perhaps the routine of a farm redeems the significance of these events. They stand out and bear repeating if the repetition is efficient and entertaining while being accurate. Accuracy to farmers is akin to truth. Telling it like it was is part of their unwritten code. That does not mean they relate every detailthe days temperature, the height of the sun, the weight of the wife, the soil accenting ones coveralls, or the surly demeanor of the family pet. No, a farmer sorts out these details and bears down on those that bring out pertinent facts.

For sure, some farms generate more stories than others. The more diversified the farm products, the more stories. The more varied the machinery, the more stories. The more differentiated the employees, the more stories. And so it goes: more seasons, types of animals, years of operation, land types, vehicles, and family members equal more stories. All of these, and many beyond them, characterized the farm life you are about to experience. Thus, stories abound for this farm, and from them you get the best of the bestas they say on the farm, the cream of the crop.

Farm accounts flow like narrative biographies in that they take certain liberties to keep them interestingagain, to repeatwhile being authentic. For example, conversations approximate what was said and may be condensed from more than one occurrence. In fact, some conversations may have involved interjections by persons who are omitted in the story. To share such superfluous detail would derail or bore any otherwise interested souls. You are spared that abuse.

One more thing, a good farm story requires a good storyteller. Youre going to love Shot. Prepare to meet him in the first paragraph.

H i. Im Shot.

More than my name, shot is my condition: worn, rusted, and broken in two. I have been around a long time, and Ive gone through a lot of situations. Through them all, Ive seen things that dig at others character and my own identity.

What I was, and still am, though disabled, is a Model 67 Winchester .22 caliber long-barrel rimfire rifle, a bolt-action single-shot equipped with a wing-style safety. With a rear, adjustable sight, I was crafted in the day of marksmanshipone shot was all that was needed.

Of course, a single shot requires a marksman. Mine was Rudy, a farmer on the North Dakota prairie. His farm was a mosaic operationcorn, grain, sheep, dogs, cats, hogs, chickens, horses, and a small dairy, complete with cows, calves, steers, and bulls. One could write a book about the latter and call it Bull Stories. You wouldnt put it down. I know, because I lived through a few. Ill tell you a couple.

That kind of farm is labor-intensive, and you will probably not be surprised when I tell you that Rudy had a stream of hired hands to help. Among them was a steady man who lived on the farmstead in a one-bedroom, coal-fired house. (It also had running water, if someone ran to get it, and for a toilet, picture an outhousea three-seater!) As the on-site employee, the hired man worked the full range of farm issues and was usually trustworthy, loyal, and dedicated to being a faithful farmer himselfa right-hand man. Although he would move on in time, typically he stayed for several years, living on the farm with his wife and sometimes one or two kids. The work would not make them well-to-do, but the farm was home because Rudy provided housing, electricity, coal, fair pay, and a feeling of partnership. The hired man was valued, and he felt it.

Rudy had that effect on a lot of folks. He liked people even when they werent so likable. Maybe thats what serving in the U.S. Army during World War II does to a person. Although Rudy never saw action on a foreign field, he served his country during the war doing whatever he was assigned. Mostly that was logistics labor. In other words, he loaded and unloaded supplies for the fighting forces; for this he was paid little, but also, for this he paid the price of his left leg.

After unloading a flatbed railcar, Rudy and his buddieseveryone was so qualified for Rudysat on the end of the car hanging their legs in the gap before the dock, to eat their rations. What began as a luncheon repose became pandemonium and tragedy when an oncoming train was not switched properly onto its own sidetrack. Rudys leg was crushed below the knee.

Amputation was required. With months of recuperation, physical therapy, and training with an artificial limb, Rudy was on his feet again, albeit one leg was what he thereafter referred to as wooden. It was actually plastic, molded for fit and some flexibility as well as appearance, allowing Rudy to wear pairs of matching shoes or work boots. Only when a discussion forced the subject did Rudy comment on his leg. And with only a slight catch in his gait, many people did not realize his disability. Still, his mobility was limited.

I think thats why he was such a sure shot: in his life, on the farm, and with people, he stayed calm, aimed straight, and calculated efficient and effective actions.

When the war ended in the late 40s, Rudy returned to North Dakota to live the life so many fellow soldiers were denied because they, unfortunately, had paid the price of not just limb, but life itself. He chose to live near his family, and with consolation money from the train company, he bought the farm adjacent to his fathers. It lacked fertile soil, but it was near home and those he knew. Because much of the land was not prime for raising crops, he diversified to make a go of it. Consequently, life on Rudys farm was dynamic, replete with adventures and, of course, ripe for stories.