Charley Wilson

Just read over my last post. Gawd, I sounded like Whiny McWhinerson. What I neglected to mention is that I'm one of the luckiest people I know. Yeah, sometimes I feel like a Sysiphus beetle; you know - pushing a big load of poo uphill for all eternity. Wait - I'm mixing metaphors again. Whatever. Point is, I've known my dad all my life, right? But I've been given the chance to know him as an adult, with an adult's experience. We don't realize that our parents were people long before they became parents. We often don't listen to their stories because, well, ours are somehow more important. Thank the Powers that I've come full circle.

There are many things my father has never talked about: Korea, Viet Nam, getting shot twice, having his best friend die in his arms, his first marriage and so many other events that comprise his particular life. Now that I'm here, and he's older, the stories come out bit by bit. And I am so grateful, for I am learning so very much.

Dad was born in La Junta, Colorado in 1927. His family moved to Victor in the '40's so his father could work in the gold mines. During that time, Cripple Creek and Victor were hanging on to the last of the industry. The old mines, Molly Kathleen, Homestake and a few others were almost mined out, but still offered some employment for the hardiest and most desperate men that knew little else. These men were tough. They were honorable. They had values which never needed to be named simply because these men expected the same from others, without question and without a doubt. One of these men was Charley Wilson.

Charley lived two houses down from Pa and his family. Remember, this was back in the day when walking to school for two miles each way (uphill, yet) was the norm. The men who worked the mines for 14 hours a day for a pittance often supplemented the pantry with hunting and fishing. The mining community stuck together when times got really rought, like during any given winter, sharing what they had. Or what they could shoot.

Over dinner, which I resentfully threw together after working my eight hours in a warm, comfortable office, answering phones and dealing with other peoples' problems, Pa told me Charley cuffed him on the ear once cuz Pa shot a squirrel through the guts instead of in the head. Turns out Charley taught dad to hunt and shoot, fish and ride because grampa already had heart disease at 42 and was just plain wore out from diggin' the gold. According to Pa, there weren't many game wardens around in those days, and the ones that were tended to turn a blind eye to a little out-of-season target practice. They knew how it was. Well, one day a warden new to Teller County befriended Charley and somehow persuaded him to go hunting. Charley downed a good-sized buck, and being "gov-mint" and all, the new warden had all the latest gadgets - a camera in this case. He took a trophy picture of old Charley and his buck. Boy! Wasn't that a hoot. Couple of days later, coming back from the Springs, Charley was stopped by a Statie who asked him if Charley'd been poaching. Charley says no, of course - his mama didn't raise no idjits.
The cop pulls out the trophy picture. Charley chuckles and says, "Damn. I'm a good-lookin' son of a bisquiteater, ain't I?" And so Charley lands in the hoosegow.

Soon as the Teller County sheriff heard about it, he had a little heart-to-heart with the judge on Charley's case. The sheriff allowed as how Charley should go to jail for his heinous crime, but he should oughta do it in Cripple Creek, seein's how that's the jurisdiction where the dirty deed was done. The judge agreed, and off Charley went with the sheriff. Charley was incarcerated for nine months...every morning he pushed open his jail door and went to work. Every evening, Charley closed it behind him. Every weekend, he'd get my dad to help him haul Satuday's groceries home, and if the groceries sometimes had antlers, well, it was food, wand't it? Occasionally, some needy folks would find a bag of fresh meat on their doorstep, too. And every single Sunday morning Charley would wake up in his cell, shave and take his family to church. Sat in the pew behind the sheriff and his wife. After giving the pastor a good day, Charley headed on back to his cell. And so it went.

Nobody ever figured out what happened to the gov'mint warden, although they found his gov'mint-issue truck parked in the Cripple Creek assayer's lot, locked and spankin' clean, with a gov'mint-issue camera smashed to bits in the passenger seat. Most everybody was quick to point out that the warden just wasn't cut out for such a demanding job and prob'ly went on back to wherever he come from.

So that's what my Pa told me.

Think on't. G'nite, ya'll.
Mu