By Bertie Brouhard
He died earlier this month. James Chandler Augustine, my dear friend for most of 75 years. Passed on in Gothenburg, Nebraska. Now no longer suffering from COPD that drained his energy and spirit. He was 80 and failing.
For about a dozen years; ages 6 to 18 we were the tightest of “ buds,” very close coloring each other’s lives, filling in the blanks and spaces that shaped, molded, defined us. His death crowded my aging brain with so many marvelous memories of our youth. This article is not an obituary but hopefully a celebration of his life and perhaps an aid for you in handling the loss of a loved one.
Of course please don’t waste your time reading this if you happen to be one of the fortunate few who have not suffered such loss. If you’re one please email me or at least start wondering when you might join us. My intent is for us both – you the reader (entertained) and me the writer (needing therapy) – to benefit from these mostly true tales of our youth.
Light years apart in talent and years I’m undoubtedly no Mark Twain. I do, however, suggest a re-reading of his “Adventures of Tom Sawyer” and “Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.” Augie, Tom, Huck and I had similar styles, haunts, thoughts and activities. I relate to Twain’s 1876 preface to Tom Sawyer which reads, “Most of the adventures recorded in this book really occurred: one or two were experiences of my own, the rest those of boys who were schoolmates of mine. Huck Finn is drawn from life, Tom Sawyer also, but not from an individual – he is a combination of the characteristics of three boys whom I knew, and therefore belongs to the composite order of architecture.
The odd superstitions touched upon were all prevalent among children and slaves in the West at the period of this story – this is to say, thirty or forty years ago.
Although my book is intended mainly for the entertainment of boys and girls, I hope it will not be shunned by men and women on that account, for part of my plan has been to try to pleasantly remind adults of what they once were themselves, and of how they felt and thought and talked, and what queer enterprises they sometimes engaged in.” THE AUTHOR, Hartford, 1876
Let’s re-live some of our youth. Some of mine with Augie and our gang follows.
Augie lived in a large, white framed renovated farmhouse on the edge of our small city in Central Nebraska with his older sister, stern, disciplinarian father, loving, diabetic mother, several black lab hunting dogs, horses, cows, chickens, goats, sheep and an assortment of smaller wild critters – pigeons, ducks, rabbits, gophers, prairies dogs and a distant coyote or wolf. The house, barn, corral sat on about 80 acres with pasture, fields, a creek, big garden and a wooded area we called “the forest.” This wild wonderland was a short bike ride from my house and that of our gang members (Denny, Marty, Bobby, Rodney, Stevie, Speed (George), Huey (Larry), Chip (Stephen), Pat, Dickey and Susie. With our endless spare time, energy, curiosity and fearlessness what could possibly go wrong? Some random (not in any chronological or significant order) stories, tales, remembrances (mostly true) follow.
A sleepover at his house during the summer usually included a late night drive, tour of the town behind the wheel of his mom’s late model Olds 88. We were 13, 14 or 15, unlicensed – just strong enough to push the beast out of the garage with the lights and engine off, down the seemingly long driveway and onto Anna Street. Windows down, radio blasting rock & roll, we cruised drive-ins, downtown, our school, Fonner Park Racetrack and the airport. It remained fun but not as much after we became “legal.” Once we even waved at a county deputy sheriff.
After one such meandering we returned. Tucked the car into its garage, returned her keys to the hook in the breezeway and snuck across the family room. Tiptoeing up to the landing at the bottom of the stairs we froze! The stairs lights suddenly came on!! We looked up to see “Web,” Aug’s Dad, pointing a double barreled shotgun at us. It was a long night of explaining and I suspect our last late night, underage drive.
All those acres of trees were the scenes of long days building forts, playing Cowboys & Indians, hide and seek and constructing tree houses. Locating a promising tree with suitable branches maybe 15 or 20 feet off the ground required hours of finding, hauling and carrying, then constructing the lumber, nails, rope; gathering food and drink to our new hideout. Aug, Denny, Bobby and I were founding club members. Others were allowed “up” if they had desirable eatables (candy or pop) or cash. For admittance we made “Huey” (Huwaldt) beg and asked Susie to get naked (we finally decided she wasn’t “one of us.”) Larry did. Susie did not (but we did let her “a girl” we decided come up anyway.)
I’ve not spent anytime in prison or a night in jail but I have been locked up. Suffice it to say that when sealed inside a boxcar which was on the farm, there’s no escape from this dark, dirty, musty, hot, smelly, large enclosure. And I’m told little is heard of one’s rapping from the inside on its large steel, sliding door. Aug and Denny had tricked me inside, closed the door and left me moaning for what seemed like forever (maybe 30 minutes.) To this day I hate hot, musty, dark, dirty, closed, locked spaces. A walk in closet is worrisome.
Most of the aforementioned delinquents in the summer with its long, hot, idle days had a lawn (front or back yard) carnival. Maybe your dog did a few tricks, you had a ring toss or a bottle drop game or a water slide, a plastic pool or could juggle, play some music or sell food, drink, cards, books, models, etc? We “Carnies” were about 12 and kids of all ages from all over town dropped by.
But ours – Aug’s and mine – was THE BEST; a real crowd pleaser. It cost a dime to see our attraction and it featured but two players – Larago, a very feisty stud horse and Betsy, a considered large, disinterested mare. Aug led Larago into the corral after I’d taken everyone’s cash and ringed the fence with their anxious faces. Betsy waiting in the corral immediately saw and smelled the stud who raced to Betsy’s hind quarter intending to mount her. She raised her rear legs, kicking him again and again. But he was very determined as her muscular hind legs and football sized hooves pummeled him.
Our audience, maybe some two dozen saucer size eyed, glued to the rail onlookers were mesmerized by Larago’s baseball bat sized stiff male member. This dramatic performance was only a one act play. And its run was only a few weeks. Our parents’ phones rang long after our “Horse Carnival” closed. (Nothing sells like sex).
Trains fascinated us. And growing up in this Nebraska town on the Union Pacific’s mainline was always entertaining. Bored, not knowing what’s next, we somehow settled upon the idea of stopping one of its westbound freight trains. Each stopped downtown to take on water and fuel. And with its slight upgrade to the Rockies what if we took axle grease from the barn and greased the rails for a couple dozen yards? Would the incline and the grease halt the train? Amazingly that afternoon, laying in the tall grass far from the tracks munching on PB &Js washed down with lemonade the grease and incline caused the massive drive wheels of the engine to spin freely; lacking traction. Adding power to the drive train had little positive effect. We roared and dropped flat to the ground. Peering over the tall grass we watched the train backup to downtown and surely farther to the east. More than an hour later we saw the same freighter sail by our spot at cruising speed on its way to Wyoming. We lay amazed and relieved. Of course if caught I suspect we’d be getting out of prison about now.
Their barn with its horse stalls, tack room, hay loft and “Gus” was maybe the best ever classroom, playroom. Their hired man, a real cowboy, could do everything. He’d pull out a small sheet of paper, sprinkle it with tobacco from its pouch, roll the paper, lick the edge to seal it and light the smoke with his worn Zippo before you could say, “What’s happening, Gus?’ He taught us how to mend fences, repair windmills, drive a tractor, his aged pickup, operate a corn picker, combine, plow or combine, groom, saddle, bridle and ride a horse. He early on gave each of us a plug of Redman Chewing Tobacco – which after a taste and swallow was my first and last.
Buechler Park in our town has for me memories of Augie. One winter afternoon on the frozen tennis courts surface where we ice skated and played some hockey I had a turn as our team’s goalie. Having been knocked down I was laying on the ice in front of the net facing an oncoming skater (Augie) I attempted to stop the puck with my forehead. I still have the scar this many years later. And thinking one summer that we might enjoy some tennis we each found a racket and some yellow balls. One night after looking up from our darkened court we saw a few burnt out bulbs in the light fixtures atop the wooden poles. I ran home and brought back a few 75 or maybe 120 watters. Aug agreed to climb the pole and replace the bulbs. He did remove the dead ones. And inserting one of mine into the vacant socket, we were scared silly watching his hair stand on end and him grabbing the light pole for dear life. The burnt out bulbs were rated 2000 watts each. Aug came down slowly; exhausted.
Our tennis and hockey careers were short lived.
Our families attended the same church (St. Paul’s Lutheran) and we “encouraged” to also attend. Our year long confirmation class (age 13) was every Saturday morning for a full year and had mountains of reading and memorization. It was our first experience with something called “The Honor System.” Fortunately our threesome for this system included the uninterested minister’s son, Harvey, who was totally unmotivated and of our same mind. Who better with whom to ignore the required reading and memorization?. Somehow we were confirmed. Amen.
After I think about the second choir practice I remember our Choir Director subtly dismissing us from her throng; telling us. “There are many other ways to serve the church.”
And continuing our Christian tradition I have a vivid memory of us in robes, turbans and beards acting as Wisemen in The Christmas Play. Aug dragged his live kid goat stiff legged across the wooden hardwood floor to the Nativity of The Christ Child as my kid lamb relieved his bladder on my foot. Mary, Joseph, Miss Anderson and our audience (parents especially) were not impressed. We and our live animals weren’t asked back the next year.
I recall but one time being asked or being in the presence of anyone being asked, “Have ya shot your wad?” Augie was in my presence for my only experience while seated with his wife, Nancy, on a Sunday afternoon by a seasoned, salty, senior waitress selling Meat Raffle Tickets in the clubroom at the American Legion Hall in Hackensack, Minnesota. Every variety of beef, pork, lamb, chicken, game, fish and fowl was being raffled off to winning, selected ticket holders. Having purchased numerous tickets and not winning, Aug decided when she again asked him not to purchase anymore. He told her “No.” What else could it be, she thought? He’d “Shot his wad.”
Oh ,,, Nancy and I laughed then and again over the years. Augie? Not so much.
When we last chatted on the phone I told him I loved him. He said the same.
“The elastic heart of youth cannot be compressed into one constrained shape long at a time.” Mark Twain in “The Adventures of Tom Sawyer”
I have many more stories but limited time and space.
God speed Augie.
Often I think of him; his love, his kindness, his caring and generosity when I’m “Out For A Walk.”
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