Gophers & Other Troubles

I'm proud to live in the lowest spot in the area.



Actually the creek is the lowest, I suspect, but water loves to wash around our place before it heads on over. The school, the fire department, the side and back neighbors send runoff pouring out of gopher holes into our back field.

Through much toil and trouble and with the help from the most knowledgable engineers in the county we came upon the solution: "Aw, just tell Ed to dig out a 6x4 ditch across his 'n Al's place. They don't care none." I'm talking waaaaaayyyy back...'85. Nowadays you'd have to actually get permission. Permission to "Get that pipe over here, we only got 2 hours of daylight left and we don't want no-one to get too curious." Bobcats rumbled in the night, pushing dirt around. I always wanted a hill in back.

The oldtimers had a lot to say, lots of practical advice. Just rip through the neighbors' yards to deal with a problem. Or, if like Uncle Tud, "The varmits are chewing up the dang lawn.", pour some calcium carbide in the holes, wet it down, throw in a match...BOOOOOOM! Gone. The ground shook and puffs of smoke wafted up. Not a bump in that yard for months.

Old Uncle Dick was married to Aunt Babe. She was tall and statuesque, had a beautiful smile. He was bent over, grizzled red-faced, with shreddy white hair sticking out on top. Uncle Dick had only had 1 tooth. "Yuh!" he'd mumble. "Pulled it m'self, too much trouble, one tooth." I wonder if his empty gums had anything to do with the poison ivy. Driving some old tractor with kids piled on, he’d putter along the roads spraying some foggy stuff, so strong, ivy was wilting by the 2nd pass.

Copper Topper sat in his dog pen sunning himself waiting for the baby gophers to pop up. "Chomp! Gulp!" Dinner. Peaches dug for 'em. Trilogy propped herself on her nose so her 1 good front leg could dig forever, snuffling and snorting, but never giving up. The cats were good at it. In the winter they'd sit patiently by a hole covered with lacy frost: gopher breath. Little feet and tails were left at the doorstep.

One friend sat with his 12 guage and blasted them. Another stood for hours against a tree balancing the rifle focused on the trembling hillock in the grass. A shovel was pretty successful, too. But mostly not.

The elders had quick fixes for any problem. Squinting over his reading glasses, "Dammit, the Chistmas tree's crooked!" Grabbed the trunk, decorations and all: bamm, bamm, BAM! "There, now it's straight." I assume the women folk cleaned up the pine needles and broken ornaments sometime later.

When the storms lashed the coast threatening the beach houses, enormous rip rap boulders were placed along the spit. "Get Cubby out here on his dozer to push some sand up over this ugly frickin' rock!" One house in the area has sand all the way to the water! Everyone else has to scrabble down the rocky wall stubbing toes. Coastal Commision had no muscle to deal with the Old Salts in those days. Enforcement was a mere sparkle in the gov'mnt's eye.