mascotsMany residents of the high Rocky Mountain town of Wallsburg, Utah decorate their front yards with old farm equipment. Ancient manure spreaders, hay rakes, horse-drawn plows, etc. are highly valued as notable, impressive, attractive antiques. As a long ago farm boy, I considered doing this myself, but since I just have to be different, out of step and out of line, marching to my own inner cadence, ratatataplinkplankplonkplunk, I chose to erect a Chippewa tipi for the grandchildren. What goes with a tipi? A totem pole, so I constructed one featuring the Mountain West Conference mascots—BYU cougar, San Diego Aztec, Wyoming cowboy,U.S. Air Force Academy falcon,Texas Christian horned frog,New Mexico State lobo, Colorado State ram, University of Nevada Las Vegas rebel, Utah Ute and, additionally, Weber State Wildcat (where I was a student and later a professor)

Of far greater significance for me, however, are my six months of combat as an infantryman in WW II, so in commemoration of this I sawed and painted a large plywood replica of a soldier charging into battle. It's a fixture that fixes in my mind images of my experiences and my buddies, particularly of my foxhole buddy, Harold Howell. In combat, at the very front of the front, Harold covered my back at all times and I covered his.

Several years later, in totally different circumstances, I experienced steady, sturdy back guarding over a period of several months. When distributing pamphlets to residents of Saenz Peña, a suburb of Buenos Aires, Argentina, I had the custom of politely expressing gratitude for attention to our message and then politely doffed my hat and backed away two or three steps.

The streets of this town were largely unpaved at that time and when it rained they became quite muddy. One day I backed up one step too far and ended up up to my knees in a big mud puddle. After that, Mitt Smith, my co-worker and an athletic football quarterback took care to hold his sturdy arm behind me to prevent further unfortunate but hilarious occurrences. Thinking of this one day,I couldn't resist composing a little verse. What a wonderful, beautiful, tremendous thing it is to have someone guard your back, figuratively or literally.



Back Guard

Brief conversation at the door,
Who is this? Peddling piddling ware?
A vagabond salesman? All that poor?
Great Depression days, cupboard bare.

Huckstered once in desperation,
Had no luck, didn't make a dime,
Poor goods, lousy presentation...
"And don't come back a second time!"

In olden times all men wore hats,
Poor or not, the reglamentary look.
Doormats, fatcats, dingbats, polecats, hepcats.
Without one, an ignominious kook.

Voluntary missionaries,
Back then, were expected to wear them,
No way out. Rule never varies.
Mattered not that I looked like a sick Schlem.

Schlem, you know, is short for schlemiel,
A bungling failure of a goy,
Seven spokes short of being a wheel.
In Yiddish, a totem pole's lowest boy.

Had a couple hats, a kerchief,
Of the cowboy variety.
Hid not the city dude beneath.
Not one bit, to put it bluntly.

Well, back then it was my custom
To doff my hat, so politely,
Back up two steps, a rule of thumb,
Brightly nodding my head slightly.

One fine, though rainy afternoon,
The drizzles at last had gone away—
For parched earth a tremendous boon—
But muddy underfoot all day.

Oodles of puddles here and there,
Watch out or get your feet all soaking wet.
Worse still get mud on your fine footwear,
All shined up as always, you bet.

But habits hold fast and hang in tough.
So step up to the plate, your steps to take.
The regular two are quite enough,
Overdoing it is a mistake.

Hey, watch out! Oh, what a muddle!
Know what you're backing up into?
A mother of a mud puddle!
Too late! Your shiny shoes, adieu!

The grandmother of all puddles!
Thought you would sink right out of sight.
Only sign of you some bubbles.
I would a laughed my head off all right.

My companion, Milton Edmond Smith,
(He always went by the name of Mitt),
Blocked my backing up chock-a-block with
His arm and kept my feet out of... it.

Back up into a big booboo...
Or, possibly (pardon me!) doodoo...
Don't laugh! A strong arm at your back,
And as for you not one more setback.

Civic-minded citizens, as pards,
Should cover one anothers' backs
From louts, oddballs, screwballs, blackguards,
Jerks, crooks, thugs, cons, meatheads and quacks.

This isn't poetry, it's doggerel, which as an elite professor of Spanish, German, French and occasional English and American literature, I viewed with contempt. Doggone it, though, some doggerel ain't altogether, totally, irrredeemably bad. Perhaps. Maybe. Possibly.

infantryman

Infantryman charging into battle

Music: Anonymous Internet Tune
Lyrics: Wendell Hall, 2009