Hidalgo: The Town, Not the Horse

Not long ago commercials were running for the movie “Hidalgo” which brought back
memories for my family, as Hidalgo is the name of our hometown. We agreed it was good our town was in the news even if people did confuse it with a horse.

In 1950 Hidalgo, Illinois, population one hundred, was a thriving little town that had at least four grocery stores—for a time our mom ran one of them. I was just five then, but I took time out from my serious work of being Roy Rogers to help Mom with the grocery business. My main duty was to run out-- cap guns blazing--to rob the noonday train. The engineer, who knew my folks and about everybody else in town, played along--held up his hands as though I were Jesse James.

A town of only one hundred couldn’t even be called a one-horse town, but thanks to my dad, we could at least be called a one-pony town. Dad brought home a black and white Shetland when I was around four. Jiggs—that was his name -- only weighed about 60 lbs.—a baby actually.


There are pictures of Jiggs and me, which showed at that time, I was taller than my mount. Jiggs was on the frisky side—he liked to jump the fence and head for downtown Hidalgo which didn’t take him long as we lived just a block off the main drag. My older brothers would be in hot pursuit with a lasso.


We eventually had to find Jiggs another home as he had an attitude problem. He apparently thought of himself—little pony that he was—as a wild stallion that wasn’t put on earth to carry little kids on his back. He was also mighty tired of having my brothers chase him with a rope every time he wanted to take a little tear through town. But he escaped once too often and was found-- with all four wheels up-- lounging in a neighbor’s prize flowerbed.

So I was a cowboy without a horse—I was on foot for a spell as it took me a while to learn to ride a bike. Even after I did learn I was accident-prone. I once was sent to buy a carton of pop at Cousin Pete’s garage. (We called it “pop”. When people talked about soda we assumed they meant something medicinal as in Arm & Hammer.)

I had loaded the pop in my bicycle basket, and taken off for home without allowing for some loose gravel. I managed to break all 6 bottles—probably 25 cents down the drain. Cousin Pete came to my rescue—helped me to my feet and put another carton of Pepsi in my basket at no charge. “Hey, Danny, accidents happen. I wish that was all the money I’d ever wasted in my life.” He gave me a wink and waved me on home, a two- block journey.

Although I was an awkward boy who fell over almost anything in his path—this was compounded when I added spurs to my cowboy outfit-- I joined the Cub Scouts at the age of 8. I wasn’t a promising recruit.

I relied on my Cousin Gary who was a couple of years older to help me with any projects requiring agility. My main physical skill was falling down. The only real job I was allowed to hold was that of Keeper of the Buckskin, the term for the recording secretary. I kept minutes in a spiral notebook and made special mention of whose mother had brought the cupcakes and ice cream when one of us had a birthday.

After three years it was time to move on up to the Boy Scouts. I ran into trouble as more was expected of me—I never made Tenderfoot, the entry-level scout position.

We camped out overnight at the Cumberland Co. Fairground where it became clear I wasn’t scout material. We had to use our hatchets to make a tent stake. This was demonstrated for us, but I was lost. Eventually I had to take my turn, which was risky, as I could have chopped off my fingers. I hacked my way through it only by wrestling the wood to the ground-- the finished product looked like a club.

After this ordeal we were supposed to scale a wall—practically boot camp to my way of thinking. I disappeared during this operation—I sat on a cot in the tent drinking a bottle of Pepsi, conserving my strength. A surviving picture of me in my scout uniform at the fairground showed me with a worried look as though I feared I might be shipped out.

We moved the year I became a Boy Scout—the Hidalgo years were over. And I didn’t join the scout troop at Greenup, population fifteen hundred—a big and scary place.

I decided to concentrate on something I was good at: playing cowboys. This phase lasted nearly until high school when I gave up my cap guns. I had the feeling that girls might not go for a guy in a Roy Rogers getup.

My family and friends still like to talk about Hidalgo and the other little towns of the area. For us, Hidalgo is still the town, not the movie. Although I’ve never seen the Hollywood version, I’m sure it’s not the picture I have in mind.

In my movie Jiggs the Pony jumps the fence and tears through town as though he’s trying to reach wild horse country before dark. He makes a pit stop at Emil’s Grocery when he spies an outdoor display of fruits and vegetables. He stretches out among the produce, and munches a few apples. It’s still early afternoon—he has plenty of time to reach mustang country before nightfall.

It was just another day in Hidalgo.

Literary World Agog Over Bloom Announcement

Professor Harold Bloom's announcement that he is considering inclusion of popular humor columnist Andy Borowitz in the nextedition of his book The Western Canon has set off a literary firestorm.

The furor seems to center on Bloom’s high-brow status as Yale Professor—his Western Canon examines Shakespeare and other great writers—and Borowitz’s roots as a TV sitcom writer. They do seem like an odd couple even though Borowitz’s humor is published in The New Yorker. Critics from the New York Times and The New York Review of Books are picketing Bloom’s office at Yale, or they would be if they could find their way out of town.

When pressed for comment, Professor Bloom said: “Let the lemmings jump over the cliff. Borowitz is too deep for them. It is clear the anxiety of influence is operating in their fevered ramblings.”

Or that is what it sounded like he said. Fellow professors admit Bloom is brilliant, but note his pronouncements tend to be obscure even to literary scholars. But within hours of the original announcement Professor Bloom appeared to be backing away from his plan to include Borowitz in The Western Canon.

Insiders close to the story believe Bloom went over the edge and off his rocker when he claimed Emily Dickinson paid him a late-night visit.Informed sources-they had drinks with the above insiders--said Dickinson appeared in a ghostly white dress just as the Professor was getting ready for bed.Ms. Dickinson wasted no time in telling Bloom that she was a poet, not an intellectual. She noted that the Professor prized intellect and imagined that the writers he admires are as subtle as he.

She was further displeased that Bloom claimed to get headaches every time he taught a certain poem of hers (No. 761), which repeats the word "blank" about eleven times. Dickinson said she had been having a "bad hair" day when she wrote the poem. She thought she had tossed it in the wastebasket, but her busybody relatives found the discarded poem. She further told the addled Professor that he was giving himself headaches to no purpose. And just before she disappeared, she cryptically remarked, "The rose is out of town", a line from one of her poems.

Speculation among those close to the story was that Bloom was so distraught that his close reading of Dickinson was wrong, or just plain dumb, that he went around the bend to left field. He then took up of the cause of Andy Borowitz's canonization. Bloom has been keeping himself scarce since his private séance with the Belle of Amherst.

Borowitz supporters are dismayed that their hero will not, after all, be included in The Western Canon. One still hopeful fan was quoted as saying: "Well, there's always the Nobel Prize."

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Dental Woes

The dental crisis of my life began—naturally—after my dentist of twenty-five years left town under mysterious circumstances. In a flashback—the video is of the security camera quality—I see a Mafia soldier on Dr. C.’s doorstep—he looks like a Soprano cousin who used to be a big earner, but has come down in the world—he knows his days are numbered. He’s ready to spill the beans on the Big Guy. Dr. C. is wearing a wire; he’s already signed up for The Witness Protection Program-- he will soon be treating patients in the Arizona desert.

The real story is that Dr. C.’s wife wanted to relocate to be closer to their grandchildren. I like the Mafia version better. And I’m sure the children are adorable, but I prefer to think of them as holy terrors working on their advanced degrees in Pillaging and Burning.

Not that I’m bitter, but Dr. C. was a fine fellow who got you in and out in twenty minutes; he didn’t sit up nights thinking of new ways to torture his patients.
But he had hardly left town when I began finding teeth parts in my breakfast toast. I made an appointment with a local dentist who was almost booked up after taking on many of Dr. C.’s patients—I got in just under the wire. Lucky me.

I learned I needed several fillings and a couple of crowns. I’ve never had a crown done before. I was told it would take two sessions with the first one lasting two hours. I immediately thought: “You’ll have to catch me first”.

I really didn’t care for the doctor’s bedside manner—what there was of it—either. The office was semi-dark when he came in wearing a mask. I’ll skip his name—I called him The Masked Marvel. I couldn’t see him clearly—I also couldn’t hear him mumbling through the mask.

He had an unusual technique as he lowered the chair practically to the floor before he
started his examination. The whole procedure reminded me of how auto mechanics hop on a dolly and slide under your car. I had a fear I would pass out and wake up looking at my oil pan.

I then found a more congenial dentist, a young woman who on the personality front at least had one. By this time I had lost even more teeth parts. She agreed to pull the tooth that The Masked Marvel wanted to crown, and that went like a charm.

But then I was advised I needed five fillings plus a crown. I would also be treated to not one but two cleanings, with the first one taking an hour. I was not happy. But at least you could watch television –a welcome innovation—while you were being worked over.

Although I would just get absorbed in something—say an Oprah panel on the problems of adult children who stayed in bed until noon-- when it was time for heavy drilling in which all I saw was the ceiling. Another novelty, which I didn’t care for, was a mint green fluoride cocktail, which made my stomach roll every time they served me one.

My lady dentist’s office organization also required an adjustment as she has many patients and will work on three or more at a time. I was often in the chair for over an hour—sometime so long I thought the entire dental staff had left the building. What were they doing—their Wal-Mart shopping? Taking computer classes in speed billing?

And when they came back they would add another wrinkle. They have a camera they’re particularly proud of which is used to take Polaroid pictures of the offending tooth. The camera looks large enough to have been used to film “ I Love Lucy”--it comes with a long rod, which would be about right to harpoon a whale. But they try to jam the whole thing into your mouth. Makes me long for Dr. C.’s two –count ‘em—pictures of your entire dental work.

I still have it in for Dr. C’s grandchildren. I can see them visiting their grandpa’s office. One of them is hanging from the chandelier; the other is letting the water out of the fish tank. Poor Dr. C. Serves him right.



Danny Dunne
402 Deere Run Lane
Casey, IL 62420
217:932-2136
dunne@joink.com
Word Count: 735


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High School Days

I spent my last summer before high school playing with cap guns. I wasn’t ready for “The Wonder Years”. I had started grade school in a small town (POP.100), but we had moved to a much bigger town (POP. 1500) by the time I started high school. I never adjusted to life in the city.

But there I was, a picky eater, making my way in the lunch line on the first day of high
school. My plan was to blend in—to go unnoticed. I then sat down at the wrong table. The guy I sat by “suggested” I get up as the seat was reserved. Taking the hint, I picked myself up and crashed into a couple of chairs on my way to another table—so much for keeping a low profile.

I then attracted the attention of a very tall senior who noticed I wasn’t a big eater. He asked for my leftovers. I was glad to get rid of the stuff as I had a firm rule: eat nothing you can’t identify. My tray had something that looked like a small tree smothered in cheese—broccoli, I later learned. My new friend checked in with me every day after that.

My cafeteria experiences were mild compared to physical education where I always had a
good chance of being maimed or killed. I was never interested in sports and was spectacularly uncoordinated. I had a knack for being in the wrong place at the right time—I was knocked down and ran over on a regular basis. I spent a lot of time passed out on the gym floor.

P. E. was particularly bad that year. I remember, for some reason, I had to tote my gym bag back and forth every day. I probably couldn’t work the gym locker combination, or
I had lost it. I kept the bag in my hall locker which I could at least open. The bag of course contained an “ athletic supporter ”which I originally thought meant a pep club booster. I was slow for fourteen.

I was always having big hairy guys—they had been shaving since they were twelve—ask me why I carried the bag every day.

Big Hairy Guy: “Hey, twerp! Taking your laundry home to Mommy?”

Me: (Inaudible.)
Second Big Hairy Guy: “ What’s that in your shorts? A peanut?” (Big Hairy guys were nothing if not witty.)

One day I opened my locker to discover the bag was missing. Just as I was about to try to find it—I had twelve seconds before the bell rang-- the school counselor handed it to me; he said I had left it in the hall. This was the most useful conversation I ever had with our guidance counselor.

Of course there were only a couple of minutes between classes. Once—I had a sudden pain—I made an emergency bathroom run which made me late. I was sent to the office to get a pass—the only time that happened in four years of playing beat the clock.

Getting sent to the office was not part of my normal school routine as I was what was known as a “good boy”. This reputation did not help me with girls of course. Girls were not a problem, as I didn’t know any.

There was one girl I had liked since sixth grade who went off my radar screen once we started high school. She became very mature and sophisticated and even took up—the shock of it—smoking cigarettes. Tobacco and alcohol were the drugs of choice in those innocent days.
I still liked her, but as a guy that had only recently given up playing cowboys I knew she was out of my league. In fact any girl I would have been attracted to would have been a problem since I couldn’t carry on a conversation and stand upright at the same time.

My fellow classmates were not good examples of boy-girl relationships. They were already too advanced for me, as they had been old hands under the table since seventh grade. Boy-girl stuff took a back seat for me—okay, actually I was never in the car. I was too busy applying band-aids and Mercurochrome to my P. E. injuries and trying not to fall down while carrying a load of books.

By senior year we had several couples that managed to beat the stork to the altar. At graduation when the roll was called it was almost like Miss America as several girls had at least four names: Susan Elaine Smith Porter, Karen Sue Williams Snodgrass, etc.

I haven’t seen most of my classmates since graduation—the official end to ”The Wonder Years”. I sometimes daydream about going to my next class reunion. I imagine that The Big Hairy Guys have just walked in. It’s all they can do to get to the table with their beer bellies.