The Cricket and the Ants

Once there was a cricket that lived on a Kansas wheat farm.   He loved singing and entertaining his friends.  Everyone, including his cousins, the ants, had to agree he had a beautiful tenor voice and kept perfect time by rubbing together his strong back legs.

One day the cricket grew tired of singing solos, so he asked his ant cousins if they would like to sing backup. “Certainly not,” said the ants, “Summer  is almost over and it’s time you started thinking about your future, young man.”

“But summer is the perfect time to practice, food is literally growing everywhere!” , the cricket chirped.

“You’ll see,” said the ants and slammed the door to their nest.

The cricket spent the rest of the summer working on Brahms songs, until the weather grew chilly, and there wasn’t nearly as much to eat as before, in fact virtually nothing.

Starving, the cricket hopped over to see his ant cousins, hoping to sing for his supper.

“No way!” said the ants from behind their closed door. “You had your chance and you wasted it.”

The cricket grew very sad thinking about his impending death, but then he realized he finally understood the true meaning of Brahms Requiem.

He began to sing it, thinking he might move his cousins to open the door.

“For all flesh is as grass, and all the glory of man as the flower of grass. The grass withereth, and the flower thereof falleth away”

Meanwhile, a passing farm girl heard the cricket’s plaintive song and was moved to tears. She picked up the frail creature, put him in a warm box with plenty of food and carried him into the farmhouse.

When her father asked her what she was doing, she said, “Oh, father, this poor creature has such a lovely voice. I plan to keep him all winter by my bed to cheer me up.”

As she opened the door to her cozy bedroom, she turned to her father and said, “And by the way, the ants are in the corncrib again.”

The angry father grabbed a can of insecticide, charged into the barn and annihilated the entire ant colony.

Moral : It’s better to sing for your supper, than to steal corn from a Kansas wheat farmer.

International Scout - Fox Hunter's Dream Vehicle

To hunt a fox, you had to go where the fox lived. And you probably would like to bring a few hounds along to chase the fox. It would also be handy if you could carry a lunch, or maybe a hunting partner or two.  You needed a four wheel drive vehicle, for sure.  But you didn’t want a fancy one. It had to be rugged, since you didn’t want to break down in tears if it got a dent or two. The cheaper the truck, the better, but on the other hand, you were going into some pretty tight spots, and you’d really prefer that the truck not only could get you into trouble but get you out as well.  The obvious solution to this problem was an International Scout.

International Harvester built the first Scout in 1961, the last in 1980. It was not an attractive vehicle, and looked quite boxy compared to the sleek SUV’s of today. But it was and still is, a “pioneering, off road vehicle”.  It was just the thing for a thrifty fox hunter back in the Seventies, especially if it was broke down, and being sold cheap.  The Scout is not a big, nor a powerful vehicle. When you look at it, you don’t think about getting somewhere fast.  But if you’re not in any big hurry, the Scout is the perfect vehicle for you.

Dad found a super deal on an old white Scout. At the time, it was just a two wheel drive, since the front end was broke. He parked it up the hill from the house, and we started to work on it. I say we started to work on it, but I mainly handed the correct tool and the correct time to the man doing all the work. I can honestly say we probably spent more time under the Scout than in it.  We worked on it quite a while, and remember wondering what it was going to be like when it did run.  One day it was finally finished. Dad started it, and it sounded like a tractor.  It had an old stick shifter, and you could hear the gears grind when you put her into gear.

Not too many hounds could ride in the back of the Scout, and those that did had to learn to enjoy each other’s company up close and personal. You didn’t get to your destination quickly, but once you found a dirt road and a hill to climb, the Scout was in its element.  You’d shift her into a low gear, and begin the slow climb straight up. At this time, all the hounds usually slid to the back in the bed. Passenger and driver would lean back and enjoy the slow but steady ride to the top. You prayed the motor wouldn’t give out, because you didn’t know how in the heck you turn her around, and you never were quite sure how good the brakes were.

The Scout could take you anywhere, a lot of places where you probably shouldn’t have been in the first place. It could take back deep into the hills, fording creeks and dodging rock cliffs. It would take past where the road ended, and out to the point, where you were going to turn the hounds loose. It could take you along the edge of a steep ridge that made your passenger wish he was sitting in the driver seat.  The Scout chugged along, like some old mule, and got you to where you wanted to be.

And it got you out again. Hopefully, with all your hounds, but sometimes not. After the sun came up, the hunters would call for their hounds, the ones that hadn’t quit running already. Sometimes they might still be out tracking a fox, but sometimes the hound just found a comfortable place to sleep.  The hunter went back the way he came, and found that the ride down the hill was a heck of a lot scarier than the ride up the hill. A Scout had no power brakes. It took a lot of foot power to brake a Scout. But as long as she stayed in gear, the engine drag held her back, and the ride off the hill wasn’t too big a problem.

After one hunt back behind Uncle Ray’s place in Willard, Kentucky, two or three hounds opted to forego the early morning ride back to the Kennel. Dad returned with just two worn out hounds, cursing the ones that stayed behind. He had to work, and would not have time to go back to get them.

I hadn’t had my driver’s license very long. I liked the idea of driving the Scout back in the woods. It would be like a driving a jeep through enemy territory, just like in the movies. I was happy when he asked me to go retrieve the stay behinds.  I knew there were a lot of blackberry canes on Uncle Ray’s hill, and I heard about a crazy bull that was running around in his pasture. Bev volunteered to go with me, and we set off on our grand adventure at thirty-five miles an hour and the Scout’s tires humming on the asphalt.

We came to Ray’s place, and drove along the rutted dirt road past his house. There was an electrical wire across the road to keep the bull in the pasture. Someone had told us it was 110 volts, just enough to get the bull’s attention or just make it angry. Uncle Ray turned it off for us, and we started driving, bouncing up and down on the rutty road, but enjoying the sunshine and fresh air.  We crossed a small creek, before turning left to start our climb up the hill. We could still the tire tracks from the night before, weaving in and out of the blackberry canes. We went up one side of the hill and down the other, and until we came to the main event, a very steep upward ride. I shifted the Scout into first gear, and she slowly started climbing the hill like a mountain goat. Bev and I looked at each other. This wasn’t so bad. Somebody walking fast could easily have passed us, but we weren’t in any hurry. The sun shone bright and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

We could see where the Scout had slipped in the dirt. We drove on past, along the ridge line, until we came to the camp site. We saw the burnt out fire. Lying around it, were three sorry looking hounds, bleary eyed and covered with scratches. They seemed to see us, at least, they got up to meet us. We tossed them into the back of the Scout. We were feeling good, and knew we had accomplished our mission. And it hadn’t even taken that long. We’d be home in time for lunch.

 When we came to the edge of the ridge, I shifted back into first gear. I wasn’t going to take any chances with the brakes. We’d take our time going down, just like we did going up.  The hounds were all curled up in the bed, already sound asleep. We gotten about a third of the way down, when the shifter popped out, and we began coasting straight down the hill. I slammed on the brakes, and heard three thuds against the back of my seat. I managed to stop and shift her back into gear. We started once again, but out came the shifter, so I hit the brakes again, and we heard three thuds against the back of the seat. This was turning into too much of a roller coaster ride.

Bev got the idea of holding the shifter in place, so we were unable to get off the hill without any thuds or thrills. We waved at Uncle Ray as we drove past the electric wire. We hadn’t seen any bull. I think it got electrocuted when Uncle Ray upped the voltage to 240 volts.

Later, Dad sold the old white Scout and bought a blue 1972 version with an automatic transmission.