The Devil's Own Imp
by
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Way back in the late 1930's, an actor named Johnny Weismuller played the role of Tarzan. He was, in his day, the equivalent of Indiana Jones. It cost a dime to attend the Saturday afternoon matinees at the
There were villains in Tarzan’s jungle — people able to scale the Great Escarpment in search of gold, jewels and elephant tusks. Tarzan took a dim view of elephant traps. He did not seem concerned with jewels and gold, though fair maidens of various kinds, eternally and foolishly accompanying the nasty treasure hunters, required a rescue from time to time.
It was after one of Tarzan’s successful adventures that I decided to trap an elephant of my own and acquire a set of tusks. Elephants were smart. They stuck to well-worn trails. Unless thoroughly enraged, they did not wander off their normal paths. An elephant visiting my immediate neighborhood, and possibly my yard, would obviously come up the back alley, open the gate and journey up the dirt path beside the wood shed C a large and ancient structure with bins for coal and wood and kindling. That was before we built the new garage.
Dad was frequently gone for weeks at a time. He worked for the Southern Pacific Railroad which sent him off to various parts of the state to keep him employed.
One of his extended fall absences provided the opportunity for digging the elephant trap. We had, in the shed, the requisite tools.
I began the patient digging of an elephant trap across the path alongside the shed. It was hard labor and took several days. The trap grew deep, eventually requiring a ladder for entry and exit. It was hard to get the dirt hurled upward and out of the way. At the later stages of the endeavor, the dirt had to be put in a pail, the ladder climbed, the contents dumped and the bucket returned to the bottom of the pit. But the prize of a set of elephant tusks encouraged every effort. No sharpened bamboo shoots available for killing the elephant, I chose to fill the pit with water and drown him instead. It was unfortunate, I suppose that my father chose to walk the same path I imagined the elphant would follow.
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About the Book
Imps are born and not made. Being an imp these days is a far more difficult thing than in the time prior to WWII. Those earlier pre-war days are reported in this book. Today’s imps require medical advise, appropriate dampening pills, and an entirely different form of discipline, perhaps even psychiatric treatment. Nothing seems so unwanted in modern times as a full-fledged imp of any age.
Being an imp in a small western railroad town (
The one thing we didn’t do, in my day, was report on our ‘adventures’ to our parents. It was our sincere belief that the less they knew about the risks we took, the more serene their existence, and also ours.
Of course, with the small-town gossip network operating at full-bore, our parents knew much more than we thought they did. The inherent blessing was that, in most cases, they shrugged their shoulders, credited our activities to youth and only interfered when serious injury or mayhem might result.
We owe them a great debt - - allowing us to learn from our own experiences.
About the Author
This author was a college professor for some 54 years, which he much enjoyed. Teaching the youth of the land keeps one young and, just perhaps, a childhood of impishness on the part of the professor himself blends well with the youth of the land. I take great pride in the agreement by most of my students (in their thousands) that it was all a pleasant adventure (tests and grades notwithstanding).
Like teaching, writing is something of a permanent disease. It stems no doubt from the peculiar belief one has that what he has to say in print has some interest for others. Bad weather or bad reviews have never slowed down the production of a writer for one minute. We rise in the morning, conjure words and stories in our heads, and then sit down to the somewhat lonely business of getting it recorded. One thing done, we are never satisfied. We must move on. Tomorrow is another writing day.