Del was in the hospital and dying. This was not too surprising given his poor health due to some rather unhealthy habits. Del was far too heavy for his natural frame and was not as active as one might think a farmer should be. Some might have called Del lazy but it was probably more a case of just not particularly caring for hard, strenuous work. The amber bottles of whiskey, tucked conspicuously in the corners of the barn, may also have been a contributing factor although Del claimed it was used for medicinal purposes only.

Another factor might have been Del’s tobacco use. No, Del didn’t smoke he chewed. Each morning, Del would stick a half-dozen, twenty-five cent cigars in his shirt pocket and by days end he would have eaten them all. He never lit one, just stuck it in his mouth and chewed on the end. Ever so slowly the cigar would get shorter and shorter until at last the little stub end would disappear from between his lips. Then Del would fish another out of his pocket and start again. I was told that before bedtime Del would cut off a substantial plug from a brick of Tinsley chewing tobacco, shove it into his cheek and lay down for the night. By morning, the plug was gone.

Del lived with his sister Emma and together they scraped out a reasonable living with a little bit of land, a few cows, some pigs and a small flock of chickens. They probably weren’t poorer than any of their other rural neighbors but lived an extremely frugal lifestyle. Of course this was not uncommon for folks who still held fresh memories of the great depression.

Del dealt in cash, no matter how large or small the transaction. Once the deal was made he would unbutton the middle pocket of his overalls, pull out a substantial wad of green and peel off the required amount. “Don’t trust them banks no more,” Del would announce, shifting the unlit cigar from one side of his mouth to the other as he refolded his stash and tucked it securely away, re-buttoning the pocket and giving the prominent bulge a reassuring pat.

Del had gotten word to his sister that it was urgent that my grandfather should go to visit him in the hospital. Emma walked the few miles from their house to Grandpa’s to deliver the message and Grandpa promised to go as soon as his chores were done. Emma thanked him as she stepped out the door to leave. Grandpa had just gone back inside when he heard a timid tap on the door. Emma stood there waiting as Grandpa opened the door, “He said to bring him a bottle an’ some tobacco,” Emma announced through the unopened screen, then turned to leave.

After chores were done and supper finished, Grandpa pulled on a clean shirt, swapped out his dirty straw for his Sunday Stetson, climbed into his pickup and headed for the hospital. After a quick stop at the pool hall, he emerged with a plump brown paper bag under his arm and a pack of twenty-five cent cigars.

At the hospital Grandpa was somewhat taken back by Del’s deteriorating state of health. It was obvious that Del would never be going home. It was just a matter of time.

The two men exchanged neighborly greetings and grandpa talked about weather, crops, cattle and markets. Del listened, nodding occasionally or asking particular questions in a voice that was weak and strained. He did seem to perk up a bit when Grandpa produced the brown paper bag, rolled the top down around the neck of the bottle and broke the paper seal with a sharp twist of the lid. They shared a drink from the bottle without a formal toast, each man offering a slight salute to the other with a nearly imperceptible tip of the bottle.

“Almost forgot,” Grandpa said as he reached in his shirt pocket for the pack of cigars. He declined Del’s offer of the first one out of the pack and Del smiled as he took it himself, unwrapped it, inhaling deeply as he passed it under his nose and then stuck it in his mouth and began to chew.

Grandpa sat quietly at Del’s bedside as the ailing man lay staring at the ceiling. After a while he raised his arm and motioned Grandpa closer with a wave of his hand. Grandpa leaned in as Del pulled the cigar from his mouth and with a voice barely above a whisper he spoke.

“Emma’s going to be alone now,” he began, “Can you see to it that she’s alright?”

“I’ll do what I can,” Grandpa promised.

A long silence followed as Del worked on his cigar and Grandpa sat quietly at his bedside. After a while, Del cleared his throat, turned his head to meet Grandpa’s eyes and spoke. “Gotta tell you something.”

“You know I don’t trust them bankers,” Del continued. Grandpa nodded.

Del pointed to the bottle that Grandpa held on his knee and Grandpa, once more, removed the cap and passed it to him. Del took a long drink, stuck the cigar back into his mouth and motioned for Grandpa to lean in closer.

“I’ve put all my cash in that big old cast iron rendering pot,” Del whispered in a rush of breath. “Make sure Emma gets it.”

Grandpa nodded his understanding as Del took another swig.

“I buried it under…,” Del commenced as he began to sputter on the whiskey that must have gone down the wrong pipe.

Amidst the coughing and sputtering Grandpa retrieved the bottle and pulled the cigar from Del’s mouth. Reaching under Del’s back, Grandpa raised him up to help him regain his breath and relieve the spasm but the wracking cough continued.

“It’s buried… ,” Del gasped as his body jerked to a sudden rigidity and the coughing ceased. Del was dead.

Grandpa relayed the news of Del’s passing to Emma when he visited her later that evening. He asked if she knew anything about Del’s buried, cast iron pot. She did not.

True to his word, Grandpa made it a point to see to it that Emma was alright. He helped in whatever ways that he could. After all, she was alone, they were neighbors and he had promised.

As far as I know the old cast iron pot, Del’s fail-proof bank, was never found.

 

Tim Nolting is a freelance writer, cowboy poet and entertainer. For booking information, or to contact Tim: e-mail at mtimn@aol.com