The Emerald Buffalo

 (not actual size or shape)

Our Emerald Isle – The Emerald Buffalo

I have seen several people who are internationally famous.  I have shaken hands with a couple of senators, one president, and even a man who shook the hand of Neil Armstrong, but I cannot truthfully say I have met them let alone their being my friend.  However there are many who reach the pinnacle of their profession and are icons to a small but fanatical following.  I do know one of those types and even count them as a friend.

Bev and Abdul were contemplating on how the menu at the pub could be improved.  We had plenty of Irish dishes, pastas, Mexican food, and schnitzels but just lacked what one might call the signature dish.  While they were stewing over the matter I was reading the latest addition of Pub Weekly International.  As I turned the page  I saw that Dublin was holding its annual barbeque competition and saw that the featured judge was none other than the world renown barbeque extraordinaire Bill Pittman.  The advertisement went on to say that he would hold a special demonstration of the finer points of barbequing using his just as famous mobile barbeque pit known the world over as The Emerald Buffalo.

Bill started his barbequing career on a regular charcoal grill. Being a fireman he had plenty of time on his hands between fires and rescuing treed cats to hone his ability and modify a discarded grill he had found at the site of a house fire. He became so proficient in his preparation and cooking technique and the charcoaling apparatus he improved on became so ingenious that he was soon doing all the cooking for the fireman at his station.  Word soon spread around the other station houses and they clamored for his food.  At about the same time the labor contract ran out with the city and an agreement was finally met only after Bill was given one duty free day each week to prepare barbeque for the entire department. 

He continued cooking for the department in this fashion until he retired and then he started entering local competitions and winning most of them.  He kept entering bigger and bigger contests and eventually won the New York City Barbeque Open, the Memphis Regional, the Atlanta Southern Invitational, and the Kansas City Royal Barbeque Masters.  He got an agent, acquired some sponsors, made several endorsements, and began entering international events that were held in Europe and Australia.  His crowning achievement was winning the prestigious Paris International Cuisine of Barbequing event.  Bill was thus established as an icon to those who follow barbequing and to this day is treated like a rock star where ever he goes demonstrating barbequing techniques and judging those who dream of achieving the success and living the good life like Bill.

I had not seen Bill for many years and suspected he had no idea I was in Ireland or perhaps even if I was still alive or even if he had thought about me much if at all.  I thought it would be great sport to show up at the Dublin event and surprise him.  One thing might be a problem I thought and that was how I was going to get around the security that must follow him where ever he went, but that was a problem I would face when I got there.  Tomorrow I would head for Dublin I decided and let it be known at the pub that evening.

As I suspected the arena Bill was to perform in was packed and security guards were surrounding the place.  I went up to one security guard and told him I was a friend of Bill’s from the states and wanted to say hi.  “Ya, you and everyone else, move along mate,”  That was about as nice of a response as I got from all the other guards I asked.

I was just about to chalk up my trip to Dublin as a misadventure when I spotted a familiar looking face talking to one of the guards.  From a distance it appeared like he was giving orders and directions so I suspected he might have some authority.  As I approached him I kept trying to figure out who he was and if I really did know him.  Just as I was about to tap the guy on the shoulder he turned around and cried, “Snapper?  What in the world are you doing here, I can’t believe this?”  As soon as he spoke I realized who I was talking to.  “Well my gosh Skip this is a surprise.  What are you doing here?”

Skip was Skip Coombs.  He was a year behind me in school and the last I heard he had joined the Marines and gone to Viet Nam.  I remembered that he and Bill had been good friends.  We spent a few minutes catching up and explaining to each other why we found our selves after 45 years or so standing in front of the Civic Arena in Dublin.  Not to dwell on what he was doing there but the short story is that after he retired as a financial manager he went to work for Bill as his road and business manager.  I asked him if he thought it was possible for me to say hello to Bill and he said he would do better than that and escorted me to Bill’s trailer where he was preparing for the nights demonstration.

Bill was surprised to see me as you might expect but we were not able to do a whole lot of catching up right then because Bill was on in a few minutes.  It was decided that I would sit with Skip and watch the demonstration and afterwards visit some more.

The presentation Bill gave was impressive and words cannot describe the skill and dexterity he displayed so I will not try.  Besides, Skip told me that licensing and copyright prevented any descriptive publication. 

After Bill was through we all sat around and had a drink or two and discussed the old times and all those types of thing one discusses given absences of almost five decades. 

When we began to repeat stories I thought it was time to leave and Bill asked me to stay the night.  I thanked him but said I needed to get back that I had a pub to run.  “That’s too bad,” he said, “Bobbie will be disappointed she missed you.” 

“Bobbie?” I asked puzzled.

“Yes, you remember Bobbie Martin don’t you?  She travels with me a lot and acts as my on the road spiritual advisor.”

Well of course I remembered Bobbie, she had gone to high school with us also and had known Bill and Skip ever since elementary school.  I asked if he and Bobbie were an item now and he said no, that she really was his spiritual advisor and kept Skip and him on a moral compass during their tours.  He explained that “Paul and Ringo told me that such guidance was necessary when one toured internationally,”   (I guess international icons have their own little network) “She wont be back till tomorrow morning however because she is writing a book on spirituality and doing some research at an all night Druid ceremony.” 

I was disappointed but I really did have to leave.  I told him to give her my best and if they had some down time to swing by Devere and stop in at the pub for a pint and a new sandwich I had just thought of.  “I think I will call it the Bill Pittman.” 

Bill looked a little stressed and said that he could not authorize the use of his name. “You cannot believe international copy right and licensing laws.  We would both get into trouble.  I do have a suggestion though.”

I stayed a little longer, we all hugged in a manly fashion of course and I started my journey back to Dever.

Bev and Abdul at last have a signature dish for the menu and the new item has proven to be a big hit at O'Brians Black and Tan.  It is a barbeque pulled beef or pork sandwich called the Emerald Buffalo.  Cole slaw and baked beans are extra.

 

Our Emeral Isle - A Lot of Bull

Our Emerald Isle – A Lot of Bull

He pranced around the arena in triumph with his head held high in a majestic pose that called out to everyone that he was superior, he was dominate, he was courageous.  He was as bold as he was black.

When I was a young man I was not what you would call a good athlete but I was able to rise to the pinnacle of a mediocre career in one sport because, as my football coach said, “You don’t mind getting knocked down.”  The ability to get up from a pounding can serve a person well in the journey of life but one can not play the game after a certain age.  Ask any NFL player.

Now my brother Brian on the other hand was the type of young athlete that participated in the type of games that he could play into adulthood.  If you were choosing up sides for almost any adult team event he would be one of the first ones picked.  But regardless there comes a time when one has to hang up the jock and leave real competition to the young and think in terms of coaching or managing or just watching.  There in lay the crux and subject of this muse.

Brian and I were closing down the pub one evening and he looked a little forlorn.  I asked him what the problem was and he said it was getting close to October and it had just occurred to him that this past summer was the first summer in a very long time that he had not played baseball and that he couldn’t play basketball this winter due to there being no basketball court in Dever.  In fact, he said, that other than an occasional dart game there was absolutely no competitive or even non competitive games taking place anywhere in the village.

I could tell he was still pondering the situation while we kept cleaning and when we were through for the evening I decided we ought to dirty two glasses.  Over a black and tan or two I thought I would try to lift his spirits.  It was my duty as an older brother to give guidance and solace and care to my younger and weaker siblings. (Which also brought to mind that I was going to have to have a talk with Traci-she was staying out way to late these days - but to continue about cheering up Brian.)  I suggested that perhaps we could sponsor some sort of athletic event.  He thought that over for a moment and then said that was an excellent idea. (Most of my ideas are excellent and I am sure I stand in front of my kin and peers while they look at me in ah.)  So we started our planning process, which consisted first of drawing another black and tan.  Now what kind of sporting event should it be?

Football and basketball came to mind, but neither of us could name an Irish football (perhaps with the exception of Pat O'Brian) or basketball player, must not be in the blood.  Besides outfitting a team and preparing a suitable playing area would be very expensive.  Baseball was out because it reminded the Irish of cricket thus reminding them of the hated English.  Golf took to much room; boxing was not seriously considered due to the fact that there were enough fights on Saturday and Friday here at Dever’s and at every wake and funeral around the community; and Soccer and rugby were dismissed because we figured no one wanted to work that hard.  Boat racing was a possibility because of the lake near by but the boats at the wharf were more for commercial fishing and cargo and not for sporting.  Swimming?, to cold most of the year, volleyball?, too many short people due to intermarrying with the leprechaun county to the north and in the same token we both agreed that Dwarf tossing was a little insensitive and might alienate some of our customers.  Horse racing might have been a possibility but those who owned horses used them to pull carts and plows.  We thought we came up with a winner when chariot or plow racing sprang to mind, but the carts were old and rickety and I am not sure plow racing is even a sport.  If Bev, Abdul, or Taci were at our meeting, bocce ball, camel racing, and spin the bottle would have been suggested, but they weren’t so they weren’t.  Like Brian said, “Who can get excited over someone throwing big balls at a little one and most of the town wouldn’t be able to climb on a camel because they are so short and Traci would cheat.”

Brian eventually grew tired and said, “You know this is all just a bunch of bull, I am tired of wrestling with the problem.”   ‘Epiphany!’ or would ‘Eureka!’ fit better?

 ************

It was billed as the Dever Bull Wrestling Championship.  The village butcher donated an old bull just long enough for us to use it in the championship before it went under the knife.  It had just arrived by cart transport which as I found out later was the standard mode of transporting a bull in rural Ireland whether it for butchering or breeding. 

The bull appeared rather docile and walked around the pen like a whipped pup.  He really could be lead by the nose.  I think he must have been depressed because he realized that when there were no cows waiting for him in the corral, the end was near.  The fight had gone out of him.

The object of bull wrestling, Brian and I decided, would be sort of like regular wrestling.  The bull would be thrown on its back and made to stay there for 10 seconds one way or another.  Now we realized that no one man could take down a bull by himself so keeping in the spirit of having as many as we could participate we decided that there should be teams of a 5:1 ratio - five humans to one bull.  There was no particular reason for the number 5.  It was selected because we had five fingers on one hand.  Given that reasoning I guess it could have been 10, 15, 20 or in some cases 21 to 1 if all digits were counted and a male was doing the counting but 5 sounded about right.  I know too much information.

Seven teams entered in all.  All were sponsored by local entities.  The Catholic Church had a team of young seminarians who “just happened” to be transferred to Devere prior to the event thus making them eligible.  The police department fielded a team even though they had to use two who were serving a 30 day sentence for non support.  There were thee family teams whose sons were very large.  Being an election year the mayor sponsored a team that consisted of two women and even though he was applauded for his diversity it was thought he had very little chance.  And of course there was a team representing Dever’s Pub.

Among the odd makers it was wagered that Dever’s Pub would finish last behind the Mayors team.  They were probably right at the time because none of my regulars were in any shape to man handle a bull and those who were, were already on one of the other teams.  Brian and I were not eligible because we sponsored the event, Abdul was not a citizen he claimed, and Bev and Traci just right out refused.  Through guile and coercion and free drinks for a month we did manage to drum up four sods but were stymied on who would be the fifth. 

We were having a training and strategy session around the bar one morning, when a stranger walked in and ordered a pint.  He sat at the end of the bar and listened to our ‘going no where’ banter, which mostly consisted of trying to figure out who would be the fifth man on the team.

“Excuse me gents,” the stranger interrupted, “But I seem to understand that you are looking for one more team member.  I might be able to help given some sort of consideration.  I just arrived in town and know a little about bulls.  You see I am a Bull Baller, the name is Sandy.”

******* 

Dever’s Pub’s, team lead by its captain Sandy, having been duly elected by the team members, with a little help of a pint of two provided by the sponsor, was the last team to try their luck.  All other teams had failed.  No team even came close.  What appeared to be a docile creature when he arrived in Dever had regained some energy when a shipment of cows were herded into the corral next to his.  It sort of gave him some vim and vigor and like all lecherous old men he thought he might have one more time in him.  He needed to show off some is what I guess.  Typical male, but we Alpha males have no choice, it is our DNA.

I really didn’t think our team had any chance at all given the plan Sandy laid out but what did I know.  As the bull was prancing about flaunting his stuff four of our team, Sandy was no where to be seen, entered the arena ever so cautiously.  Instead of approaching the bull they stood by the fence separating the bull and the cows.  The bull kept alternating his attention between the intruders and the cows behind them.  He must have been concentrating very hard on if the new additions to the corral were a threat or perhaps he was just wishing they would get out of his way so he could gander on the cows and make his selection.  Regardless he was not paying attention behind him.  Sandy walked up behind him very stealthily and took the bull’s @#%& in his hand and started massaging them.  It looked like he said something out loud as he fondled the bull’s @#%& and then with a nod of his head, the bulls, Sandy nodded his head and the other team members approached.  Each member took a position by a different bull leg and gently bent each leg at the knee and the bull slowly sank down, first on all four knees, then on its side and eventually rolled over with a little nudging.  All the while Sandy was massaging the bull’s @#%&.

All climbed on the stomach of the bull, took the 10 count and all but Sandy jumped off and walked out of the arena.  Sandy positioned himself in such a manner as to make a fast get a way when he let go of the bull’s @#%& and ran towards the fence.  The bull jumped up and went in hot pursuit.  The bull might have gored Sandy but with great timing the butcher opened a gate leading to the cows.  This immediately got the bull’s attention and must have confused him some.  He looked at Sandy, then at the open gate and made a decision.  Instead of running Sandy down or even running though the gate like a young bull and having his way with one of the heifers, the wizened old bull walked over to the opening, through the gate, and, how should I say,  “A good time was had my all.”

During our celebration at Dever’s Pub that evening I got Sandy aside and asked him what exactly happened and how he did it.

“Well you see sir, I come from a long line of bull ballers.  You not being from these parts I suspect you don’t know that when ever we transport a bull from one breeding function to another we have to do it by cart.  Some bulls can get very obstinate and cause a lot of havoc, so a bull baller is hired to sit in the back of the cart, and place a bull @#%& restrainer on the bull’s @#%&.  You can imagine that in and of itself that can be sort of awkward.  But though a series of touches and massaging that have been handed down father to son over many years a technique has developed that enables the bull to realize that after the touch and massaging is finished one of two things are going to happen.  He will either be let loose to breed with a cow or @#%& clamps are going to be put on him.  If he protests the clamps come out and put on and tightened and the more he protests the tighter the clamps become.  A bull as old as the one this afternoon knew the drill very well and even understands the human voice.  He also knew me.  When I took his @#%& in my hands he recognized the touch and I told him to behave himself, do what he was instructed and I would not get the clamps out like I had on the way down.  See I was the bull baller who came into town with him.  So when he noticed the cows in the pen and my hands on his @#%& he figured out that if he did behave himself he would not receive the clamp and get to visit the cows.  Bulls are not stupid you know, they are like men.  Both can be lead around by their nose but are much more willing to behave if some one has them by the @#%& and a woman is waiting on the other side of the fence.

Our Emerald Isle - Ray is back

Our Emerald Isle – Ray the Raven

 

I have always wondered about homing or migratory instincts.  None of our leading scientists that study such things have ever come up with an answer that will pass the rigor of scientific analysis.  They seem to content themselves with the description of what and where animals go but never the how they manage to pull off.   

 

From time to time I think that perhaps they are making more out of it than they should.  I mean take geese for instance.  They leave their happy homes in the far north at a time when they think their water habitat will freeze over and always go to the same place where the water does not freeze, or if it does, not all of it, and if they are real lucky they get fed by a populace that think having geese shit on their lawns and lake bank is adorable.  Biologist have wondered for years how they get back to the same location year after year, but to me it doesn’t seem that complex.  It’s like they would just recognize the geography of the earth after a few years of following the leader and memorize the path so when it was their time to be leader they would not get lost..  The same could be said about whales traveling from Alaska to Hawaii;  they just follow the floor of the ocean.  Well I guess it could be that if whales can see that far through the ocean blue. 

 

However none of this explains how a bird can fly to Hawaii from Alaska with nothing but ocean below their flight path, or how a dog left by its owners in Omaha can find their old masters in Tucson, or even still how Ray the Raven ended up perched on one of the exposed beams of Dever’s.

 

Now you might remember Ray the Raven.  If not let me jog your memory.  When Bev and I lived in our log cabin in what really was the enchanted forest of the Alaskan wilderness, a stranger stopped by one evening.  He, as all strangers stopping by, was invited into the house for a warming fire and some tea and biscuits.  He had as a traveling companion a Raven that was  perched on his shoulder as he talked to us, the man not the raven.  The man was a little strange and rambling but every time I asked him about the raven sitting on his shoulder he would ignore me.  I would not let the matter drop and eventually the man became very un cordial.  He stormed out of the house in a huff because I would not let the matter drop vowing he would return “Never more.”  The Raven stayed however.  I guess it was because he was tired of the man’s ravings and being ignored or perhaps it was Bev’s homemade biscuits.  Regardless the Raven and I became very close and he would accompany me on most of my trips to see students scattered around the area.  I called him Ray. 

 

The day Bev and I left for Ireland I told Ray he would have to move on and join his own kind.  Raven’s don’t cry of course and I was not sure what Ray really thought about departing, but he took what I thought was a deep breath, turned his head stoically towards the east, flapped his wings for a take off and ventured forth to find his way in the world while we left for Ireland and our next great adventure.

 

I was woken last Saturday morning by the crashing and banging of pots and pans coming from the Dever kitchen just below our bedroom.  By the time I ran out the door to the landing overlooking the bar and dinning area I saw Abdul running around the area with a fishing net raised over his head.  He tripped over tables and chairs and shouted out words which I assumed were in Arabic for I did not understand any of what he was saying.  He noticed me behind the upstairs railing and pointed to a beam just above my head and to the right.  He managed to breath out the word, “Tanksgiving.”

 

I looked in the direction he was pointing and realized the object of his chase was a huge black bird.  To my astonishment I realized it was Ray the Raven, my friend and companion I had left behind or at least set free to make his way in the world when I left Alaska.  Ray did make his way in the world and made it over here.

 

Ray jumped off his perch and on to my shoulder.  We did not kiss or hug or anything like that, but he nuzzled his beak in my hair and moved it around it what can only be described as affection.

 

Bev came out of the bedroom and Ray immediately recognized her as she did him and he jumped on her shoulder and started nuzzling her head also.  Bev is a soft touch and immediately did what she had to do and left us to accomplish her task.

 

Abdul was a little taken aback about all this.  I quieted him down and the three of us, Abdul, Ray, and I sat down at one of the tables where I told Abdul about Ray and how we became friends.  Abdul said that he had never seen a raven nor a turkey but had heard us talk about them but couldn’t remember which one was eaten during the American Thanksgiving.  He knew we had talked about importing a “bird” to celebrate Ireland’s Thanksgiving next week and thought it had arrived yesterday on his day off and escaped from its cage..  He was just trying to catch it with the fishing net.

 

“Well.” I said, “Alls well that ends well it is said.”  At about this time Bev came from the kitchen carrying some tea and a plate heaped with biscuits.

 

 

 

 

Our Emerald Isle - What's Up Doc?

Brian was in the back counting money from the local poker game that no one was supposed to know about.  Bev was in the kitchen experimenting with a biscuit recipe, watched over very carefully by Ray the Raven.  Abdul had gone to Saturday night mass which I thought strange because he always wanted the Friday Muslim service off, along with any Christian or Jewish holidays that might come along.  He claims he just wants to pay homage to all, my guess is that he is hedging his bets.  Traci was in the corner whispering in the ear of some young hard body, and I was once again regaling my customers with the wit and wisdom of which I was and still am so blessed.

“So you see me fine lads, America has the best medical system and doctors in the world ”  And with the word ‘world’ I slammed my glass tankard of ale down on the bar.  Apparently I slammed it a little too hard because it shattered on the hard oak bar top.  My hand slipped from the handle crashing the outside of my palm against the glass shards.  A fountain of blood started spewing forth like a Texas oil well if in fact they still let oil wells spew. 

Every one in the bar was stunned at first and I was in shock I guess because I felt no pain and was mesmerized by the blood gushing out from the side of my hand.  MacDougal happened to be sitting beside me and immediately grabbed my wrist to stop the flow of blood.  McDaniel, sitting on the other side, grabbed the bar rag and pressed it against my opened wound.  Between the hand tourniquet and direct pressure the flow of blood slowed and then stopped altogether.

We all sat there for what must have been a short time even though in retrospect it seemed like a long time, when someone said we ought to get the doctor.  Some one else said that somebody would have to go get him because his car had broken down and he hadn’t the money to pay for it until his medical subsidy came in next week.  I told them it was not necessary because if we applied enough pressure long enough coagulation would set in and all would be fine.  I remembered that from my Army or Boy Scout days.  I couldn’t recall which exactly, not that there was that much difference in the training or application of the career.  I guess the Boy Scouts did have adult leadership though.

To pass the time I called for Brian to set up a round for the house.  MacDougal and McDaniel started to sweat a little, and I think I even saw a tear come to the eye of McDaniel.  “What’s wrong with you two? I asked, “I am the one in harms way here.” 

“Yes, we know that,” said MacDougal, “It is only that it takes both our hands to keep the blood from spewing out so you won’t bleed to death and we are just contemplating how we are going to drink our free pints.  Opportunities like this don’t come around a lot you know.”

It would have been an easy fix for my sniveling two sods if we had straws available but we did not serve enough soft drinks to justify the expense.  Traci suggested that she could lift the glass up to their lips but McDaniel had a harelip and the ingredients would fall on his chin thus wasting the brew and create bitterness and jealously towards MacDougal and everyone else in the pub I suspected because no one else had such a deformity that would cause the spillage.

I must admit that I became very proud of MacDougal and McDaniel when they decided that they could do without for awhile.  They thought that coagulation would soon occur and they were determined to put aside their concerns for the good of the community and my hand.  They both said they were of sturdy stock.  They hunkered down for the duration but their commitment seemed to grow weaker by the minute, they sort of started crumbling before my eyes.  You would think they were the ones to losing blood.  Depression can do strange things to a person I guess.

After a few minutes we all decided that perhaps the blood had coagulated enough and my two medics slowly released the pressure from my wrist and wound, but as soon as they did the fountain of blood returned and spurt out like the water from the blowhole of Moby Dick.  My two medics resumed their positions to stop the flow but more depressed than they had been for they realized it would be longer till they got some brew.

“Ok, enough is enough,” came a voice from the kitchen door.  Bev had been watching all this nonsense for a while and decided that I was not going to bleed to death on her watch. 

She instructed one of the boys to fetch Doc Leep and tossed him the keys to the moped.  She too new that the Doc’s car was out of commission and we would all just have to endure the extra time it took to get him and drive him back.  Another lad she told to fetch the water hose out back.  When the water hose arrived she told Brian to depressurize a keg of beer and stick one end of the hose in it.  She then took the other end of the hose slit it down the middle to a point where eventually she had two half hose bits.  She then took some duct tape and card board and made two straw type looking affairs.  “There now Mac and Mic, suck on these while we wait for the Doc.”   The procedure immediately revived my two saviors and fortified their resolve

Doc Leep showed up later than he would have liked of course and immediately went to work.  I knew he thought it was some what serious because he did not order his usual merlot prior to his stitching my hand.  I must say for an Irishman without the proper American medical training, he did a pretty good job. 

I asked him if being without his car caused him problems.  He said just a little, but not enough to forgo the extra expense.  “I really can’t afford two BMWs, I am not an American doctor you know.”