Old Jack

Inca Trail, Peru - photo JoAnn Sturman

Scott Sturman

My mother's father, Jack, was a cattle rancher and banker from western Nebraska near the Wyoming border. He was a small man and despite a third grade education a wealthy businessman. He wore tailored suits with a large Stetson hat, smoked four packs of Camels a day, and enjoyed his whiskey.  One Christmas he gave all eleven of his grandchildren a picture of himself in profile wearing his customary hat and suit.  That particular gift selection was vintage Jack.

When Jack was sixty he decided to travel the world and documented his trips with thousands of Kodak slides to show his grandchildren. We saw pictures of mountains, deserts, cities, local inhabitants and fellow travelers. In the midst of photos from a presentation on Thailand was a child taking a crap in the middle of the road.

“Grandpa, what's that?” I asked.

Never mincing words that he considered terms of endearment, he replied, “That's a kid taking a shit in the road, WR. Those c**ksuckers are so tough that if they live to be five, you have to cut their heads off to kill 'em.”

Jack liked to show pictures of himself with other travelers. One such companion dressed in a dark suit with a black hat and a long beard looked very different from cattle country westerners. He and grandpa were sitting at a table laughing, having a drink, and obviously enjoying the company.

“Who's that, Jack?” my cousin Bob asked.

“That's one of them New York PhD Jews, Bobby.  I can talk to anyone of them about anything.”

That was not an understatement, for Jack had the gift of gab.  He was profane, inquisitive, and exceptionally quick witted.  It must have been frustrating for him to spend all his life in rural, isolated Nebraska with no one to share his intellectual interests.  New Yorkers must have been fascinated by this little cowboy with no formal education, who made millions and some say did his share of bootlegging and cattle rustling.

When I was teenager the entire family spent a few days of Christmas vacation skiing in Sun Valley, Idaho.  It was the first and last time the family celebrated the holidays away from Nebraska. All of the grandchildren and most of the parents skied, but Jack was no athlete and stayed in his room drinking whiskey.  When we returned, he offered us all a drink while we watched television and talked politics.  A favorite was the riveting game show “To Tell the Truth,” which featured celebrity panelist Kitty Carlisle, a sophisticated New Yorker.  With Jack having a few too many under his belt, the older grandsons decided to have some fun with him.

"Kitty looks like just the woman for you, Jack," I offered.

"You mean too much woman for him, W.R.  She'd tie Jack in a knot and make him cry for mercy," added Bob.

"You got that one right, Bob.  That little heifer would make Old Jack wished he had become a priest," added my brother Lee.

Jack listened for a few minutes, enjoying the banter of his teenage grandsons.  Once it was his turn, he settled back in his chair, took another drink, and declared, “I'd rather f**k a cow than Kitty Carlisle!”

End of discussion. 

“Priskna, four of us are flying two Hueys to North Dakota for reconfiguration at Minot AFB,” said Captain Henry. “It'll be a two day flight to get there. We should have some chances for low level flying. Since you grew up in the area, maybe you can show us around.”

The first day would take us from Arizona to Rapid City, South Dakota, followed by a short leg to Minot on the second.  We'd fly east to New Mexico then north along the Rio Grande Valley until crossing through Colorado, Wyoming, and Nebraska before arriving in Rapid City.

On the afternoon of the first day we landed in Denver to refuel.  I asked Captain Henry, “I haven't seen my grandparents for years, and they live in a town of 300 people in western Nebraska.  It's right on our way.  Do you think we could land there for a few minutes, so I could say hello?”

Captain Henry paused, then answered, “As long we fly under the radar, we'll stop.”

I called my grandparents' home and Jack answered. “Jack, this is WR. Four of us are flying two helicopters from Denver to Rapid City.  We're going to fly over your house, and then land at the airstrip for just a few minutes.  Can you meet us?”

“You bet, WR. Can you and your friends stay the night?”

“We can't. There's no good place to keep the helicopters, and the Air Force doesn't have a sense of humor about unusual itineraries.”

As soon as we cleared the Colorado-Wyoming border, we put the choppers on the deck. At a few feet off the ground and 100 knots the sage brush whizzed by the cockpit. The rolling plains, devoid of trees, people, and power lines, made for ideal low level flying.  North of Agate, Nebraska, we began to look for the distinctive water tower that marked Harrison, my grandparents' home town. Every so often we popped up to gain a better vantage point to spot the tower.  Once I saw the silver cylinder, we returned to ground level and sped towards the town.

Harrison was a very quiet place.  It must have been a shock for the residents of this sleepy ranch town to hear the Hueys screaming a few feet above the roof tops.  It reminded me of the time Bob Wade and I buzzed a town in rural Mexico and sent the chickens flying. We made some tight turns over Jack's house. He and my grandmother emerged from the front door and held onto their hats to keep the rotor wash from blowing them out of Sioux County.

Thirty seconds later we landed in a cloud of dust at the town's dirt air strip just a quarter mile north of town.  Jack pulled up a few minutes later in his Chrysler Imperial.  I jumped out of the cockpit and ran over to his car.

“Grandpa, you look great!  If Kitty Carlisle could see you now!”

“You know what I think about her, WR!”

We could stay only a minute or two, because a convoy of cars from town were speeding toward the airfield to see their version of the Thunderbirds.  They were not the sort to complain and revered the military, but it was not worth the risk of having a phone call made to the closest Air Force base.

It was one of the last times I saw Jack. As he waved good-bye, I sensed he would have liked to be riding with us away from small town life and onward to Rapid City, New York, and beyond.