Milk Rustlers ~ another Kappa Phi Delta story

[Hardpan Curmudgeon SASS #8967]

The Milk Rustlers

 

So, the Kappa Phi Delta house was full of jocks.  Heck… if the house had ever been struck by lightning the entire San Francisco State College football program would have screeched to a sudden halt.  As it was, the program ultimately died anyway, but that was due to the weird social evolution of the school.  But again I digress. 

 

Now where was I…. Oh, yes!  The jocks!  So there we were; something like seventeen healthy young men living in the frat house.  Most were athletes; the few of us who were not playing college level sports were still quite active with intramural sports or individual pursuits, ranging from skiing to handball.

 

And then there was Hank.

 

Hank had played football all through his junior and high school years, junior college, and for two years at State.  At the time of this tale, he was recently returned from a stint in the U S Army and was limiting his sports to spectating.  But being fresh from the Army and working in a abattoir, he was in prime physical condition.

 

The point of all this is to present a profile of the ΚΦΔ population.  In other words, a bunch of really healthy guys with really healthy appetites.

 

And, as we’ve already established, we ate well.  In addition to healthy, home-cooked suppers five nights a week, we had a very well stocked pantry and refrigerator.  Everything growing young men needed.

 

Including that one staple, that refreshing source of calcium, protein, iodine, potassium, phosphorus and vitamins B2 and B12… MILK!

 

We consumed a LOT of milk.  And fortunately for us, this was in the day when we still had a “milkman.”  Depending on the season, two or three times a week we would get a delivery of milk.  Conveniently placed right there on our front porch, usually in some combination of half-gallon cartons or those new-fangled plastic gallon jugs.  And then we started getting huge, two-and-a-half-gallon containers with a spigot on the front that usually worked.  I called these “cowtainers.”

 

Those “cowtainers” were really neat – they fit handily into the refrigerator, you could fill a glass or mug right there with it in situ, and one of us (*ahem*) soon discovered that they could be handily re-cycled – the spigot was removable, lending it to being easily washed and re-filled with water for camping trips, or, more importantly, large batches of screwdrivers for outings, such as football games or the drive-in movies.

 

Well, one morning I was puttering about in the second-floor kitchen when I heard the doorbell ring.  My first thought was “that’s odd.  That doorbell hasn’t worked for months.”  But we were used to odd things failing then seeming to repair themselves in the old house.  After all, it was haunted…

 

Then my second thought was “Huh!  Someone must be at the door!”  Maybe.  After all, that bell had been known to seemingly sound itself on occasion….

 

So I wandered downstairs to the foyer.  When I opened the door I was greeted by a most unusual sight indeed:  Three young men.

 

VERY young men.

 

Standing in front of me was a youngster of about eight or nine years of age.  Shabbily dressed, wearing an expression that was at the same time stern, almost confident, and hopeful.

 

A few feet behind him were two colleagues, bearing a notable resemblance and similarly attired.  The eldest of these was perhaps a year or so younger and sporting a patch over his left eye.  Behind him was a gentleman of perhaps four years old.  Tiny fella; might have weighed between thirty-five and forty pounds, and presenting a formidable countenance, with his right thumb firmly in place in his mouth and eyes displaying a mildly lost but curious “what am I doing here?” expression.

 

I surveyed this noble group, then addressed the nearest:

 

“Yes?  Something I can do for you?”

 

“Mister is this your house do you live here?” he asked in return.

 

“Why…. This is the Kappa Phi Delta Fraternity House and yes, I do live here.  So what’s up, men?”

 

The youngster drew himself up as tall as he could, and declared with importance “Mister!  We caught this kid stealing your milk and we stopped him and saved your milk!” as he pointed to the obviously clueless four-year-old.  And sure ‘nuff, on the sidewalk next to the ragamuffin, sat a “cowtainer.”

 

I surveyed the scene and immediately decided that something was amiss – this guy not only didn’t appear to have the slightest interest in the carton of milk, but it didn’t seem likely he would have been capable of even lifting it – at twenty pounds, it was at least half his own weight.

 

So I looked over the gathering, and as kindly as I could, said “Oh, well, thank you, guys… I’ll just take it inside then” and took a step forward.

 

Suddenly, the “ringleader” moved in front of me.  Standing as tall as he could, he puffed out his hollow little chest, crossed his arms, and with a croaking but defiant voice demanded:

 

“Not so fast, Mister!  Where’s our ree-ward?”

 

Huh?  Did I hear this correctly?

 

“Huh?” I asked.

 

“That’s right, Mister!  We saved your milk and we want a ree-ward before you can have it!”

 

Oh wow… this modern age.  Our milk was being held for ransom!

 

I looked at their captain, held up a finger, and said “Hang on.  I’ll be right back!” and dashed back inside the house.  This was too good not to share.

 

I found Hank in his bathroom, shaving.  He was shirtless, but wearing black slacks, black cowboy boots, a black gunbelt sporting a black holster with a polished brass-framed 1851 Colt replica.  Definitely in “Kid Shelleen” mode.  Shaving cream on his face and a small towel tossed over a shoulder completed the image.

 

“Hank!  Quick!  Ya gotta see this!”

 

“Huh?  What’s up?”  he asked, looking at me in the mirror.

 

“Why… there’s a band of ruffians on the front porch demanding a ransom for our milk!” I explained with a big grin.

 

Hank grabbed his black cowboy hat, and he and I rambled back out the front door.  I introduced him to the youngsters, “Fellas, this here is Hank.  He’s sorta the Sheriff of Kappa Phi.”

 

The two older guys looked at Hank with three very wide eyes.  The young alleged milk rustler continued to watch vacantly, sucking hard on that thumb like a hungry calf.

 

After taking a moment to regain his composure, their skipper again puffed up, glared at Hank, and with a demanding voice barked out “Mister!  Your milk was being stole and we stopped that kid and now we want our ree-ward!”

 

I will give him credit – that kid had nerve.

 

But this was Hank he was dealing with now.

 

Hank cut an imposing figure in his half-cowboy outfit, very furry and brawny chest, shaving cream dotting his face, and fists on his hips.  His expression morphed into a steely-eyed glare as he made eye contact with each, starting with and returning to the leader.

 

And then, he took a deep breath – which made his own furry chest puff – and bellowed:

 

“I WANT MY MILK!  NOW!!”

 

The two older lads visibly trembled and wilted.  The brave and demanding leader was stunned into immobility; his jaw dropped, his eyes opened wide beneath raised brows, and he seemed to lean backwards, and would likely have fallen in that direction if he hadn’t suddenly began back pedaling.

 

The second youngster reacted similarly, except that his eye patch literally flipped up onto his forehead, revealing a match to the eye we’d already seen.

 

Being either more brave than his senior, or perhaps less, he suddenly grabbed the “cowtainer” by the handle and rushed forward, depositing it at Hank’s feet, then hastily resuming his original spot.

 

The li’l guy didn’t flinch.

 

Hank continued to glare at the miscreants.

 

“Awright, you guys – now, you listen and listen tight!

 

“I don’t EVER want to hear about ANYONE else’s milk being rustled.  You got that?  ‘Cuz if I ever do hear about anyone else’s milk being rustled, I’m a-gonna come looking for you. Do-you-UNDERSTAND?”

 

“Yessir!  Yessir!” the two older milk pirates responded most respectfully.

 

“All right then.  Now… GIT!”

 

Well, the leader was the leader indeed, and he led their very fast retreat.  “Patch-boy” had grabbed the little one by his free hand; he continued to look at us over his shoulder, his thumb still in his mouth, as they rounded the corner.

 

No milk was ever rustled nor ransomed in the neighborhood again.

 

I sincerely suspect that this incident discouraged these aspiring young crooks from continuing in their pursuit of criminal careers.  Indeed, I have fantasized over the years that by now one is likely a schoolteacher, one perhaps a judge, and maybe even one a priest.

 

And we had a really fun tale for the supper table that night.

 

 

                                                                                                                        

 

 

Note:  These stories are actual events as I remember them.  For the future SASS member's, I have used their alias's.  For the rest, I have occasionally modified their names - mostly out of respect for their mothers and wives, should any of those saintly women ever come across these tales.  

                    ~Hardpan Curmudgeon~

 

[Pat Riot]

That's a great story Hardpan. 

 

Reminds me of the kids that kidnapped my sisters cat and wanted ransom...they encountered my Dad, which was similar to those kids encounter with Hank. 

[Grass Range]

6 hours ago, Hardpan Curmudgeon SASS #8967 said:

The Milk Rustlers

 

So, the Kappa Phi Delta house was full of jocks.  Heck… if the house had ever been struck by lightning the entire San Francisco State College football program would have screeched to a sudden halt.  As it was, the program ultimately died anyway, but that was due to the weird social evolution of the school.  But again I digress. 

 

Now where was I…. Oh, yes!  The jocks!  So there we were; something like seventeen healthy young men living in the frat house.  Most were athletes; the few of us who were not playing college level sports were still quite active with intramural sports or individual pursuits, ranging from skiing to handball.

 

And then there was Hank.

 

Hank had played football all through his junior and high school years, junior college, and for two years at State.  At the time of this tale, he was recently returned from a stint in the U S Army and was limiting his sports to spectating.  But being fresh from the Army and working in a abattoir, he was in prime physical condition.

 

The point of all this is to present a profile of the ΚΦΔ population.  In other words, a bunch of really healthy guys with really healthy appetites.

 

And, as we’ve already established, we ate well.  In addition to healthy, home-cooked suppers five nights a week, we had a very well stocked pantry and refrigerator.  Everything growing young men needed.

 

Including that one staple, that refreshing source of calcium, protein, iodine, potassium, phosphorus and vitamins B2 and B12… MILK!

 

We consumed a LOT of milk.  And fortunately for us, this was in the day when we still had a “milkman.”  Depending on the season, two or three times a week we would get a delivery of milk.  Conveniently placed right there on our front porch, usually in some combination of half-gallon cartons or those new-fangled plastic gallon jugs.  And then we started getting huge, two-and-a-half-gallon containers with a spigot on the front that usually worked.  I called these “cowtainers.”

 

Those “cowtainers” were really neat – they fit handily into the refrigerator, you could fill a glass or mug right there with it in situ, and one of us (*ahem*) soon discovered that they could be handily re-cycled – the spigot was removable, lending it to being easily washed and re-filled with water for camping trips, or, more importantly, large batches of screwdrivers for outings, such as football games or the drive-in movies.

 

Well, one morning I was puttering about in the second-floor kitchen when I heard the doorbell ring.  My first thought was “that’s odd.  That doorbell hasn’t worked for months.”  But we were used to odd things failing then seeming to repair themselves in the old house.  After all, it was haunted…

 

Then my second thought was “Huh!  Someone must be at the door!”  Maybe.  After all, that bell had been known to seemingly sound itself on occasion….

 

So I wandered downstairs to the foyer.  When I opened the door I was greeted by a most unusual sight indeed:  Three young men.

 

VERY young men.

 

Standing in front of me was a youngster of about eight or nine years of age.  Shabbily dressed, wearing an expression that was at the same time stern, almost confident, and hopeful.

 

A few feet behind him were two colleagues, bearing a notable resemblance and similarly attired.  The eldest of these was perhaps a year or so younger and sporting a patch over his left eye.  Behind him was a gentleman of perhaps four years old.  Tiny fella; might have weighed between thirty-five and forty pounds, and presenting a formidable countenance, with his right thumb firmly in place in his mouth and eyes displaying a mildly lost but curious “what am I doing here?” expression.

 

I surveyed this noble group, then addressed the nearest:

 

“Yes?  Something I can do for you?”

 

“Mister is this your house do you live here?” he asked in return.

 

“Why…. This is the Kappa Phi Delta Fraternity House and yes, I do live here.  So what’s up, men?”

 

The youngster drew himself up as tall as he could, and declared with importance “Mister!  We caught this kid stealing your milk and we stopped him and saved your milk!” as he pointed to the obviously clueless four-year-old.  And sure ‘nuff, on the sidewalk next to the ragamuffin, sat a “cowtainer.”

 

I surveyed the scene and immediately decided that something was amiss – this guy not only didn’t appear to have the slightest interest in the carton of milk, but it didn’t seem likely he would have been capable of even lifting it – at twenty pounds, it was at least half his own weight.

 

So I looked over the gathering, and as kindly as I could, said “Oh, well, thank you, guys… I’ll just take it inside then” and took a step forward.

 

Suddenly, the “ringleader” moved in front of me.  Standing as tall as he could, he puffed out his hollow little chest, crossed his arms, and with a croaking but defiant voice demanded:

 

“Not so fast, Mister!  Where’s our ree-ward?”

 

Huh?  Did I hear this correctly?

 

“Huh?” I asked.

 

“That’s right, Mister!  We saved your milk and we want a ree-ward before you can have it!”

 

Oh wow… this modern age.  Our milk was being held for ransom!

 

I looked at their captain, held up a finger, and said “Hang on.  I’ll be right back!” and dashed back inside the house.  This was too good not to share.

 

I found Hank in his bathroom, shaving.  He was shirtless, but wearing black slacks, black cowboy boots, a black gunbelt sporting a black holster with a polished brass-framed 1851 Colt replica.  Definitely in “Kid Shelleen” mode.  Shaving cream on his face and a small towel tossed over a shoulder completed the image.

 

“Hank!  Quick!  Ya gotta see this!”

 

“Huh?  What’s up?”  he asked, looking at me in the mirror.

 

“Why… there’s a band of ruffians on the front porch demanding a ransom for our milk!” I explained with a big grin.

 

Hank grabbed his black cowboy hat, and he and I rambled back out the front door.  I introduced him to the youngsters, “Fellas, this here is Hank.  He’s sorta the Sheriff of Kappa Phi.”

 

The two older guys looked at Hank with three very wide eyes.  The young alleged milk rustler continued to watch vacantly, sucking hard on that thumb like a hungry calf.

 

After taking a moment to regain his composure, their skipper again puffed up, glared at Hank, and with a demanding voice barked out “Mister!  Your milk was being stole and we stopped that kid and now we want our ree-ward!”

 

I will give him credit – that kid had nerve.

 

But this was Hank he was dealing with now.

 

Hank cut an imposing figure in his half-cowboy outfit, very furry and brawny chest, shaving cream dotting his face, and fists on his hips.  His expression morphed into a steely-eyed glare as he made eye contact with each, starting with and returning to the leader.

 

And then, he took a deep breath – which made his own furry chest puff – and bellowed:

 

“I WANT MY MILK!  NOW!!”

 

The two older lads visibly trembled and wilted.  The brave and demanding leader was stunned into immobility; his jaw dropped, his eyes opened wide beneath raised brows, and he seemed to lean backwards, and would likely have fallen in that direction if he hadn’t suddenly began back pedaling.

 

The second youngster reacted similarly, except that his eye patch literally flipped up onto his forehead, revealing a match to the eye we’d already seen.

 

Being either more brave than his senior, or perhaps less, he suddenly grabbed the “cowtainer” by the handle and rushed forward, depositing it at Hank’s feet, then hastily resuming his original spot.

 

The li’l guy didn’t flinch.

 

Hank continued to glare at the miscreants.

 

“Awright, you guys – now, you listen and listen tight!

 

“I don’t EVER want to hear about ANYONE else’s milk being rustled.  You got that?  ‘Cuz if I ever do hear about anyone else’s milk being rustled, I’m a-gonna come looking for you. Do-you-UNDERSTAND?”

 

“Yessir!  Yessir!” the two older milk pirates responded most respectfully.

 

“All right then.  Now… GIT!”

 

Well, the leader was the leader indeed, and he led their very fast retreat.  “Patch-boy” had grabbed the little one by his free hand; he continued to look at us over his shoulder, his thumb still in his mouth, as they rounded the corner.

 

No milk was ever rustled nor ransomed in the neighborhood again.

 

I sincerely suspect that this incident discouraged these aspiring young crooks from continuing in their pursuit of criminal careers.  Indeed, I have fantasized over the years that by now one is likely a schoolteacher, one perhaps a judge, and maybe even one a priest.

 

And we had a really fun tale for the supper table that night.

 

 

                                                                                                                        

 

 

Note:  These stories are actual events as I remember them.  For the future SASS member's, I have used their alias's.  For the rest, I have occasionally modified their names - mostly out of respect for their mothers and wives, should any of those saintly women ever come across these tales.  

                    ~Hardpan Curmudgeon~

 

You should have paid

[Badger Mountain Charlie SASS #43172]

Now I reckon why they call you. HARDPAN.