Buddy's Simple Truth:
For every action, there is a reaction!

Prologue

My two youngest daughters were always fascinated when I would reminisce about my boyhood days. I would often choose the dinner table or the time while the family was traveling in the car to tell them of my experiences growing up in the "old days." In their world of the 1990s, it was hard for them to comprehend that there was a time in this twentieth century when there were no touchtone telephones, no TV s, no computers, no pocket calculators, no Internet, no EPA, no frozen dinners, and no Nintendo.

One day as we were traveling on one of our vacations, I had been entertaining the entire family with my boyhood adventures when Carla, the older of the two daughters remarked, “You know, Dad, you really should write all of these stories down and put them into a book. They’re really interesting.”

I reflected for a moment on what Carla had said before I spoke. “I don’t think the kids of today would be interested in life in the 1940s. They would probably find stories like mine boring and hokey.”

Carla’s younger sister, Krissi, joined the conversation. “We don’t find them boring and hokey, and we’re Kids of the 90s.”

I smiled at her enthusiasm. “You’re just prejudiced because I’m your dad.”

“Not so. The way you tell them, they really are interesting. I think kids would love hearing about your ride in the old Tin Lizzie*, or the story about gatherin’ bottles. Those are two of my favorites."
*Tin Lizzie was the name given to the Model T Ford.

…The girls' mother caught the spirit and joined the discussion. "I like the one about the blizzard of '49. In spite of the poor man's demise, I couldn't help seeing the humor in a dead man having to be laid out in a neighbor's garage, frozen for five days, until the roads could be cleared to get him to the mortuary."

Carla was in the backseat directly behind me. She laid her arms around my shoulders and nuzzled my ear. "See, Dad, it's not just kids that like your stories; Mom likes 'em too."

"I agree with the girls," their mother replied. "I think you should compile them into book form."

"Do you all realize how hard it is to break into the publishing field these days?" I asked. "Unpublished authors are a dime a dozen out there. No publishing house wants to gamble on someone who is unknown."

"You won't know that for sure until you try, now will you?"

I sighed. "No, I suppose not."

"Well then, it's settled. You've been outvoted." With that, Mrs. Edwinson laid her seat back and closed her eyes. She knew the best way to close the subject was to feign sleep.

*****

Later that week, when we had returned home from our trip, I sat at my word processor putting to paper some of my boyhood experiences. I began by describing to my readers the era in which the stories were set and telling something of the community where I grew up.

The Trials and Treasures of Buddy Crawford, I wrote, is a compilation of adventures in the life of a small boy in a simpler by-gone era of ten-cent movie tickets, five-Cent Coca-Colas, penny licorice sticks, five-Cent Hershey bars, and ten-cent double-dip ice cream cones. These stories are set in a farming valley in the southeast Idaho highlands during the 1940s. It is an era in America's history when a rural town with a population of five hundred people--give or take ten--could support most of the services needed to sustain a full life. State Highway 34 ran straight through the middle of Buddy's hometown; within the town's borders, it made up Main Street. Beginning at the north end, if you were to stroll down this street in the 1940s, the first building you would see would be the movie theater, where kids could buy a ticket for a dime and their parents could buy one for fifteen cents.

Next to the theater you would find one of the town pool halls where men-young and old--congregated to play cards, shoot pool, and discuss the latest news concerning the war. You would hear some singing President Roosevelt's praises while others called him a warmonger who got the country into a war only to bolster the economy.

Moving on down the street you would come to a cafe and then the drugstore. The drugstore was one of Buddy's favorite places to hang out because it had a soda fountain. If you had lived in those days, you would remember that soda fountains usually had gray marble countertops and wire-backed stools. You would remember that fountain clerks were known as "soda jerks" because they mixed drinks right in the glass using various flavored syrups and carbonated water from the fountain. You would also remember that hand-dipped ice cream was the main ingredient in thick creamy malts and milkshakes, ice cream sundaes, root beer floats, and twin-scoop ice cream cones.

Along the remainder of Main Street in Buddy's little town was another pool hall, another cafe, Roghaar's general mercantile, a clothing store, a five-and-dime store, two grocery stores, two gas stations, a liquor store, a blacksmith shop, and three car agencies. On one of the side streets were two farm implement dealerships, another blacksmith shop, a doctor, and a dentist. The town also supported two churches.

Last but not least, there was a local attorney who was nearly poverty-stricken because most people in those days settled their own grievances using common sense. His busiest time seemed to be when he would rescue the town wino from jail every Monday morning, or when he would file divorce papers for Mrs. Walton-she'd file a complaint against her husband once a month and then withdraw it.

Roy Rogers, Hopalong Cassidy, Tom Mix, and Gene Autry were the matinee idols of the day. Lux Radio Theater, Bing Crosby, Kate Smith, Amos ‘n Andy, Fibber McGee and Molley, Blondie and Dagwood, The Great Gildersleeve, Jack Benny, Red Skelton, and Bob Hope were among the mainstay entertainers on the radio. And America was at war on the other side of the world.

On the whole, Buddy was a happy kid who enjoyed his boyhood days growing up in this tiny rural town in southeast Idaho, in spite of the times when the bigger kids would tease him, or when the school bully would pick on him, or when he got into trouble with his parents, as most boys do. But Buddy overcame with no lasting scars. His summers were spent fishing, swimming, bike riding, horse-back riding, playing baseball, and going to the farm with Dad.

Come, journey back in time and join Buddy in ... His Trials and Treasures.

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Spring Adventure

This was Buddy's sixth summer on the planet Earth. The air was cool and crisp in the back bedroom of the converted lumberyard apartment when he awoke that bright May morning in 1941. There was no central heating in the apartment, just a wood/coal range in the kitchen and a large potbellied stove in the living room to provide warmth. It felt good to lay snuggled under the warm covers.

He smelled the aroma of his mother's cooking coming from the kitchen: bacon sizzling in the pan, coffee brewing in the old porcelain coffee pot on the top of the stove, and bread toasting in the oven. He had a hard time deciding which was more alluring, the warm comfort of his bed or the rich aromas from the kitchen. Being a growing boy, however, and in spite of the uncomfortable chill in the air, he finally succumbed to the aromas. Besides, today was the day Daddy promised to take him to the farm, so he had better hustle. He jumped out of the warmth of his bed, scooped up his clothes, and scurried to his favorite place behind the big black and white, coal-fired range in the kitchen. There, he could bask in its glowing warmth while he dressed himself.

His mother greeted him as he entered the room. "Good morning, Buddy. I was just going to call you. Daddy was wondering if you still wanted to go with him to the farm today."

"Oh yes, Mamma, I sure do."

"Okay then, breakfast is about ready."

Buddy finished dressing, and after washing his hands and face, climbed up to the table where his father had just sat down. His mother placed a plate of steaming eggs and bacon and hot buttered toast with strawberry jelly in front of each of them.

"What are we going to be doing today, Daddy?" Buddy asked his father as they ate their breakfast.

"We'll be breaking out a field of alfalfa, getting it ready to plant to sugar beets."

"'Breaking out,' what's that?"

"Plowing it up. It's like when you watch Mom spade the garden. She turns the dirt over with a shovel. That's what we'll be doing with the plow. It turns the soil over and flips the alfalfa underneath so we can plant the beets in the soil that's brought to the top."

"Oh boy, that means I'll get to ride with you on the tractor." Riding on the tractor with his father was one of Buddy's favorite things to do. He loved to listen to the purr of the engine and watch the soil being rolled over by the plow as it was pulled along. He couldn't wait until he was old enough and big enough to drive the tractor all by himself.

As Buddy and his father climbed into the black 1941 Ford pickup to head out to the farm, the sun was ushering in another day. It was shining so brightly that they had to squint as it made its appearance from behind the mountain to the east.

The pickup coughed and sputtered and then rumbled to life under the skilled coaching hand of Mr. Crawford as he gave the truck just enough choke to keep it running. He put the truck into reverse and backed out of the driveway. Buddy watched his father as he pushed the clutch pedal down, pulled the transmission lever into first gear, slowly let the clutch out, and started the truck in motion. Buddy continued to watch as his father shifted through the rest of the gears. Someday he would be big enough to drive, and he wanted to be ready, so he observed everything he could.

The air along the country road was filled with the fresh scent of wild flowers, and the birds were performing their morning chorale as Buddy and his father motored toward the farm.

Willis Crawford and his wife, Tillie, had lived in this peaceful valley most of their lives. Willis had bought 160 sixty acres of his father's farm, and he and Tillie had also opened a cafe in town. He was thinking as he and Buddy were riding along, This drive to the farm isn't really all that bad. Since I sold all the livestock, there isn't that much need to live out here on the farm anymore, and where Tillie is running the cafe, it's much more convenient for us to live in town.

Buddy sat there beside his father, looking out from under the hat that was too big for his head. He had been counting the fence posts as they whizzed by the truck until he became seasick and dizzy trying to keep them in focus. After a while, when he had regained his equilibrium, he turned to his father and said, "Daddy?"

"Yes, Son?"...

To find out more of what Buddy wanted to know from his father, ask for “Buddy…His Trials and Treasures” (ISBN 1-58736-406-9) at your favorite bookstore, or Order from amazon.com

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Fishin’

The year was 1944; it was Buddy's ninth summer, and today was the first day of summer vacation. Buddy lay in bed listening to the sunrise symphony of the birds. He had been awakened earlier by the ringing notes of their singing, as the harmonious tones drifted in through his open window.

He looked forward to lazy days of fishing and swim­ming in both the canal and his favorite river swimming hole, the "23." No one really knew why it was called the 23, except that someone years ago was supposed to have dropped a rope down into the pool, and it allegedly measured twenty-three feet to the bottom. Buddy still enjoyed going to the fields with his father, but he also enjoyed these times of just being a boy.

He continued languishing under the comfort of the warm covers. As he did so, he thought to himself, I wonder if Mont or Lionel can go fishing with me today. I'd sure like to see if we can catch old Big Tom.

When he entered the kitchen for breakfast that morning, his father had already left for the farm. His mother told him, "Daddy decided to let you sleep in this morning. He thought you might like to play with your friends. Have you made any plans for today?"

"Well, how about if I go fishing?"

"With whom?"

"I thought I'd go over to see if Mont or Lionel could go with me."

"Okay, but you promise to be careful, and don't fool around too much." Mrs. Crawford knew that the boys would not confine their activities to just fishing, but would have to get in a little swimming as well. Buddy was a pretty good swimmer by now, but even so, his mother was still apprehensive of him going swimming with a bunch of boys, most of whom were older than he.

Buddy finished his breakfast; grabbed the gourmet lunch consisting of tuna fish sandwiches, bottled peaches, potato chips, a thermos of milk, and the chocolate cupcakes his mother usually baked for these occasions; picked up the long willow fishing pole his dad had fixed up for him; and ran out the door yelling, "I'll see you later, Mamma."

With the bill of his baseball cap tilted on the top of his forehead, exposing a lock of his natural platinum blond hair, he hurried on over to his cousin Lionel's house to see if he and his older brother Monty could go fishing with him. Buddy really liked Monty. He was a gentle, kind soul, and though he was several years older than Buddy, he always treated Buddy with respect, just as if they were both the same age. Some people thought Monty was mentally retarded; actually, he just hadn't quite caught up with his peers. He and Buddy got along fabulously because Buddy never really paid attention to the fact that Monty was not quite as swift as the other kids his age. He accepted him as he was, and there was nothing Monty would not do for Buddy.

Buddy tore into the room just off the kitchen that was used as Monty's bedroom. Lionel had left, and Monty was still in bed.

"Good morning, Mont," Buddy greeted. That's what everybody called Monty, because another member of their group was also named Monte; only he spelled his name with an "e" on the end, instead of a "y."

"How's about you and me goin' fishin' in the canal today?"

Mont rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "Sure," he said. "You bring any worms with you? We'll need some worms."

"Yeah you're right. I plum forgot about bait."

Mont threw back the covers. "That's okay, we can dig some here. My dad watered the garden last night, so there should be some good worms fairly close to the top."

"Terrific!" Buddy exclaimed. "You got a shovel?"

"Yeah, but I gotta get dressed and eat something first."

After Mont had dressed and eaten his breakfast snack of cold cereal and toast, he walked into the garage and came back with a spade and a can.

"Good show, Mont. Let's get to it! You dig and I'll pick the worms out of the dirt," Buddy said.

It was easy digging, so it wasn't long before they had harvested a big can full of nice, fat, juicy worms. "Boy, these oughta make the fish smack their lips," exclaimed an excited Buddy. "Come on Mont, let's get gain'. I wonder if we will be lucky enough to snag Big Tom today." Big Tom was the name they had given to an old carp that resided in the canal. They had been trying to catch him for two summers. They figured he must be at least four feet long and weigh fifteen pounds or more. Maybe today would be their day.

It was a warm lazy day on the canal bank. Buddy was studying the fishing pole Mont had brought.

"Isn't that one of your dad's good poles? Did you ask him if it was okay to use it today?"

"Yes it is, Buddy. And no, I didn't ask him, because I didn't know we would be going fishing until you came over to my house this morning and asked me to go with you. So I didn't have a chance to ask him."

"Boy, I hope nothing happens to it, Mont. I wouldn't dare use any of my dad's good poles without asking him."

"Nothin's going to happen Buddy. And besides, we'll be home before Dad gets home, and he'll never know I borrowed it."

"Well, okay. It's your neck, but I'd sure hate to lose a fishin' partner because you get grounded for not asking to use that pole."

"Will you relax, Buddy? Nothin's gonna happen. I'll be real careful."

They had their poles anchored, and Buddy and Mont were lying on the bank chatting about this and that, not paying much attention to anything, when Buddy cried out, "Holy smokes, Mont! There goes your fishing pole tearing lickety-split down the canal. Quick, grab it. Grab it!"...

Well, folks, this should give you a little taste of what the “Buddy” stories are all about. If you would like to read more, ask for “Buddy…His Trials And Treasures (ISBN 1-58736-406-9) at your favorite bookstore, or Order from amazon.com and get your copy to find out what happens to Mont’s fishing pole. Thanks for joining Buddy and Mont.
- Will Edwinson

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"The short stories in Buddy are delightful in every detail, evoking memories of childhood in an era now past. Approached through the innocence of youth, but garnished with the perspective of maturity, these recounted experiences bring back our own early memories of discovery. Whether you grew up in the rural west, or in urban New York City, you'll find a joyous and familiar ring to Buddy's exploits."
- Trish Oak and Halli Stone - The Trish and Halli Show

"For more than a year Will Edwinson spun his 'Buddy' tales each month for IDAHO magazine's readers. We were amazed at the amount of positive feedback we got from readers of all ages, men and women alike. There seems to be a little bit of Buddy in each of us. These stories take us back to simpler days and times, but today's young people can relate to them as well. Buddy will remind you of your best friend, your mischievous brother, your son with a toad in his pocket and a missing front tooth, or the little boy who chased you on the playground and dipped your pigtails into the ink wells. Buddy win take a place in your heart."
- Kitty Fleischman - Publisher/Editor, IDAHO magazine

Please visit your favorite bookstore and ask for “Buddy…His Trials and Treasures” (ISBN 1-58736-406-9), or Order from amazon.com

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