Nebraska

JAN 25. Etta still poorly but up and around. Hard winds all day. Hawk was talking. Helped with kitchen cleanup then shop work on Squeegee's fairway woods. Still playing the Haigs I talked him into in 1963. Worth plenty now. Walked up to post office for Etta's stamps. $11.00! Went to library for William Rhenquist's book on Court and Ben Hogan's Five Lessons. Finest golf instructions ever written. Will go over with Wild Bill, one lesson per week. Weary upon return. Skin raw. Etta said to put some cream on. Didn't. We sat in the parlor until nine, Etta with her crossword puzzles, me with snapshots of Wild Bill at junior invitational. Will point out his shoe plant and slot at the top.

FEB 2. Will be an early spring, according to the groundhog. Went ice fishing on Niobrara with Henry. Weren't close as boys but everybody else dying off. Extreme cold. Snaggle hooks and stink bait. Felix W on heart and lung machines and going downhill in a handcart. Dwight's boy DWI in Lincoln. Sam Cornish handling trial. Would've been my choice too. Aches and pains discussed. Agriculture and commodities market and Senior Pro/ Am in August. Toughed it out till noon—no luck with catfish —then hot coffee at Why Not? Upbraided for my snide comments about The People's Court. Everyone talking about Judge Wapner the way they used to gush about FDR. Wild Bill's poppa slipped into the booth and hemmed and hawed before asking had William said anything to me about colleges. You know how boys are. Won't talk to the old man. Writing to Ohio State coach soon re: sixth place in Midwestern Junior following runner-up in Nebraska championship. And still a sophomore! Etta tried for the umpteenth time to feed me haddock this evening. Went where it usually does.

FEB 9. Hardly twenty degrees last night. Felix W's funeral today. Walked to Holy Sepulchre for the Mass, then to cemetery; taking a second to look at our plots. Hate to think about it, but I'll have my three score and ten soon. Felix two years younger. Estate papers now with Donlan & Upshaw. (?!) Widow will have to count her fingers after the settlement. Etta stacked her pennies in wrappers while watching soaps on television. Annoying to hear that pap, but happy for her company. And just when I was wishing that kids and grandkids would have been part of the bargain, Wild Bill showed up! And with his poppa's company car, so he took us out to the golf club and we practiced his one and two irons from the Sandhills patio, hitting water balls I raked up from the hazards in September. Wild Bill in golf shoes and quarterback sweats and Colorado ski sweaters, me in my gray parka and rubber overboots. You talking cold? Wow! Wild Bill getting more and more like Jack Nicklaus at sixteen. Lankier but just as long. His one irons reaching the green at #2! And with a good tight pattern in the snow, like shotgun pellets puncturing white paper. Homer and Crisp stopped by to hoot and golly, say how amazing the kid is, but I wouldn't let em open their traps. The goofs. W. B.’s hands got to stinging—like hitting rocks, he said—so we quit. Have spent the night perusing Reader's Digest. Our president making the right decisions. Feet still aching. Hope it's not frostbite.

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FEB 20. Helped Etta with laundry. Hung up sheets by myself. Brrr! Heard Etta yelling “Cecil!” over and over again, nagging me with instructions. Would not look back to house. We're on the outs today. Walked the six blocks to Main for the groceries ($34.17!) and got caught out in the snow right next to liquor store. Woman I knew from a Chapter Eleven took me home. Embarrassing because I couldn't get her name right. Verna? Vivian? Another widow. Says she still misses husband, night and day. Has the screaming meemies now and again. Was going to invite her inside but thought better of it. In mailbox the Creighton Law Review and Golf Digest, plus a jolly letter from Vance and Dorothy in Yuma, saying the Winnebago was increasing their “togetherness.” A chilling prospect for mos

t couples I know. Worked in shop putting new handgrips on Henry's irons. Eighteen-year-old MacGregors. Wrong club for a guy his age, but Henry's too proud to play Lites. Work will pay for groceries, just about. Half pint of whiskey behind paint cans. Looked and looked and looked at it; took it up to Etta. Ate tunafish casserole—we appear to be shying away from red meat —and sat in parlor with magazines. Tom Watson's instructions good as always but plays too recklessly. Heard he's a Democrat. Shows. Etta's been watching her programs since seven. Will turn set off soon and put out our water glasses as the night is on the wane and we are getting tired.

MAR 4. Four inches last night and another batch during the day. Old Man Winter back with a vengeance. Woke up to harsh scrape of county snowplows. Worried the mail would not get through, but right on the button, including Social Security checks! Helped Etta put her Notary Sojack on, then trudged up to the Farmer's National. Whew! Kept a sawbuck for the week's pocket money. Hamburger and coffee at the Why Not? Happy to see Tish so chipper after all her ordeals. Checked out Phil Rodger's instruction book from library—great short game for Wild Bill to look at, although Lew Worsham and Paul Runyan still tops in that category. Helped Etta tidy up. Wearing my Turnberry sweater inside with it so cold, but Etta likes the windows open a crack. Shoes need polishing. Will do tomorrow or next day. Early to bed.

MAR 12. Etta has been scheming with Henry's wife about retirement communities in Arizona. And where would our friends be? Nebraska. We put a halt to that litigation in September, I thought. Expect it will be an annual thing now. Dishes. Vacuumed. Emptied trash. Hint of spring in the air but no robins yet. Wild Bill lying low, sad to say. Girlfriend? Took a straw broom into rooms and swatted down cobwebs. Etta looking at me the whole time without saying a word. Haircut, just to pass the time. Dwight snipping the air these days, just to keep me in his chair. We avoided talk of his boy and jail. Seniors potluck meeting in Sandhills clubhouse at six. Shots of me with Dow Finsterwald, Mike Souchak, Jerry Barber still up in the pro shop. Worried new management would change things. (Pete Torrance still my idea of a great club professional.) And speaking of, a good deal of talk about our own Harlan “Butch” Polivka skunking out at Doral Ryder Open and the Honda Classic. Enjoyed saying I told you so. We'll plant spruce trees on right side of #11 teebox, hoping to make it a true par five. Alas, greens fees to go to six dollars (up from 5¢ in 1940) and Senior Pro/Am will have to go by the way this year. Hours of donnybrook and hurt feelings on that score, but Eugene late in getting commitments. Everybody regretting August vote now. Would likes of Bob Toski or Orville Moody say no soap to a $1,000 appearance fee? We'll never know. Betsy said it best at Xmas party. Eugene looks very bad, by the by. Chemotherapy took his hair, and a yellow cast to his eyes now. Wearing sunglasses even indoors. Zack much improved after operation. Wilma just not all there anymore. Etta tried to make coherent conversation but got nowhere. Sigh. Upon getting home, wrote out checks to water and sewer and Nebraska power and so on, but couldn't get checkbook to zero out with latest Fanner's National statement. Frustrating. Sign of old age, I guess. Will try again tomorrow.

MAR 17. Looked up Wild Bill's high-school transcript. Would appear he's been getting plenty of sleep. We'll have to forget about Stanford and the Eastern schools and plug away at the Big Eight and Big Ten. Etta wearing green all day in honor of old Eire. Was surprised when I pointed out that Saint Patrick was English. Told her that Erin go bragh joke. She immediately telephoned Betsy. Late in the day I got on the horn to Wild Bill, but Cal said he was at some party. Kept me on the line in order to explore my opinions on whether Wild Bill ought to get some coaching from the Butcher, acquire some college-player techniques. Well, I counted to ten and took a deep breath and then patiently, patiently told old Cal that golf techniques have changed not one iota in sixty years and that Harlan “Butch” Polivka is a “handsy” player. Lanny Wadkins type. Hits at the golf ball like he was playing squash. Whereas I've taught Wild Bill like Jack Grout taught Nicklaus. Hands hardly there. And did Cal really want his boy around a guy known to have worn knickers? Well, old Cal soothed my pin feathers some by saying it was only a stray notion off the top of his head, and it was Cecil says this and Cecil says that since his son was ten years old. Told him that Erin go bragh joke. Heard it, he said. From Marie.

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MAR 20. Took a morning telephone call for Etta, one of those magazine-subscription people. Enjoyed the conversation. Signed up for Good Housekeeping. Weather warming up at last, so went out for constitutional. Wrangled some at the Why Not? Squeegee getting heart pains but don't you dare talk to him about his cigarettes! Lucky thing Tish got between us. She says Squeegee still doesn't know what to do with his time; just hand-washes his Rambler every day and looks out at the yard. Encouraged her talk about a birthday party for Etta with the girls from the Altar Sodality and the old “Roman Hruska for Senator” campaign. Ate grilled cheese sandwich in Etta's room. Did not blow it and broach party subject. Etta's hair in disarray. We sang “The Bells of St. Mary's” and “Sweet Adeline” while I gave it a hundred strokes. Etta still beautiful in spite of illness. Expressed my sentiments.

MAR 25. Worked out compromise with insurance company. Have been feeling rotten the past few days. Weak, achy, sort of tipsy when I stand up. Hope no one stops by. Especially Wild Bill. Sandhills’ one and only PGA golf professional is again favoring us with his presence in the clubhouse. Will play dumb and ask Harlan about his sickly day at the Hertz Bay Hill Classic. Etta's temperature gauge says it's fifty-two degrees outside; March again going out like a lamb. Ike biography petered out toward the end. Haven't been able to sleep, so I took a putter from the closet and have been hitting balls across the parlor carpet and into my upended water glass. Tock, rum, rum, plonk.

APR 1. Hard rains but mail came like clockwork. Nice chat with carrier. (Woman!) Quick on the uptake. April Fool's jokes, etc. Letters to occupant, assorted bills, and then, lo and behold, government checks. Wadded up junk mail and dropped it in circular file, then Etta walked with me to Farmer's. Enjoys rain as much as ever, but arthritis acting up some. Hefty balance in savings account thanx to Uncle Sam, but no pup anymore. One hospital stay could wipe us out. Have that to think about every day now as 70 looms on the horizon. Will be playing nine tomorrow with Zack, Mel, and Dr. Gerald S. Bergstrom, P.C. Hoping for another Nassau with old P.C. Lousy when “pressed,” and the simoleons will come in handy. Evening supper with Reader's Digest open under milk glass and salad bowl. National Defense called to task. Entire Navy sitting ducks. Worrisome.

APR 4. Have put new spikes in six pairs of shoes now; at $15 a crack. Wrist is sore but easy money. Dull day otherwise. Walked over to Eugene's and played cribbage until five. Eugene is painting his house again. Etta and I have been counting and think this is the sixth time since Eugene put the kibosh on his housepainting business. You know he's retired because he will not do anyone else's house. Have given up trying to figure Eugene. Walked past Ben's Bar & Grill on the way home. Just waved.

APR 10. Wonderful golf day. Timothy grass getting high in the roughs, but songbirds out, womanly shapes to the sandhills up north, cattails swaying under the zephyrs, great white clouds arranging themselves in the sky like sofas in the Montgomery Ward. Homer and Crisp played nine with me and zigzagged along in their putt-putt. Hijinks, of course. Exploding golf ball, Mulligans, naughty tees. (Hate to see cowboy hats on the links. We ought to have a rule.) Even par after six, then the 153-yard par three. Hit it fat! Chopped up a divot the size of Sinatra's toupee and squirted the pill all of twenty yards. Sheesh! Exam- 177ined position. Easy lie and uphill approach. Eight iron would have got me there ten years ago, but I have given in to my age. Went over my five swing keys and thought “Oily,” just like Sam Snead. Hard seven iron with just enough cut to tail right and quit. Kicked backwards on the green and then trickled down the swale to wind up two feet from the cup. Homer and Crisp three-putted as per usual—paid no attention to my teaching—and I took my sweet time tapping in. Quod e

rat demonstrandum. Crisp says Butch has been claiming he shot a 62 here last July but, conveniently, with some Wake Forest pals who were visiting. Funny he never gets up a game with me. Tax returns in. Have overpaid $212, according to my pencil. Early supper, then helped Etta strip paint from doorjambs. Hard job but getting to be duck soup with practice. Will be sore tomorrow.

APR 15. Squeegee passed away just about sunup. Heart attack. Etta with Mildred as I write this. The guy had been complaining of soreness in his back but no other signs of ill health other than his hacking and coughing. Looking at yesterday's diary entry, I spot my comment on his “hitching,” and it peeves me that I could not have written down some remarks about how much his friendship meant to me over these past sixty-five years. Honest, hardworking, proud, letter-of-the-law sort of guy. Teetotaler. Excellent putter under pressure. Would not give up the cigarettes. Will keep pleasant memories of him from yesterday, say a few words at the service. Weather nippy. Wanted booze all day.

APR 17. S. Quentin German consigned to his grave. Especially liked the reading from Isaiah: “Justice shall be the band around his waist, and faithfulness a belt upon his hips. Then the wolf shall be a guest of the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid; the calf and the young lion shall browse together, with a little child to guide them.” And then something about a lion eating hay like the ox. Excellent applications to old age/erosion of powers/nature's winnowing process. Following, there was a nice reception at the Why Not? Haven't seen Greta since she had her little girl. Mildred wisely giving Squeegee's Haigs to the golf team at William Jennings Bryan. Etta and I took short constitutional at nightfall. Warm. Heather and sagebrush in the air. Have begun Herbert Hoover biography. Iowa boy. Engineer. History will judge him more kindly than contemporaries did. Low today; no pep.

APR 20. Etta sixty-seven. Took a lovely little breakfast to her in bed, with one yellow rose in the vase. Nightgown and slippers just perfect, she says. Foursome with Sam Cornish, Henry, and Zack. Shot pitiful. Kept getting the Katzenjammers up on the teebox. Hooked into the Arkwright rangeland on #3. Angus cattle just stared at me: Who's the nitwit? And then skulled a nine iron approach on #17 and my brand-spanking-new Titleist skipped into the water hazard. Kerplunk. Hate the expense more than the penalty stroke. And to top it off, Cornish approached me in pro shop with a problem on the Waikowski codicil. Hadn't the slightest idea what he was talking about. Sam has always loved those ipse dixits and sic passims, but that wasn't the problem. The problem is me. I just can't listen fast enough. Everything gets scrambled. I say to him, “What's your opinion?” And when he tells me, I pretend complete agreement, Sam pretends I helped out. Humiliating. Roosevelt at Yalta. Etta had her party today. She hadn't predicted it, so apparently I managed to keep the cat in the bag for once. Had a real nice time; plenty of chat and canasta. She needed the pick-me-up.

APR 25. Walked a slow nine with Henry and Eugene. No birdies, two bogeys, holed out once from a sand trap. Eugene and Henry getting straighter from the tees. Haven't pointed out to them that their mechanics haven't improved—they're just too weak to put spin on the golf ball these days. Lunched at Sandhills and shot the breeze until four, then walked by the practice range. Wild Bill out there with you know who. And Wild Bill slicing! shanking! Everything going right. Lunging at the ball like Walter Hagen. Butch dumbfounded. Addled. Looked at hands, stance, angle of club face, completely overlooking the problem. Head. Yours truly walked up without a word, put a golf ball on the tee, took a hard hold of Wild Bill's girl-killer locks and said, “You go ahead and swing.” Hurt him like crazy. About twenty hairs yanked out in my hand. I said, “You keep that head in place and you won't get so onion-eyed.” I just kept holding on and pretty soon those little white pills were riding along the telegraph wire, and rising up for extra yardage just when you thought they'd hang on the wind and drop. Walked away with Wild Bill winking his thanx and our kid pro at last working up the gumption to say, “Good lesson.” Will sleep happy tonight.

APR 30. I puttered around the house until ten when Wild Bill invited me to a round with Wilbur Gustafson's middle boy, Keith. We've let bygones be bygones. Keith also on golf team. Ugly swing—hodgepodge of Lee Trevino and Charlie Owens—but gets it out okay. Keith says he hasn't got William’s (!) touch from forty yards and in, but scored some great sand saves. Was surprised to hear I lawyered. And Wild Bill says, “What? You think he was a caddy?” Was asked how come I gave up my practice, but pretended I didn't hear. Was asked again and replied that a perfectionist cannot put up with mistakes. Especially his own. Hit every green in regulation on the front nine, but the back jumped up and bit me. Old Sol nice and bright until one P.M., and then a mackerel sky got things sort of fuzzy. (Cataracts? Hope not.) Well: on #12, Wild Bill couldn't get the yardage right, so without thinking I told him, “Just get out your mashie.” You guessed it: “What's a mashie?” And then we were going through the whole bag from brassie to niblick. Kids got a big kick out of it. Hung around and ate a hot dog with Etta, Roberta, and Betsy, then jawed with Crisp on the putting green. Watched as a greenskeeper strolled from the machine shed, tucking his shirt in his pants. Woman walked out about two minutes later. Won't mention any names.

MAY 6. Weather getting hotter. Will pay Wild Bill to mow yard. ($5 enough?) Endorsed government check and sent to Farmer's with deposit slip. Helped Etta wash and tidy up. Have been bumping into things. Match play with Zack, a one-stroke handicap per hole. Halved the par threes, but his game fell apart otherwise. Would have taken $14 bucks from him but urged Zack to go double or nothing on a six-footer at #18 and yanked it just enough. Zack's scraping by just like we all are. AA meeting, then Etta's noodles and meat sauce for dinner. (According to dictionary, P. Stroganoff a 19th century Russian count and diplomat. Must be a good story there.) Early sleep.

MAY 15. Nice day. Shot a 76. Every fairway and fourteen greens in regulation. Four three-putts spelled the difference. Took four Andrew Jacksons from Dr. Bergstrom, but ol P.C. probably makes that in twenty minutes. Will stop playing me for cash pretty soon. Tish got a hole-in-one at the 125-yard par three! Have telephoned the Press-Citizen. Her snapshot now in pro shop. Oozy rain in the afternoon. Worked on Pete Upshaw's irons until four P.M. His temper hasn't improved. Went to Concord Inn—Ettta driving—for the prime-rib special. Half price before six. And then out to Sandhills for Seniors meeting. We finally gave out prizes for achievements at Amelia Island tourna- ment. (Marie sorry for tardiness, but no excuse.) Joke gifts and reach-me-downs, but some great things too. Expected our “golf professional” to give me a chipper or yardage finder, something fuddy-duddy and rank amateur, but the guy came through with a seven wood, one of those nifty presents you don't know you want until you actually get it. We have no agreement, only a truce. Zack got a funny Norman Rockwell print of some skinny kids with hickory sticks arguing golf rules on a green. Looked exactly like Zack and Felix and Squeegee and me way back in the twenties. Talked about old times. We're thinking Pinehurst for next winter trip. Have suggested we open it up to get some mannerly high-school golfers to join us. (Would be a nice graduation present for Wild Bill.) Everybody home by nine.

MAY 22. Early Mass and then put in an hour mixing up flapjack batter at the Men's Club pancake breakfast. Heard Wilma has Alzheimer's. Earl Yonnert having thyroid out. Whole town getting old. Went out to links at noon. Wild Bill there by the green with his shag bag, chipping range balls into a snug group that looked just like a honeycomb. Etta asked him to join us. Have to shut my eyes when she gets up to the ball, but she skitters it along the fairway okay. Wild Bill patient, as always. Has been getting great feelers from Ohio State, thanx to my aggressive letter campaign and his Nebraska state championship. Everything may depend upon his ranking on the Rolex All-American team. Says he hopes I'll visit him in Ohio, maybe play Muirfield Village, look at videotapes of his swing now and then. Has also politely let me know that he now prefers the name William. Wonder what Frank Urban “Fuzzy” Zoeller would have to say about that? But of course the kid never heard of Wild Bill Mehlhorn and his cowboy hat at the 1925 PGA. Well: Went nine with him and got skinned. His drives now a sand wedge longer than mine, so I'm hitting my seven wood versus his nine iron or my sixty-yard pitch versus his putt. Waited on the teebox at #7 while some guys in Osh Kosh overalls and seed-company caps yipped their way across the green. Etta laughed and said she just had a recollection of Squeegee saying, Even a really bad day of golf is better than a good day of work. We all grinned like fools. Especially Wild Bill. Hit me that my lame old jokes have always seemed funny and fresh to him. One facet of youth's attractiveness for tiresome gaffers like me. Tried a knock-down five iron to the green, but it whunked into the sand trap. Easy out to within four feet, and then a one-putt for par. Wild Bill missed an opportunity. Etta got lost in the rough with her spoon and scored what the Pro/Am caddies used to say was a “newspaper 8.” Walked to the next tee in a garden stroll under an enormous blue sky, just taking everything in, Wild Bill up ahead and my wife next to me and golf the only thing on my mind. And I was everywhere I have ever been: on the public course at age nine with Dad's sawed-down midiron, and again when I was thirteen and paired three in a row, and on my practice round with Tommy Armour and Byron Nelson in 1947, or playing St. Andrews, Oakmont, Winged Foot, Pebble Beach, or here at Sandhills years ago, just hacking around with the guys. Every one was a red-letter day. Etta said, “You're smiling.” “Second childhood,” said I. Wild Bill played scratch golf after that and then went over to the practice range. Has the passion now. Etta and I went out to the Ponderosa for steak and potatoes on their senior-citizen discount. Have been reading up on Columbus, Ohio, since then. Home of the university, capital of the state, population of 540,000 in 1970, the year that her own Jack Nicklaus won his second British Op

en.

MAY 30. Went to Holy Sepulchre Cemetery with Etta and put peonies out for the many people we know now interred there. Etta drove me to the course—getting license back Wednesday. Eugene was there, trying out putters, stinking like turpentine, getting cranky. Went eighteen with me, but only half-decent shot he could manage was a four-wood rouser that Gene Sarazen would have envied. Were joined by a spiffy sales rep from Wilson Sports and Eugene just kept needling him. And a lot of that raunchy talk I don't like. Then hot coffee in the clubhouse. Was asked how long I have been playing the game and said sixty years. Eugene worked out the arithmetic on a paper napkin and the comeuppance was I have spent at least five years of my life on a golf course. “Five years, Cecil! You can't have ‘em back. You could've accomplished something important. Ever feel guilty about that?” I sipped from my cup and said, “We're put here for pleasure too.” And then we were quiet. Eugene crumpled up the napkin and pitched it across the room. Looking for a topic, I asked how his chemotherapy was playing out, and Eugene said he'd stopped going. Enjoyed my surprise. Said, “What's the point? Huh? You gotta die of somethin’.” And I had a picture of Eugene at forty, painting my window sashes, and headstrong and ornery and brimming with vim and vigor. Saddening. Hitched a ride home with him, and Eugene just sat behind the wheel in the driveway, his big hands in his lap, looking at the yard and house paint. “We have all this technology,” he said. “Education. High-speed travel. Medical advances. And the twentieth century is still unacceptable.” “Well,” I said, “at least you've had yourself an adventure.” Eugene laughed. Went inside and repaired the hosel on Butch's Cleveland Classic. ($15.) Watched TV. Looked at Nebraska Bar Association mailing about judges under consideration. Have no opinion on the matter. Etta sleeping as I write this. Hope to play nine tomorrow.

Nebraska

The town is Americus, Covenant, Denmark, Grange, Hooray, Jerusalem, Sweetwater—one of the lesser-known moons of the Platte, conceived in sickness and misery by European pioneers who took the path of least resistance and put down roots in an emptiness like the one they kept secret in their youth. In Swedish and Danish and German and Polish, in anxiety and fury and God's providence, they chopped at the Great Plains with spades, creating green sod houses that crumbled and collapsed in the rain and disappeared in the first persuasive snow and were so low the grown-ups stooped to go inside; and yet were places of ownership and a hard kind of happiness, the places their occupants gravely stood before on those plenary occasions when photographs were taken.

And then the Union Pacific stopped by, just a camp of white campaign tents and a boy playing his Harpoon at night, and then a supply store, a depot, a pine water tank, stockyards, and the mean prosperity of the twentieth century. The trains strolling into town to shed a boxcar in the depot sideyard, or crying past at sixty miles per hour, possibly interrupting a girl in her high-wire act, her arms looping up when she tips to one side, the railtop as slippery as a silver spoon. And then the yellow and red locomotive rises up from the heat shimmer over a mile away, the August noonday warping the sight of it, but cinders tapping away from the spikes and the iron rails already vibrating up inside the girl's shoes. She steps down to the roadbed and then into high weeds as the Union Pacific pulls Wyoming coal and Georgia-Pacific lumber and snowplow blades and aslant Japanese pickup trucks through the open countryside and on to Omaha. And when it passes by, a worker she knows is opposite her, like a pedestrian at a stoplight, the sun not letting up, the plainsong of grasshoppers going on and on between them until the worker says, “Hot.”

Twice the Union Pacific tracks cross over the sidewinding Democrat, the water slow as an oxcart, green as silage, croplands to the east, yards and houses to the west, a green ceiling of leaves in some places, whirlpools showing up in it like spinning plates that lose speed and disappear. In winter and a week or more of just above zero, high-school couples walk the gray ice, kicking up snow as quiet words are passed between them, opinions are mildly compromised, sorrows are apportioned. And Emil Jedlicka unslings his blue-stocked .22 and slogs through high brown weeds and snow, hunting ring-necked pheasant, sidelong rabbits, and—always suddenly—quail, as his little brother Orin sprints across the Democrat in order to slide like an otter.