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| George Haralson, 1960 |
Victims, survivors, tellers of the tales, we all became as the summer holidays neared. Oh, how golf swings changed when the bombs (M-80’s) exploded in their back swings. Men could be seen pounding their clubs into the ground shortly after a well-timed explosion occurred in the distance. The pro was never to be seen. Even women used explicit language to show their duress at the well timed M-80 explosions set off in the middle of their backswings by my father. However, over drinks in the bar the stories of the errant shots and the surprise bombs heard in the distance caused many hours of laughter.
One warm summer evening the country club’s adopted dog, Thursday, dropped by to check out the commotion and the picnic droppings. His bulldog jaws reminded me of a jumbo hippo chomping. English bulldogs have an unusual swagger to their short legged strut. Their massive jaws make light work of hot dogs and hamburgers.
Hot dogs and M-80’s have a similar structure, and Thursday certainly had a nose for food and trouble. Firecrackers, snakes slithering, roman candles erupting in the air, and sparklers all lit the evening surroundings. But it was the occasional M-80 blast that shook chips off our plates, causing mothers to scream and fathers to laugh.
It was also an M-80 that caused Thursday a great disturbance. The evening dusk was upon us, and to announce the forth coming fireworks display to the east of the golf course, the pro threw one last M-80 behind the crowd. Not in our wildest dreams did anyone expect Thursday to run with such deliverance to devour the thrown hot dog. But a hot dog it was not, the lit M-80 landed and bounced into the ready drooling jaws of Thursday. For that instant dozens of eyes, young and old, watched as Thursday took a bite.
The explosion was muffled but sufficient enough to blow out his teeth. Still no one could move, transfixed we were. It was Thursday who moved first, a lumbered side-ways step. Then a faint bellow could be heard from his belly, contrasted by high pitched screams from the women and children. I watched from the golf shop as the kerfuffle ensued.
Moms and Dads fell to Thursday’s side. The massive bleeding jaws were promptly wrapped in golf towels and his husky body carried inside. Ice packs arrived from the kitchen. The blue Ford station wagon pulled up to the shop door to load the wounded dog. Doc Smith, Johnie Stapp, and a small caravan of men pulled out. Mother’s said their goodbyes and grumbled about the dangers of fireworks. The children cried.
Time heals many wounds, so my mother often said. For Thursday and the kids time passed slowly. One day he was back, snaggled toothed, sagging jaw, and one droopy eye. His jolly swagger had returned along with his appetite, but his diet was no longer scraps. Like an old man he learned to eat his softened meals and swallow some pride. He stayed with us for a few more summers, and then one day he was not at the door begging.
Picnics were never the same for us, but children’s lives were enriched with stories to tell because of one dog named Thursday.
*The True Story: Thursday, the English Bulldog, belonged to George Haralson's family, and their dog did spend many of summer day at the club. He would follow the kids to the pool daily.
We all knew that Thursday belonged to the Haralson's but he shared his life with us.
George tells me that yes, Thursday ate an M-80 from a July 4th Fireworks but that he ate it on the front porch of the Haralson's home, never at the club. The results were the same, no matter where Thursday stood that fateful day. Like the story goes, he lived through that explosion to wag his tail again.
**The funny story is that all of these years that I have told that story to audiences, I believed I really saw it happen. When George told me his version last summer, I was shocked.
