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Musings from Moyieboy ... |
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Bummers In Time |
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March 1, 2017 |
By Ken Carpenter
Everybody knows a little something about
bummers, some much more than others because
things most consider inconsequential bum them
out. Others know much more for they are nothing
less than walking bummer exporters.
We all know a few, and we are usually aware that
most of them are totally unaware of their rare
talent to bum out the general populace.
Those who are conscious of their grating
aptitude for ruining other people’s day take
great pride in it.
The ones who are unaware may be pitied for one
reason or another, but that does not change the
fact that they should be tactfully avoided.
The bummer plague in American politics is
longstanding and refusing to do anything but get
worse. I decline to dwell on it, however, so I
will just pretend that all current politicians
are wearing big, red Bozo the Clown noses. That
seems to be the only way I can bestow a shred of
dignity upon their egotistical, bummer-spawning
noggins.
There are 184 Americans named Bummer, with
Montana leading the per capita count with four
per 100,000. That comes out to 37 Montana
Bummers. I don’t know if there is a married
couple with the names Drummer and Summer Bummer,
but if so I really hope they drive a Hummer.
A short tale from the 70s still pops up now and
then in certain local circles.
The Moyie Club was a Moyie Springs, Idaho,
hotspot then, and one of its patrons was a very
friendly fellow who had the misfortune of being
toothless. Drinkers being what they are, he was
nicknamed Gummer. He didn’t even mind, I guess
it seemed inevitable.
One Saturday night he didn’t show up and word
got around that he had suffered a fairly serious
misfortune. My brother then exclaimed the
semi-immortal words, “Wow, bummer for the
Gummer!”
Take care of your teeth, folks.
My head scratching interest in bummers proved
fruitful during my research, for I discovered an
intriguing story from 1860s San Francisco. At
that time, thousands of stray dogs roamed the
streets, and the common policy was to poison or
trap and kill them. Not always though.
A male Newfoundland adopted Montgomery Street,
which fronted a popular saloon, earning the
admiration of the saloon patrons and street
residents for his prodigious rat killing ability
and engaging personality. He was dubbed Bummer,
most likely because he was a bum, and declared
off limits to poisoners.
After cementing his safety, Bummer soon saved
another dog from a vicious dogfight and nursed
his new sidekick back to health. He brought food
to him, slept next to him to share his warmth
and in no time the almost dead dog recovered and
was roaming the street with Bummer. He was named
Lazarus for obvious reasons.
 They
were inseparable, and were such a good team that
they once killed 85 rats in 20 minutes.
Besides ratting, they stole other dog’s bones,
mooched shamelessly and were known to sneak into
local shops before they closed so they could
help themselves to whatever they wanted
overnight. Even these crimes were not held
against them, so they continued with their
seemingly carefree lives.
Many journalists, including Mark Twain,
frequented the saloon at the center of their
turf and Bummer and Lazarus soon became city
celebrities. Four newspapers competed with each
other to glorify their exploits, endowing the
pair's adventures with thrills and comparisons
to human situations.
They were once declared heroes for stopping a
runaway horse.
Eventually Lazarus was killed, some said by a
kick from a horse but most thought he was
poisoned for biting a boy.
San Franciscans put together a reward of $50,
the equivalent of $1,500 today, in an attempt to
find his killer. It didn’t work, but Lazarus did
merit a lengthy obituary in the newspaper,
titled “Lament for Lazarus.”
Bummer continued on his own, and while still
popular on the street, his status as a loner
quickly diminished his interest to the press.
Two years later he died a lingering death after
being kicked by a drunk, and to avoid violence
his attacker was arrested. The sot did not
escape a form of country justice though, for his
cellmate learned of his deed and “popped him in
the smeller.”
I think journalists back then had even more fun
than they do now.
Bummer and Lazarus still have a plaque on
Montgomery Street, commemorating their life and
devotion to each other. It concludes with these
words: “TWO DOGS WITH BUT A SINGLE BARK, TWO
TAILS THAT WAGGED AS ONE.”
I guess not all Bummers are bummers. |
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