GETTIN' TO THE CHURCH ON TIME
The wedding was to begin after supper, about seven thirty that night, some ten miles to the south in the auditorium of the Homestead-Darrow consolidated school. As the pianist, Doc felt it only fitting and proper that he should be early for the wedding, and he had every good intention of doing just that. His formal clothes were packed in a battered, brown Samsonite standing by the front door, and he was washing down a slice of chocolate cake with a glass of cold buttermilk when the phone rang. Had the call not come at that exact time, the day would have turned out differently. But come it did, and he picked up the receiver on the second ring.
"Doc, it's Virgil Helton. I got me some calving trouble. It’s one of my new heifers. Can you come out?"
"How long's she been in labor, Virgil?"
"Oh, three, maybe four hours, I guess. Could be longer. Saw her this morning when I fed, but missed her this afternoon. Took me an hour to find her."
Doc glanced at his watch, thought of the wedding and asked, "How come you waited so long to call?"
Well, Virgil thought she'd have the calf on her own, and then, to be honest, he was a little short on cash. Although he hated to bother, he'd be obliged if Doc could come. "Sure would hate to lose that calf."
And so it was that Doc pulled on his working boots, pushed a brown Stetson back on his head, threw the Samsonite in the back of the formerly white '54 Ford pickup parked in the yard, and headed out for the Helton place. The pickup's tires were spinning and dirt and gravel were flying as he turned north onto the highway. As the only vet in town, he was used to being called at all hours of the day and night, and he wasn't really upset. That was just the way he drove when he had some place to go and was in a hurry to get there. And Doc was usually in a hurry.
The Helton place was five north, three east and a half-mile back north again on the west side of the road, just past the Deep Creek Bridge. Virgil’s father built the one-story, four-room frame house a few years after he returned from the war to end all wars, in 1918. Not much about the house had changed since. Virgil stood on the front porch and watched the dust trail of Doc’s pickup as it approached from the south. He methodically sliced a generous portion of tobacco from a plug of Day’s Work, placed it between his cheek and gum and began to chew the cud slowly. He placed the remaining plug of tobacco in the bib of his striped overalls, carefully folded the knife and returned it to his pocket; then pulled the bill of his Farmer’s Co-Op cap lower to shield his eyes from the late afternoon sun.
As the cloud of dust drew near, Virgil leaned out over the edge of the porch, spit a hearty stream of brown juice on the dry grass, and then stepped down as Doc turned into the drive. He ambled toward the pickup while an old, arthritic blue tick hound bayed from beneath the porch and a couple of white pointers ran around the pickup barking furiously as though they thought it was expected of them.
"Shut up, dad-burn it!" he yelled at the dogs as Doc rolled his window down.
"Well, where is she Virgil? Let's get after it. We're a-burnin' daylight."
Virgil motioned for Doc to follow as he walked across the yard, unlatched a wooden gate next to the barn and held it open while Doc drove the pickup through. He closed the gate, then squeezed his generous bulk onto the seat on the passenger's side and motioned to a path in the grass. "Heifer's down in a draw by the creek," and leaned out the window to spit.
Sure enough, about a half-mile back in the pasture they found her. A bald-face, dark red heifer, she was lying in knee high grass behind a plum thicket, back a little way from the creek, in the shade of a horse apple tree. Doc pulled the pickup out of her sight and parked it on the edge of the bluff above the creek.
“Don’t slam the door. I want to see what we’re lookin’ at,” Doc advised. “And I don’t want to have to chase her down to do it.”
They eased down the slope and edged around the side of the plum thicket. As soon as she saw the men, the heifer raised her head and tried to stand, but she didn’t make it. Her rear legs just wouldn’t cooperate and she lay back in the grass and watched with a wild-eyed stare.
"She looks pretty tired, Virgil. I may have to pull the calf, but I need to see what the problem is first. Can you get my bag and that come-along out of the pickup?" Doc asked and backpedaled until he was behind the thicket and out of the heifer’s sight.
“And get that lariat rope there in the bed in case I have to snub ‘er down.”
“Come-along? You mean this fence stretcher?” Virgil called from the pickup.
“Fence stretcher…come-along, call it whatever you want to call it. Just get it.” Doc was in a hurry.
Virgil panted hard as he hurried back from his errand, set the bag and the come-along down on the ground and looked at Doc expectantly.
“Now listen. I don’t want to spook her,” Doc said softly. “If she manages to get up, I may have to rope ‘er and I don’t like to do that on foot.”
“Whatcha want me to do?” Virgil asked.
Doc thought for minute. “Tell you what. You stand over there where she can see you, but not too close. She knows you, and if you’ve got her attention, she won’t be worryin’ about anything else. I’m gonna slip up from behind where she won’t see me.”
“What’ll I do if she tries to get up again?”
“Just back off some more and talk real low. Now, if I can, I’ll get this stretcher on the calf. Then when I put on some tension and feels the pull, I think she’ll stay put.” Doc removed a tool belt from the bag, buckled it around his waist, tucked a towel under the belt, then picked up the come-along and disappeared from view behind the dense foliage of the wild plum thicket.
“You watch out, Doc!” Virgil called out. “She’s wild as a jack rabbit and liable to kick your head right off.”
“Low Virgil! Low…I said talk low, not yell to high heaven” came from the far side of the thicket.
The heifer was occupied with her own efforts and kept her eyes fixed on Virgil. Now fence stretchers were not originally designed as veterinary obstetrical tools, but they do come in pretty handy in all sorts of situations, depending on one’s needs. Doc hooked one end of the stretcher around the trunk of the horse apple tree, hung his hat on a tree limb, dropped to his knees and began to inch his way on his belly through the grass toward the south end of the heifer, dragging the stretcher behind him.
This is a real minefield, he thought to himself as he carefully navigated his way around and between piles of cow manure, some fresh and some sun-dried and fairly safe.
In just a little bit, Doc was close enough to see what he needed to see. One of the calf’s feet was visible, but that was all. He crawled closer, grasped the foot and began to pull gently but steadily. The heifer seemed to sense the pulling sensation and began to quiet down some, but continued grunting softly with each contraction. Doc formed a loop in the OB chain, slipped the loop around the protruding calf’s foot, just above the hoof and below the fetlock, hooked the other end of the OB chain to the come-along and slowly cranked the stretcher just enough to put a little tension on the foot, but not too much.
Now, if she’ll just hold still for a couple of minutes, Doc thought to himself, and began to speak soothingly to the heifer.
“Soo bossy, soo,” Doc repeated over and over again as he rolled up his sleeves and checked her out. He could tell right off that the problem wasn’t the calf’s size. It was in the wrong position to deliver. Instead of leading with its nose, the calf’s neck was bent downward, so that its jaw was touching its chest. So, Doc pushed back on the chest to create some room, and pulled head up until the nose appeared on the outside next to the chained foot. Quickly he found the other leg, and drew it into view as well. The calf wasn’t overly large, and ordinarily, that would have been all that was necessary for the heifer to deliver her calf, but she was too exhausted to push any more and help was needed. He attached a second chain to the newly found foot, and called to Virgil.
"If you want to see this, come on over here.”
Virgil straightened up, edged away from the heifer’s view and retreated behind the plum thicket, shortly appearing behind Doc.
"Is it still alive?” Half squatting, hands on his knees, Virgil anxiously rubbed his hands on the pants legs of his overalls and leaned over Doc's shoulder to get a better view. In spite of the shade from the plum bushes, beads of sweat covered his face. The red heifer just lay there, wide-eyed, her breath coming in shallow grunts.
"You don't look so good, Virgil. What happened? Swallow your chew?" Doc grinned. “Maybe you’d better sit down.”
Doc applied some more tension on the stretcher lever, and with just a couple of cranks, the calf’s head appeared. He gave the stretcher another pull, then grasped the calf’s legs and tugged on one leg then the other, as though walking the calf through the birth canal and into the world. At the same time he progressively rotated the calf so that it was lying on its left side. Shortly after that, with another crank or two on the come-along, the chest appeared, followed by the belly, rear legs and tail, in that order. The calf took a couple of shallow breaths and moved its head. Doc cleared the calf’s nose and mouth of mucus, unhooked the OB chains and he and Virgil retreated to the base of the rise, below the pickup to see what would happen.
Well, the heifer began to low for her calf. She struggled to get her rear legs under her, then managed to get up on all fours and began licking and nudging the calf. The calf responded with a little bawl itself, stood unsteadily, first tottering for a few steps then found a teat and started to suck.
"Well, I'll swan," Virgil sighed, “a little heifer."
Doc was a mess. Glancing at his watch, he saw he had only about forty-five minutes until the wedding was to begin. The single dressing room at the school would be packed by the time he arrived, and as the pianist he needed to be ready to play. He could see he was going to have to get dressed before he left Virgil's place, so he knelt down on some grass beside the creek and washed up as best he could.
When they got back to the house, Doc sent Virgil to the house for something cold to drink, then placed the Samsonite on the tailgate of the pickup. He flipped open the locks, raised the lid of the suitcase, then took off his shirt and started to change. He removed an old black evening gown from the open suitcase and pulled it over his head. The gown had ruffles around the top and bottom, and was held up by little black straps, leaving his broad, hairy shoulders bare. There was plenty of padding sewn in just the right places to add some curves, and the dress came with a pair of black ear bobs to match, which he clipped on. Next came an auburn wig with a sturdy permanent wave, followed by white gloves with the fingers cut out so he could still play the piano. Stepping to the outside rear view mirror he added some rouge and red lipstick, and then stuffed his shirt into the empty suitcase.
Virgil, who had returned a few moments earlier, stood transfixed, with a cold RC Cola in each hand and stared slack-jawed as Doc rolled his pant legs up to the knees.
“Well, that oughta do it. What do you think?” Doc asked with hand on hip and a lilt in his voice.
“What in the Sam-Hill is goin’ on here?” Virgil stuttered.
Virgil’s expression, Doc said later, made the drive to deliver the calf well worth the trip, and after he quit laughing, he explained.
“Well, it’s like this. The Roundup Club is tryin’ to raise money for some new buckin’ chutes down at the rodeo arena. They’re puttin’ on these skits when they get a chance, and if they sell enough tickets, we’ll have us some new chutes.
“Jest what kinda skit you talkin’ ‘bout?”
“A ‘Womanless Wedding’ is what they call ‘em, ‘cause everyone in the skit’s a man, and a roper or a rider, to boot. You think I look funny? You ought to see Stubby Ludwig.”
“What in damnation ‘er you supposed to be?” asked Virgil.
“Why, I’m the piano player. And probably the only cowboy piano player in the county,” Doc chuckled as he took a bottle of RC from Virgil’s outstretched hand and popped the cap on the side of the tailgate. “You oughta buy a ticket and come.”
As he opened the door of the pickup, Doc glanced at the house, at the privy between the house and the barn, and then at Virgil. “It’ll only cost you a dollar, and from the looks of things around here, I think it’d do you some good to get out once in awhile. In fact, I think you’d make a fine bridesmaid.”
“Bridesmaid — like hell! I’ll tell you one damn thing,” Virgil advised. “They’ll never get me in a rig like that!”
Doc took a big swig of RC and said, “Well, you could at least turn loose of buck now and then. Never can tell, you might have a good time.”
“Tell the truth Doc, I do think you’re kinda cute, so you be careful, now" Virgil guffawed and punctuated his compliment with a particularly heavy stream of brown juice and a wide tobacco chewer’s grin…brown saliva oozed from at the corners of his mouth, framing an array of yellowing teeth and scattered remnants of his Day’s Work plug.
Tossing his hat in the front seat and hiking the dress up to his waist, Doc crawled into the pickup. "You see this boot? One more crack like that and you know where I'll put it," he warned. "And, you'll need more than that fence stretcher to get it out."
With that he turned the key in the Ford, pulled the gearshift into first, and made those tires spin as he retraced his way toward town.
Doc came to a full stop at the four-way flashing red light in town, and flipped on the radio in the pickup to 930 on the dial. The Four Freshmen crooned "a white sport coat and a pink carnation, I'm all dressed up for the dance" as he crossed the intersection and headed south on the road to the consolidated school with just about twenty minutes to spare. He would have made it on time too, if the left rear tire hadn't blown just as he crossed the Salt Creek Bridge five and a half miles south of town.
Well, that was just about the last straw, and before getting the jack out, he gave
the flat a good hard kick with the toe of his boot. He pulled off the white gloves first, lit a Lucky Strike, stuck it in the corner of his mouth and then got to work. He'd just finished tightening the last lug nut and replacing the jack, when a dark blue Cadillac pulled onto the shoulder and stopped a ways back from the pickup. The driver, a stranger, got out, surveyed the scene and asked, "Could you use some help ma'am?"
Well, the "ma'am" didn't register. In the past hour and a half Doc had delivered a calf, changed into his formal clothes, driven nearly twenty-five miles, had a blowout, changed a flat tire, and now was about to be late for the wedding. He was in a hurry and needed to put that tire in the pickup and get back on the road. He stopped for a second, dropped the cigarette on the pavement, ground it out with the heel of his boot and looked right at the stranger.
"Nope, I think I've just about got 'er whipped."
When a fellow is in a hurry and wants to keep his dress clean, he'll do just what Doc did then, if he's stout enough. He reached down, picked up the flat tire, rim and all, and one- armed it up and over the side of the pickup, where it landed with a thud. With that he hiked his dress back up, got in the pickup, cranked up the engine and tore off in his usual way, leaving the Good Samaritan standing right there on the road beside his Caddy.
As Doc told it later, when he glanced in the rear view mirror, what he saw was that fellow standing there on the road, watching as the pickup drove away. He looked again, and saw his own reflection in the mirror; the wig, the ear bobs and smeared lipstick. He started to laugh, and for as long as he could see, neither the car nor the driver budged one bit. They just got smaller and smaller and finally disappeared.
And there you have it. That's the way it happened after the call came, or at least that's the way it was told to me. Doc was a little late for the wedding, but no one seemed to mind when he told why later on. That was the same night that Elmer Slaughthauer's balloon bosom exploded when his groomsman accidentally stuck him with a straight pin on the way down the aisle. And Cletus Polk, who had drawn the shortest of the short straws and had to be the bride, had some more bad luck when he tripped and fell down the steps in front of the altar. Well, it wasn't as much a trip as it was a push. The fall broke his collarbone and he had to go to the hospital emergency room in the wedding dress. But that's another story entirely.
The End
Note: Bruce Naylor is a physician, a fellow flautist, and author. Bruce based his story on his own recollections of a fundraiser in his hometown in Oklahoma in 1953 called the “Womanless Wedding.” I had never heard of such a thing, but a little research revealed that “Womanless Marriage” fundraisers were quite popular in the 1950s and 60s. Evidently, folks were willing to pay nicely to see the men of their neighborhoods dressed in wedding gowns and bridesmaids dresses—all assembled to sashay down the isle. This has got to be the funniest fundraiser ever.

Bruce Naylor participating in a Womanless Wedding in 1953
Womanless Weddings are still being enacted, watch below(4 min.)




































Sinking of the 










Puppy Kodi and eight year old Rory
Kodi, eight months old