The Pittsburgh Press (April 10, 1942)
Rambling Reporter
By Ernie Pyle
TUCSON, Ariz. – Do any of you remember Rudy Hale and his wife, the snake-catchers I wrote about several years ago?
They lived way out on the Arizona desert, ran a filling station on the side, and made their main living by catching rattlesnakes for zoos, collectors and serum manufacturers. When I first wrote about them, they had caught some 25,000 rattlesnakes with their bare hands in nine years.
A couple of years after that, I stopped past to see them. They were down-in-the-mouth. They had so depopulated the snakes that they had to drive 25 miles to find one.
1 stopped past again this trip. Their house and filling station were boarded up, and a big sign said, “Closed–Keep Out.” I couldn’t find what had happened to them, for the desert is mighty empty out there, and there was nobody to ask.
I guess they just ran clear out of snakes and had to leave.
Finally reads a book
Something strange happened to me the other night. I actually read a book. Can’t figure out what caused me to do it. It certainly isn’t like me. For in the last seven years I’ve read fewer books than all the village idiots put together.
But in Phoenix one night I couldn’t get to sleep, so I read a book. It was John Steinbeck’s “The Moon Is Down.” It’s a very short book, so I’ll give it a very short review, to wit:
I liked it. but not as well as “Tortilla Flat” or “Of Mice and Men.”
Two and a half years ago, when we were in Tucson, I bought a pair of blue pajamas.
Since that time those pajamas have been twice to Panama, all through Central America, several times across the continent, twice across the Atlantic, to Africa and South America. They are well-traveled and well-worn.
Last week they split across the shoulders from simple old age. I hung onto them a few days, until the splits multiplied to the point where I couldn’t get into them without getting all tangled up. So I threw them away.
The funny part is – and I didn’t plan it deliberately – those pajamas went to their final resting place in the city where they were bought two and a half years and some 75,000 miles ago. Isn’t life wonderful?
Ernie’s praised
This column has never been published regularly in Tucson, but has been running recently as a substitute for Westbrook Pegler’s while he was on vacation.
Consequently the paper sent one of its reporters over to the hotel to see what kind of monstrosity I really was. During our conversation the reporter said:
“I’ve been reading your column for a few weeks. Much to my amazement, it’s pretty good.”
I didn’t know whether to hit him, or take him out and buy him a drink. Much to his amazement! Fah upon him. Much to MY amazement would be a better way to put it.
The other day, when I was visiting the Peglers, we got to talking about picking up hitch-hikers. I don’t ordinarily, but nowadays I always stop for anybody in uniform. Peg does, too, but he doesn’t trust even a soldier hitch-hiker too far.
So I got to telling about the soldier hitch-hiker I picked up the other day and carried for 400 miles. This soldier told me that his request for leave came through so unexpectedly he didn’t have time to get money wired from home, so he started out without a penny.
He had a long way to go and his time was short, so I lent him $10 so he could eat, and also ride the busses at night when hitch-hiking would be slow. He said he would send the money as soon as he got home.
“I’ll bet you $10 you never get your $10 back,” Pegler said. So the bet is on.
Soldier, don’t let me down. I want that $10 of Mr. Pegler’s awful bad. Everybody else tries to hook him because they think he’s rich, so I don’t see why I shouldn’t have my share.
I’ll let you know how it turns out.
A woman in San Francisco sends in what seems to me a pleasant plan for helping win the war. It’s to turn slot Machines into purveyors of defense stamps.
If you get two cherries and a lemon, a defense stamp pops out. Three plums – three defense stamps. The jackpot – a defense bond! If it clicks, says the lady, she envies the pocket of Uncle Sam.
“In case you don’t use this idea,” she writes, “turn it over to Maj. Hoople.”