Tall Piece of Cake: Scotty Zion

Scotty Zion is the Crocodile Dundee of structures. “Structures? I’ll show you structures! How about a grain elevator? How about a three-story stone house? How about a steel bridge? Where do ya want ‘em?”

I’m the Wimpy of Structures. I’ve spent all day trying to nail extruded woodwork around my two bathroom windows. It’ll look great eventually -- when I figure out what to do about the bent nails and gaps.

I wrote about Scotty’s first book earlier and sent him a copy, so he sent me a copy of his second book. This is where the Wimp and the Croc meet happily -- writing stories. This one is called “Piece of Cake, Scotty, Piece of Cake!” That’s something the crew always said, but it’s also a bit of literary irony. Of course, as the author reminds us, 99% of the time everything goes smoothly with house-moving: the permit comes through, the crew that’s supposed to raise the lines is there on time, the Zion crew is not hung over, there are no risky corners but good solid fords on the rivers (bridges are usually too low or weak for hauling houses across), and so on. That 1% is where the stories come from. With tales as good as these, that counts as a silver lining. (And Scotty never skimped on good insurance policies.)

Here’s his account of something that was not house-moving: a rabbit hunt as done in Australia. The rabbits were entirely out of hand and eating “all the farmer’s grain that the grasshoppers and worms didn’t get. A rabbit committee was formed and built a rabbit corral, complete with wings to funnel those pesky bunnies into the gated killing arena.

“Well, it worked pretty good. Hundreds and hundreds of jackrabbits gathered in front of advancing people who beat the ground, bushes and tumbleweeds. Most everyone had baseball bats, or clubs of some kind, but no guns.

“Somehow the ‘rabbit bosses’ forgot to delegate who was to murder all those rabbits. So, everyone ran in amongst the bunnies, whacking in every direction trying to do some killing. But those rabbits were experts in dodging, running between the killer’s legs, and jumping over the top of others. All the rabbits headed for the gate where they came in.

“By this time, those hysterical killers were beating escaping rabbits, mostly misses, and each other, screaming all the while like mad. Anywhere you looked, rabbits were running like hell for home. The paper reported only forty-two rabbits killed, and most of the rabbit killers wounded. From the rabbit’s point of view, it was a very successful drive.”

Some of the funnier incidents came about when the house being moved wasn’t moving. Once the crew ran into a parade and refused to go on without seeing the whole thing, so they parked the house in an empty lot and sat on the curb to watch. Another crew, more mature, were moving a house on Sunday, came to a church with services in progress, and parked the house in order to attend.

When they moved the Fairfield Bank, everything inside stayed where it was and the customers went up and down a gangplank to do their business. One irate fellow came racing up, yelling, “This is an outrage! I’ve heard of bank robberies but you guys are stealing my whole damn bank!” The kicker to the story is that when they took hold of the vault, which had been left anchored behind, it disintegrated into sand, pebbles and cement dust. Valuables went scattering all over the street and officials and citizens had to quickly gather papers and objects. Evidently everything was eventually found.

Scotty belongs to the Hipshot Ricochet (the gunslinger in the comic strip drawn by Stan Lynde) school of religious thought. He tells about two graveyards at Gold Butte in the Sweetgrass Hills. One is fenced and commodious: “A great place to be buried, if you really have to be buried, with a view that goes on forever. The other graveyard obscurely overlooks the big cemetary from the hillside towards the mine... It is the last resting place of the ‘women of the evening.’ There is a pipe rail enclosure to keep the cows from tipping the one small headstone over, and the epitaph reads: Miss Jessie Rowe, born March 9, 1887, died Sept 30, 1902...

“Eight graves, none with headstones, cluster around the one small one and seem to hover in a protective manner as they did in life. These ladies of ill repute cared for the fifteen year old orphan girl until she died of pneumonia and buried her in their private little graveyard. If I were to be buried in Gold Butte, put me alongside of the girls, as it is probably several hundred feet closer to heaven than the other graveyard.”

Amen.

“Piece of Cake, Scotty, Piece of Cake,” by Scotty Zion. (ISBN 0-9771808-008) Order from Scotty and Claire Zion, 460 McIver Road, Great Falls, MT 59404. 406-454-3394.