The Completely True and Not at All Made Up Tale of The Broomsquatch
Each year, on the first full moon after Halloween, my grandmother would leave a stubby bottle of Coors Banquet Beer and a pack of Kool Menthol 100s on our porch for the Broomsquatch.
"The Broomsquatch," she'd say, "must be appeased."
And with that, we were sent to bed to ponder the true nature of the Broomsquatch. The next morning was always the same. The beer bottle was empty, and three or four stubbed out Kool Menthol filters would be scattered on the porch. Grandma would carefully place the cigarette butts into the empty bottle and then chuck it into the trash without further comment. The Broomsquatch never left the bottle cap.
We all knew the legend. The Broomsquatch lived in the Community Ditch -- the irrigation canal that still twists through most neighborhoods in the City and County of Broomfield. In the old farming days, the Community Ditch brought life-sustaining water to the parched farmlands of Broomfield. But at night, the Community Ditch took on a more sinister air. We were never allowed to play there after dusk. "The mosquitos," Grandma would say. But we could tell from the tremble in her voice and the fear in her eyes that she was afraid of something far more menacing.
The summer when I was ten years old, my best friend was a fella named John "Stumpy" Pepys. Ol' Stumpy knew the story of the Broomsquatch about as well as anyone in town. And he and I would spend long summer afternoons making up tales of the Broomsquatch robbing banks, ripping up farmers' mortgage papers, and anonymously giving the cash to orphanages. Our Broomsquatch was a chaotic force for good. And, sure, he might bust up a couple grain silos or bend the axle on a tractor in the course of doing good, but collateral damage came with the territory. ‘Squatches gonna squatch.
Grandpa would encourage our wild tales of Broomsquatch daring-do. He'd listen to our stories and belly-laugh when the bad guys thought they'd gotten away with their evil deeds only to find they'd made the fatal mistake of locating their hideout too close to the Community Ditch. Right at the moment that they were cackling over a crime well done, The Broomsquatch would appear and serve a heap of tractor axle-bending frontier justice on the black-hatted villains.
Grandma, however, wasn't so encouraging. Whenever Stumpy would start up on a Broomsquatch tale within her earshot, she'd hush us with a sharp look. "Children ought'n go messing with forces they know nothing about," she’d snap. And then she'd leave the room or send us off on some chore far away from the Community Ditch.
One summer afternoon Stumpy and I were wandering up toward Superior. We meant to find the source of the Community Ditch. Stumpy claimed it started in a crystal cave at the base of the Flatirons. And that just off to the side of the cave was the lair of the Broomsquatch. "It's full of gold doubloons, pieces of eight, and enough rare gems to make a pirate green with envy!" Stumpy was saying.
We were playing at a ditch gate in the general vicinity of today's Flatirons Mall when Stumpy yelled, "Hey! Look at that!" He jumped down off of the gate and quickly disappeared around a bend in the ditch. It suddenly became deathly quiet.
"Stumpy!" I called out. No answer.
"Stumpy, stop your teasing. It's nearly dark!" Still no answer.
After what seemed like an hour but was probably only a minute or two, I heard Stumpy yell, "Gold! I found gold! We're rich. Rich, I say!!!" And he laughed like Long John Silver, Jean Lafitte, and Blackbeard all rolled into one. I could hear metal coins clinking against one another as he shouted. I quickly scrambled around the bend in the ditch and found Stumpy on his knees in front of a mostly buried grain sack full of rusted old beer bottle caps. It must have been buried there for fifty years. The dirt had eroded away like the ground around a triceratops skull. And the burlap of the grain sack had worn open to reveal the treasure inside -- rusted old Coors Banquet Beer bottle caps.
Stumpy ran his hands deep into the trough of riches, scooped them up, and poured them back down in front of his eyes as wide as saucers. And as something caught his eye around another twist in the Community Ditch, he pointed away from me and said, "Hey! I think there's more downstream!" Stumpy jumped up like Douglas Fairbanks and leapt around the bend. Then all was silent once again.
I scrambled up the side of the ditch to get a better view of where Stumpy'd run off to. At the top of the bank I ran straight into Grandma in her horse-drawn gig. I was face-to-face to Maisey, Grandma's trusty mare. And, while Maisey didn't budge an inch, I was so startled I nearly jumped back down into the ditch.
"Get in the cart. It's nearly dark." Grandma commanded.
"I can't, Grandma. Stumpy's still out there, somewhere!" I pleaded.
"Stumpy can find his own way home." Grandma said flatly. And it was settled. I had no choice but to climb up into the gig next to Grandma or else I don't know what would have happened next.
"Stumpy!" I yelled as I climbed in the gig. "My grandma's here to take us home!" No response. "Get up here right now or you'll be walking all the way home!" I yelled again. Still no response other than a slight gust of night air picking up as the sun set.
That night shortly after dinner there was a knock at the door. It was Elizabeth, Stumpy's big sister. "Ma sent me over to see if Stumpy was havin' dinner with you folks," she said matter-of-factly. "Stumpy!" she yelled into the house, "You best get down here. Ma's angry something fierce!"
"Come in, child" Grandma said, taking Elizabeth by the hand. "Stumpy's not here. He didn't have dinner with us."
At that Grandma turned to Grandpa and said, "Jeb, you best get your coat. You can walk Miss Elizabeth home and help Stumpy's father find that little rascal."
Then she turned away from Elizabeth and spoke back to Grandpa in a much softer voice, "And Jeb," she said, almost in a whisper, "You best take your shotgun."
To be continued...