Main Characters & approximate dates:
CM Treppendahl, Sr (Grandpa Trep) – late 1920’s
Rob, Dad, Mama, me and “the Bully” – 1965/1967
Introduction. One story Dad told Rob and me several times was about his father getting into a fight. Keep in mind that CM Treppendahl was a first-generation Danish immigrant that had settled in a small town in SW Mississippi in his early 20’s. Within two decades, he owned a grocery store, hardware store, and the dry goods store. He was a tall lanky shopkeeper with a thick accent in a farming community full of rednecks. And as you can imagine, no matter how honest, smart, and good he may have been, this relatively prosperous foreigner was going to irk some people.
One day Grandpa was walking along Main Street when a man named Mr. White, a tough old farmer riding in a horse and buggy, came up beside him. Mr. White was a naturally mean man, and he was upset with CM about something. So, he took his buggy whip and cracked it across Grandpa’s back. In a flash, my grandfather grabbed the buggy whip and yanked so hard and so quickly that Mr. White tumbled out of his buggy onto the street. Grandpa then gave White several lashes with his own whip, threw the whip at him, and turned and walked away. By all accounts, CM Treppendahl was a gracious, mild-mannered gentleman. However, he proved that he could be quite ferocious when necessary.
These are photos of Grandpa about two decades before and two decades after the incident with Mr. White. Anyone have a photo of him in his mid-40’s?
Dad got into numerous fights when he was growing up. I expect that it became common knowledge with boys in Woodville in the 1930’s that “It’s best not to mess with Marshall Treppendahl.” As for me, I did not like fighting. I liked the way my face looked and didn’t want to get it messed up by some bruiser from Buffalo. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t run away from fights and got into a few – probably broke even on winning and losing. But I never went looking for fights and no one ever said, “You don’t want to make David Treppendahl mad.” That was not the case with Rob Treppendahl. Two stories.
First story.
When Rob was in the 5th grade (I think), there was a kid several years older and much bigger that had it in for Rob. Let’s call the big kid “the Bully”. So, the Bully did as bullies do and picked on Rob. Rob told me about it, and I offered to go confront the Bully and tell him to leave my little brother alone. (While I did not like to fight, I was a country boy who drove tractors and hauled hay – the back of my neck was dark tanned if not outright red. Plus I was a year older than the Bully; I could have whipped the guy if necessary. Rob said, “No way, I can handle it”. Great, I was happy to be off the fighting hook. Not long after, the Bully knocked Rob down, busted his lip and tore his shirt. Rob just got up, dusted himself off, and walked away.
PE class was at the gym (of course). As I vaguely recall, the boys’ dressing room had shelves with heavy wire mesh baskets on them where you put your gym clothes. Rob scouted things out and learned when the Bully’s PE class was over. He went into the boys’ locker room and hid behind the door. When the Bully walked through the door, Rob slammed a metal basket as hard as he could against the side of the Bully’s head. The Bully was knocked upside down on the concrete floor and his ear was cut and bleeding. The Bully cried like a baby in front of all the other boys who applauded Rob for beating up the Bully. It became well known around school “Hey, you don’t want to mess with Rob Treppendahl.” He could be ferocious when necessary.
Second Story.
Rob was 3 years younger than me. From time to time, most big brothers beat up their little brothers and sometimes they deserve it; often they don’t. A year or so after the Bully bashing, I beat Rob up without justifiable cause in his opinion. I don’t remember now what it was that he had done. What I do vividly remember is this:
I was sitting at my desk doing homework in the bedroom that Rob and I shared. The door was closed. Suddenly, the door flew open and slammed against the foot of Rob’s bed “Wham!!” I jumped up and there was Rob standing in the doorway. He was holding his Daisy pump BB gun in a vertical position. He pumped it and growled, “You should not have beaten me up!” Rob put the gun to his shoulder and aimed at my stomach 12’ away.
A Daisy pump BB gun will kill a blackbird at 20 yards. I was legitimately very concerned. “Rob, if you shoot me with that BB gun, I will beat you to death with it!” Pow!!!
The BB lodged over a quarter inch deep in my flesh right above my belly button. Searing pain and a scream. Pump! (No one was home but the two of us.)
Thankfully, it was a warm day, and our bedroom window was wide open. I turned and leapt through it when “Pow”, the second BB lodged in the right cheek of my buttocks. My jeans were a little better shield than my shirt and later that BB was easier to extract than the first one. Pump!
Just as I was passing the big Magnolia tree, the third BB broke under the skin on my right shoulder. The final two BB’s hit me as I was running across the yard. They drew blood but did not embed themselves. Rob then shouted to me “Ok, I’m done. Not going to shoot you anymore.”
I never beat up Rob again. We became much better friends after that.
Mama, of course, was furious with Rob. She was the one who dug the BB’s out of me. Dad did his best to not show how proud he was my little brother.
Of course, Dad liked Rob more than me. They were both cut from the same cloth. Dad’s younger son (Dad was the youngest of 4 brothers), like Dad’s father, could be ferocious when necessary. Heck, if I had been Dad, I would also have liked Rob more than me. That wound is now fully healed.
Rob was a very good hunter and a crack shot. He was also a speed demon. Here he is jumping our Honda 125 in the pasture at around 50 mph. He died in Oct 1968.