As a child, my grandfather would often tell me the story of the time he was saved by three rubes. As the story goes, my grandfather, Herschel, was walking in a forest in the dead of winter. Snow and ice surrounded him as he came upon a massive hole in the path. Herschel believed he could jump across the hole and continue on his way. He jumped and landed on what he thought to be solid ground, but on what was actually more snow concealing the extra width of the hole. He floundered and fought his way to the top with great effort. Once there he realized he could not walk. He had shattered his right knee. He spent two hours crawling in the snow, calling for help. He thought he might freeze to death, as his destination was over six miles away. Then suddenly, three brothers arrived and helped my grandfather. They constructed a splint for his leg, gave him a flask of bourbon, and carried him the six miles to his home. At the time I didn’t know that a rube was an inexperienced or naive person, or a “hick”, I imagined that there were literally three brothers who were all named “rube”. And I also don’t know why my grandfather thought of the men who saved his life in that way. Thank you brothers Rube for saving my grandfather and ensuring that I can be here writing this post today.
