Now, there’s a likelihood that some will tell you that our subject carries a lot of weight over at Gilder Realty, but odds are they will not tell you that if you’re in the company of David Gilder—most would be hesitant to testify in those terms.

Based on the testimony of a triplicate of semi-honest men of our community, I hereby submit the information of an incident that will astound you.  Once you’ve partook of the following information you can draw your own conclusions, but I caution you to give David lots of room in your judgment.

 Hereawhile back during our mini-monsoon the grasses had not reached the proper stage of development to sustain bovine life, and David delivered hay on a daily basis to his cattle.  He had a brand spanking new pickup truck, and it was sizable enough to deliver the food stuff.

There was a tank dam that acted as the launching pad for the cargo.  It was on the high ground and the hay had the law of gravity to send the manna to the mooers.

The tank embankment was sodden with rain and just a tad slippery and boggy.  David’s conveyance buried up to the axle atop that mound, and he was sorely vexed at having to call for help to tow his rig back to load bearing terrain.

The tragedy was re-enacted the following day, and David once again had to put out an SOS for a little assistance.  The tow truck puller came and seemed to enjoy the rerun, but he waited until he arrived at his home to laugh aloud.  During the procedure David did not even crack a smile.

Tempus fugit, and on the next trip David’s behavior and resolve, to cross that expanse of mire, increased markedly.  He’d show the world that his head was a heap harder than the embankment.

“Sacre bleu!” he may have muttered, “here we go again.”  He revved that rig to its maximum RPM, and unleashed the awesome power of his mount.

It skittered sideways and began to slide down the embankment, and settled at a precious angle.  Again David took his cell phone from his scabbard.

Once again the cavalry hied to his rescue and he was towed out to the flats.  Assorted scrapes, dents and abrasions were inflicted, and David sheepishly drove it to the business place of a cosmetic expert of metallurgy for scraping, sanding and restoration.  The operation was a success, and the only permanent scars from this tragic misfortune are in David’s pride.  He did not challenge that crossing again until dryer conditions prevailed.

“I hated to see him give up,” one of his rescuers observed.  “ESPN had a camera crew on the way to film the fourth assault, but I had to call them and abort the mission.”

 My agreement with David’s three friends was that they be granted anonymity and I aim to keep my word—unless David is willing to cross my palm with silver for ratting their ID’s.

A counter-offer from the treacherous trio might buy my silence, but the highest offer will most likely find favor.

Let me hear from you.

My phone number is 254-893-5063, my official postal address is: 333 W AYERS AVE – DE LEON TX 76444-2113, and you can e-mail Charles@CharlesChupp.com.