There is a chemical compound called carbon disulfide– commonly known as “High Life.”  Its vapors are very poisonous, which is why the bottle has a skull and crossbones on the label.  It is also very flammable, and the gas formed by burning is even more deadly than the natural fumes.

It was kept on most farms in days past for many purposes.  A big bed of fire ants could be exterminated with only two treatments. Just dig a small hole in the bed area and pour a couple of tablespoonfuls inside and cover it up. It was used more widely to keep weevils and insects out of grain that was stored in a barn. A small hole in the cork of the bottle let enough fumes out to keep insects out for a long time.

Perhaps it was called “High Life” because when it was squirted on any animal, the poor victim came to life. A few drops into a hollow tree would bring a rabbit or possum out instantly. Some knew it by the name, “Dog Disabler.” More than a few mail carriers from yesteryear kept handy a water gun loaded with High Life.

The following is another “true story” excerpt from my upcoming book about my late father, Calvin Coolidge Sims.  I hope to have it released by September.  Enjoy.

  Summer of 1955

            Clink-clink-tink—the brass bell on the door of the Ashland Pharmacy announced a customer. “Coolidge,” Chief Elliot shouted before the door shut behind him. “I need your help. We have a situation outside.” Fearing the worst, Coolidge stepped out of the prescription room and onto the main floor to meet the chief.

            “What’s wrong, Chief?” he inquired; noticing right away that the officer was more amused than he was desperate.

            “Well, the young Heath boy has a big bull that got loose, and is now lying  down right smack in the middle of highway 9.  He can’t get him to budge, and traffic is beginning to back up in the square.”

            “What do you want me to do?”  Coolidge asked with a smile breaking across his face.

            “I need you to mix me up a dose of High Life to get the stupid bull to move,” the chief requested. “How about it?”

            “Alright,” Coolidge said. “Give me a couple of minutes, and I’ll meet you out there.”

            In short order Coolidge mixed the compound and darted out of his drugstore on the courthouse square to meet Chief Elliot at the scene of the disturbance. A sizable crowd was gathering around the young man and his stubborn bull, and cars were stacking up in every direction. The chief shouted out instructions to the crowd,

            “Everyone needs to back away. We’re about to get this bull up and moving.”

Then Chief Elliot motioned for Coolidge to apply the chemical to the lazy bull. Young Abe Heath held the rope firmly, but at distance.

            “Here goes,” Coolidge announced, pouring half of the bottle of High Life into the bull’s hindquarter. The crowd waited in silence, but nothing happened. Coolidge moved closer and emptied the bottle of chemical contents onto the bull again. Still there was no response from the animal.

            “Go get some more, Coolidge,” Chief said. “He must have a tough hide.” Coolidge had not taken more than two steps back toward the pharmacy when the old bull snorted violently, lunged forward and stood on his all fours. His head was swinging wildly from side to side, blowing and snorting; his ears were pricked and he was showing the whites of his eyes.

             The animal ran like a locomotive down highway 9,  with Abe Heath holding on to the rope and running as fast as his legs would take him. In a few seconds the angry bull took a quick right, trouncing through a hedgerow and headed west down Second Avenue. The last thing Coolidge saw was Abe being dragged through the leaves around the southeast corner of Sarah Runyan’s house, with old Chief Elliot limping in hot pursuit.

It remained a topic of conversation and amusement in the Ashland Pharmacy for years.  

Some local yarns deserve to be remembered.