Lowered Expectations

Life expectancy.  What are our expectations?
well lets see about mine.
I'm an average, white, lower middle class, male, in middle America, so what is my average life expectancy?  According to the insurance companies, it's about 77 years.
So how does that stack up against my experiences?
Well, it doesn't! Lets just look at my linage for a minute.
My father died at the the age of 62, an accident but we don't get to choose the circumstances.
My grandfather died at the age of 25. Again not his choice but rather the result of WWII.
His father, my great grandfather died at the age of 58. Congestive heart failure.
I can go on for a while, but the point is, that, no man with my last name, (in my direct linage) has lived past the age of 62 and a half, for quite some time now.
I'm 50 years old, with health issues. So what are my expectations?
Well, 77 seems a little out of reach.
My father lived to 62 - I can make 62 - health wise.
That's another 12 years. Barring accident or injury. 
Can I make 65, probably. I may be crippled and blind by then, but I think 65 is doable.
How about 70? That's 20 years from now. Doubtful, but there's an outside chance.
But, again, blind, cripple, and crazy, is a real possability, there's some debate about weither I there now.
That leaves me somewhere between 65 and 70, on an outside bet.
So there's better than a fair chance that I won't see a dime of the Social Security and medicare that I've paid into my whole life.
And that should make the Republicans real happy.

Mountin Goat

Blue is one of my goats, and he's quickly become the alpha of the herd.

WALK-A-BOUT

    I was about 12 years old when I decided that I wanted to go camping on our farm. There was an abundance of freedom on 80 acres. We had 8 ponds, 1 large lake and 2 creeks, with an abundance of wildlife.  It was a nice fall weekend and my parents had planned a get to gather with some of their friends. I asked if I could take my single shot 410, and to my surprise my parents said yes. My first time completely alone.
    It was dove season, but quail, squirrel and turkey were occasionally found on the farm. We had deer on the farm also but it usually takes a slug to bring something like that down, and I didn’t take that kind of ammo with me.
    I took my pack, my dog, and my gun and set out for the back 40. I traveled as far from the house and livestock as I could and still be on our land before I pitched camp and built a fire.
    From my earliest memories, I can remember watching my father build fires. Something he made sure that he passed on to my sister and I. Various methods of fire making was my sister and my greatest joys, it was a competition between us while camping from the time we were very young.
     I set up the tent and went hunting. We, (me and my dog- Boots) killed 4 squirrel in the immediate area, cleaned them and put them on spits to roast for dinner (and breakfast) for both of us. We settled in for the evening, enjoying dinner and playing with the fire before bedtime. The next morning (Sunday) about daylight, I rebuilt the fire and set out for the nearest pond to hunt. We were after dove. We found duck!
     My dog was well trained, he always obeyed my commands, and he wasn’t gun shy. Plus he knew what we were doing. He was right with me when we came up over the steep bank of the pond. Much to our surprise the pond was covered with Mallard ducks. The really cool thing was that most of them dove instead of flying off. I killed one in the air, and reloaded. All I had to do was wait for them to come up. I picked them off one by one as they surfaced. I had plenty of time to reload. I killed 11 ducks that morning.     I took us almost an hour to retrieve the birds from the water. Steep banks and cattails lining the bank hampered the efforts. I had to make a throw line and use long sticks to collect them.
     The dog helped but with the steep banks I had to retrieve him twice, and the water was really cold. By the time we got back, tore down camp and got back to the house, the morning had gone. Pop had planned a Sunday cookout and beer-fest around a ballgame, so most of his friends were there when I got back to the house.
    Our garage was set up like a meat processing room. We had a huge hardwood cutting table, butcher knives, a meat grinder and meat hooks hanging from the rafters for deer and pig. Texas has always had a breed of wild pig, small and hairy animals known as “Javalina”. Only slightly related to the hoard of feral boar that have overtaken most of the south.
    We also had 2 rather large freezers. If we could we’d take the animal to the meat market and have it processed, but that was sometimes a little tricky. Pig was always ok, but deer had to be in season and tagged, so we processed them at the house most of the time. I wasn’t really sure how to clean a duck, so I laid them out on the table and went to get Pop.     
    I came through the garage and opened the back garage door for backyard access. Pop was amazed, he was really taken aback, that I had killed so many with a single shot gun. He and a neighbor friend went back to the pond to see if there was any more ducks, and they killed a couple but nothing like the success that I had, earlier in the day. Pop bragged on me for years about that kill. And, of course, it became part of the lore and legacy of that particular gun.

Dogs, Skunks, Goats, and Guns

     Just a few years ago, at just about bedtime, my dog, Patches, said that he needed to go out and pee. Now I know that some of you are skeptical that “Patches” could say anything, but you’d be mistaken.
       Patches was an American Foxhound and he was one of the smartest dogs that I’ve ever had the pleasure to know.

 
                                                    The American Foxhound (or Walker)
 
      When he had to go out and go potty he would go and stand at the door and look back at you, shake his large floppy ears, then look to see if you got the message.  If not then he would turn and look directly at you and shake his head, flopping his ears, and then, stair directly at you and wait for a response. When you asked if he needed to go potty, he’d trot back to the door and wait for you to open it for him.

                                                             Patches   1997-2011

Again, on this particular night, Patches told me that he needed to go out.  I was ready for bed, and was dressed only in my oversized terrycloth robe, and nothing else. So I donned my boots and opened the door. Patches was quiet capable of going out on his own and returning to the door when he wanted back in, but I went out with him to check on my farm animals and make sure that everything was secure.
    As I opened the door, Patches blew past me, and turned the corner of the house. Very unusual behavior for him, since he usually did his business in the front yard.  I was fairly close behind him and when I rounded the corner of the house, I got hit, with a direct blast of musk from a skunk. Patches, who had arrived there before me, had obviously taken a direct hit to the face, he was furiously rubbing his muzzle with both front paws, trying to clear his eyes, which he did in a matter of seconds. The  skunk had made a critical misjudgment, and a lethal error.
    Patches was bred for hunting predators, he was fearless and lethal, as soon as he cleared his eyes, he was off after the skunk. I was not as quick, having taken a shot to the entire front of my robe. And I was unarmed. I ran back to the front door and grabbed the gun that is always hanging in a holster on a coat rack just inside the door.  Alerting everyone in the house that we were after a skunk, not by my voice but apparently by my smell.  I ran back around the house and into the back yard space, shedding the robe as I ran. 
    There is a small barn just past the back corner of the house that some of my goats were sleeping in.  Patches had chased the skunk into the shed and straight into a herd of sleeping goats. The skunk was now in the middle of chaos, and did the only thing that he could, he fired another blast, right into the face of a startled wither named Ozzy.
    Ozzy is a bit of a sissy, crybaby, half dwarf and part fainter.  And true to form, he came unglued, running out of the barn screaming bloody murder and flopping like a fish out of water all over the place.
      Meanwhile Patches had chased the skunk out of the barn, and had cornered him right next to my brick house, and under a pile of lumber that was stacked on cement blocks
      I finally catch up to the mayhem, completely naked, except for my boots and a 9mm pistol.  Patches had the skunk cornered and wasn’t going anywhere. Ozzy was laying on his side in the yard screaming like he was dying, and I had the wrong gun.
    Shooting a 9mm at a skunk and  into the corner of bricks and concrete is a very risky business, especially when your naked. But a 9mm is a rather large caliber gun and much to much firepower for a skunk. It’s a bit of an overkill, literally.
    Patches had the skunk under control and Ozzy was beyond my help for the moment.   So , I ran back into the house, grabbed a more appropriate gun, a 22 caliber rifle , and ran back around the house to kill the skunk.
    Having accomplished the mission, killing the skunk, I now had to deal with the aftermath. My middle daughter usually sleeps in her bedroom that is in that corner of the house, but not that night!  Because I had just killed a skunk right under her bedroom window and the room now smelled like skunk. 
   Patches and I were not welcome back into the house without a good scrubbing, and the now near catatonic Ozzy had to be washed and consoled. So, I went back to the door and begged my wife for the appropriate cleaning agents.  I exchanged the gun for a bucket and a pair of pants.
    So now, Patches and I get to carry Ozzy and a bucket of chemicals (and pants), out to the farthest barn. The one near the woods, about a quarter mile from the house, which is apparently just past the range of smell. And spend some quality time bathing together. Did I mention that goats are kin to camels and hate water.They don't even like to drink it!
    Oh what memories!
   
    .

The Second Amendment

    My family has always valued weapons, and guns in particular. Guns and other weapons have always been given a special respect - and place in my family.
    Me and my sister was trained to operate a gun, and a bow, and to appreciate the value of a good knife, as early in my life as I can remember.
    When my sister and I turned six years old, we both were presented with a single shot 410 shotguns, with a shortened stock to accommodate a smaller person or child.  I still have the one that I was given, and I have no knowledge of what happened to my sisters gun after her death.
    I was presented with a bow on, what I believe, was my 10th birthday.  I still have that bow today.   
    But in my family guns weren’t seen as mere objects.  Each weapon carried with it, a part of the credit of each kill that was made with that particular weapon. The history of each bow and gun and knife too, was passed on and retold each time someone used that weapon. They were mostly “remember when” type stories, Like “remember when Kelly shot that turkey that was coming up the trail there in Hamilton, that was the gun she used“.  Or the “I remember when Mike shot that “whatever” with that gun, there at that “place“’.
    All this sounds rather like “Quest for fire” but it’s not like that at all. The retelling of the history of  a gun, bow or knife was in part  praise of the quality of that weapon, or the praise of someone‘s skill at using it. Or how easily it was used, and partly the story of a particular hunt or kill. And I know what your thinking, a bunch of “cave men“, or “frontiersmen” huddled around a campfire spinning yarns about stalking a dangerous animal. Far from the truth. Remember that my parents were medical professionals, and we lived a fairly average upper middle class lifestyle.   
    These stories were usually told before a hunt or during the preparation for an extended camping hunt. Mostly at my paternal grandmother’s house, and usually during the holidays.  Occasionally during the holidays at my mother’s grandparents house.
    We made a traditions of hunting as a part of the holiday celebration. Thanksgiving was usually bird hunting, dove, quail, or turkey, sometimes duck. Christmas was bird or Deer. Easter was small game Squirrel or Rabbit.
    Extended hunting trips were planned hunts for larger game, Pig or Deer, Elk, sometimes Turkey, and occasionally Dove, once even Bear.     Rarely did I hunt with family members other than my father or sister, occasionally with my mother‘s brother or Grandfather (my great grandfather).
     My father’s favorite hunting partner for these kinds of hunts were usually a family friend from Ft. Worth, and occasionally some of his other close acquaintances. (I don’t have their permission to publish their names, so, family friends will have to do for now.)
    I own a large number of guns, even for my family. I have quite an arsenal of weapons and ammo. I inherited about half of what I own from my father. And even though I was not able to secure all of his weapons before his estate was looted, I do have the bulk of his weapons. Most he gave to me for safe-keeping, long before his death.
    In the late 1990‘s, he became paranoid about his weapons, not about owning them but about keeping them safe. He suffered a burglary a few years before his death, where a fair number of his guns were stolen.  I owned and still own, a gun safe large enough for his remaining weapons, so I became the keeper of the arms. He only kept his personal weapons with him, as he did always. Pop usually carried a gun on him, or in his car.
    Each weapon that I own is very special to me, because my father is gone now, each one of these weapons now carries the memory of him. And I could never part with any of the guns, bows, or knives that I now own, simply because of the memories of  my father using each one of them, but partly out of family tradition. My father’s philosophy was that the acquisition of a particular weapon was very hard and expensive, therefore a weapon should never be sold.
     He occasionally traded one, for something better, but that was very - very rare.  And only if he thought the weapon had some kind of flaw, or he simply disliked the weapon for what ever reason.
    Now that I’m older and most of my family are gone, I’m no longer able to get out and hunt like I once did.  9/11 changed things considerably. And my health usually doesn’t permit long walks in the woods with a weapon much anymore. Something I lament often, but especially during the holidays.

Theator!

     My father was somewhat of a linguistic artist, he liked words, any way to express yourself, really.  He was over-educated, several bachelor degrees and a Masters in English Lit. as well as his medical degree. He spoke several languages, read and wrote in them as well.  He had a fascination of  roots and meanings of words. And in particular the “drift” of languages, some call it the “evolution” of words- but I live in the buckle of the bible belt and the word “evolution” is forbidden. Thankfully they are only a few here that can actually  read. so I doubt I can be prosecuted for using the term.
      Pop was an artist with words, often using a word or phrase just for the mental picture that it created. Any word, nothing was off the table. There’s a saying that cursing is the last resort of the uneducated, NOT TRUE! Some of the most articulate people on the planet use “foul” language to weave webs, to capture your thoughts and draw your attention into their grasp. Hemmingway, Kissinger, even our beloved Kennedy, are just a few of the great minds who stooped to the use of “gutter language” to make a point.
Pop also considered himself an actor, playing what ever part he needed  to achieve the desired outcome.
Amongst his peers he would dress himself in expensive tailored suits, but, to buy a car or anything expensive, he don a pair of blue jeans and a tea shirt and sneakers. Always playing to his audiences perceptions. A skill that my sister had learned very well in her brief  17 and a half years.  I on the other hand was always the mesmerized observer, captivated by their performances.  Never quite getting the hang of performing on the fly, without the narrative to guide me. 
     I once watched my father carry a loaded gun onto a commercial flight, pre 9/11 of course. It occurred in the late 1970’s. He  realized that he had not unpacked the gun from the carry on bag, but only as we reached the point where they rummage through your stuff. The young man doing the cursory search had just come to my fathers “ditty bag” when my father started “hitting” on the guy, HARD, asking personal questions and commenting on his looks, culminating with my “straight” father actually asking him out on a date! The guy was so flustered that he closed dad’s things and pushed them across the counter. When we got onto the aircraft and was seated, I finally got the chance to ask Pop “what the f##k” that was about.  Dad told me about the gun and described his strategy. He  thought that it might work either way. If the young man was straight he’d want to get out of the situation as fast as he could, which is what happened, and if he was gay he’d be less inclined to do a thorough search, being more interested in the “date” with a guy in an expensive Italian suit and shoes.  At least that was Dad’s plan. It worked, so I’d say it was a good one!
    The gun was small and concealed in a pair of socks, not to hide the gun, but to keep it from hitting the glass bottles of cologne in the ditty bag.  Of course you couldn’t do that today, not without spending some quality time with government agents, who work for agencies, whose names are just a bunch of initials, but in the 1970’s things were a lot less “tense“. 
     There are lyrics of a song from one of my favorite artist that goes "So they say that life's a play, and that all the worlds a stage, and for another part I pray, the show ends the same way every day." " And my heart carries the pain of a life I can't explain."
He should have known my father, I think he just might have had a different perspective on things!

Wolf-isms

    My father was fond of pointing out the fact that me and my sister were raised by Wolves. regardless of our social or economic situation in life, you can’t get away from His analogy.
    And I guess that I’ve passed that attitude on to my children. I used to tell them often, when I’d drop them off at school that they were Wolfs, and remember no biting, unless you have to, then go for the throat. They’d laugh, but I’m sure that the message was received.
    Another piece of advice, that was imparted from my father was, If you have to fart, Blame it on the fat kid. Stand next to them, and when you pass gas, say OOOU! and point at him, while walking off and holding your nose. Chances are that they’ll take the blame anyway. Good advise, you should write that down! Unless your the fat kid, in which case. let me apologize now, and I guess I’ll see you in court.
    My father could easily out cuss the most hardened sailor! I promise you - he could make a pimp blush. And I’m afraid that, that particular Wolf family tradition continues, although I raised 3 daughters, at least 2 of them can hold their own, linguistically with those who are nautically inclined.
    Another Wolf-ism that’s been passed along is, “You may not have been raised in a barn, but that’s no reason not to be comfortable in one.”
    I miss Pop. If someone had told me years ago that he’d be gone by now, I wouldn’t have even been able to envision a life without him.  I have few regrets, I just thought we’d have more time. I hope that we spent our time together well, I think that we did. I hope we did.
     He had another saying, and I’m not sure where he got it but, I’ve always been fond of it, “Celebrate your victories, no one else will,  and forget your failures as soon as you can, they’ll only bring you down.
    The Jewish people have a saying “Forgive, but remember-you may get a second bite at the apple.”
I don’t know if that refers to the biblical apple or not but it ‘s a good philosophy.  I’ve also heard it said “Forgive, but remember when appropriate”  either way, it’s worth putting in your arsenal. 

Getting Old

Woke up from a fitful sleep,
my meds aren’t working
Damn-what time is it
over slept  again

fuck - I hurt
What day is this
my back is killing me
What a mess

Neck is stiff
but it’s the only thing
what ever happened to morning wood
life just ain’t the same

wish I still felt good
Damn I’m getting old
Got to get moving
I still remember when I could

I used to jump out of bed
and hit the world running
I used to feel good and strong and confident
how the hell did I wind up here?

now my feet are numb
and the room is cold
I let the fire go out,
the coals, are dying

And all I can do is sit and stare

and damn the room is cold

and the fireplace is way the fuck over there!

My Education

Education

    My education has been a life long pursuit, of what exactly, I could not tell you for sure.
    I started school in a Baptist Church building that the Crowley Texas school system used for a Kindergarten. The building was across the street from Bess Race Elementary school. Bess Race was an oddly built building. Very old, with an oddly oversized basement that was used for storage and an emergency shelter. The building was on the edge of town, with large playgrounds.
    Just down the road form Bess Race was the H. F. Stevens Middle School. This was a very badly designed building. I personally believe that it’s what you get when you let the elitist liberal  &$#@’bags that think they know what their doing design their own building.
    History really does repeat itself, when you ignore the lessons of the past 40 years, and we have the same problem occurring all over again. It’s a wonder any of us can read.
    The town that I currently live in, Ardmore Oklahoma, has a school board and superintendent that is hell bent on building a new school system over the top of the one currently in use. The plan is to abandon the “Traditional” neighborhood schools for a central complex. And despite 3 failed bond elections, and a failed massive ad campaign to “inform the public” of the “need” for this new concept. They have already started construction on the new elementary facility, robbing from the maintenance funds for the existing facilities. To force the new building on the obviously ignorant citizens.
    H.F. Stevens middle school was one such project. A really horrible education experience. The building had very few permanent walls, free standing lockers made up the hallways and  the perimeter of  each classroom cluster. Each classroom cluster made 4 semi-separate classrooms. The interior walls were retractable chalk board like material. Each classroom was expandable to include the other three in any combination. They didn’t really work very well. They worked kind’a like the accordion closet doors in cheap houses. Folding about every 3 foot and retracting to the outside of each classroom cluster.
    The byproduct was a deafening noise and a resulting chaos that ensued between the classes. Locker doors, talking children, and a terrible echo throughout the building that just added to the overall noise. There were a few classrooms that had real walls and doors but very few. The art rooms and a few of the utility rooms were real rooms. The Cafe-nasium or Gym-ateria sucked really-really bad. It had retractable bleachers and a stage at one end. The other end had a bare wall with two doors at each side. One set of doors were the way in and out, the other set was for the serving line access. When the doors were closed the wall could be used to rebound basketballs off of or for a rebound wall for dodge ball, that by the time I attended we weren't allowed to play any longer. The major problem was that the serving line wasn’t designed to function. It created a bottleneck serving food, that caused a major line to form. And because these geniuses didn’t plan for long line, and the brain-trust that ran the place didn’t want kids standing in line out in the hallway, it forced the children waiting to be served to weave a line through the tables where kids were trying to come and go while eating.  I honestly believe that the sadists that designed the building were so impressed with their own intellect that they didn’t care what the impact of the design really was. I mean what the hell “their only kids” right. Right!
    The Library was on its own level of Hell. The room was basically a fishbowl. A completely glass room with maximum distractions that could possibly be built right into the design, but hey, it‘s pretty, right.
    Kids walking down the hallway just feet from anyone trying to read, thumping the glass and making rude gestures, trying to distract you any way they possibly could.
    I did survive the H.F. Stevens middle school experience.  But just barely.
    If you really want to know what is wrong with the US educational system all you have to do is look at these kinds of failures and learn from the mistakes. The biggest problem is that they aren’t recognized for the colossal mistakes that they really are. All the money and time squandered by these morons simply because they have a degree or title.     Our children do just fine without  an ergonomic, fug-schwa, educational experience. They need to be taught to read and write.
    We moved just as I was about to advance to the more traditional Crowley High school. Fortunately the Fairview High School was just as traditional .
    Fairview is a rural and very traditional predominately Mennonite town in northwestern Oklahoma. I spent my freshman, sophomore, and junior years in the Fairview school system, moving schools my senior year to Ringwood Oklahoma. I couldn’t continue to attend the Fairview High school my senior year without transferring into the system. My father had built a house in the Ringwood school system, about 9 miles away, and even though I was emancipated, I didn’t want any problems. I had 10 months left in public schools.
    After I graduated high school, I attended Southwestern College in Winfield Kansas. I didn’t attend Southwestern for very long 2 or 3 semesters, but the experience changed my life, because its where I met my wife. 
    I have attended college wherever we’ve lived. Taking a few hours here and there. The bulk of my higher education has been spent at Paris Junior College, in Paris Texas.
    I spent 2- 2 year terms at the technical school of the Paris Junior College known as the Texas Jewelers Institute. The first time was in the mid 1980’s when I studied jewelry technology, and the second time was in the early 1990’s where I studied horology. I went to work in the jewelry industry and worked for a few years, where I saw the need for watchmakers so I went back.
    I’ve studied religion for many years and in various ways. I started with the modern Christian protestant bibles, and expanded into the various Christian texts, both official and unofficial. I’ve studied most eastern religions, even visiting Buddhist temples and reading the Compassion and 8 fold path. I’ve made a cursory study of Hinduism, Taoism, Islam, and Judaism, as well as the other western religions both archaic and modern.      I’ve been granted a Bull@$#t Masters degree from the organization that also grants me ordination and licensing from Modesto California. Over the years I’ve continued to study and evolve.
    This was a chapter, lifted from “the Tail Of The Wolf” which was written in the early 2000’s, however, the indignation with which this was written is no less diminished. I ran across this article yesterday while checking the news. It’s pertinent to this article and really needs to be circulated, because it emphasizes my point about public schools.
http://www.usatoday.com/news/education/story/2011-11-14/schools-lockers-safety/51205848/1?csp=YahooModule_News

Cowboys and Indians

    As a young man, I liked to experiment with new and different ways of getting into trouble. I didn’t know that’s what I was doing at the time. I thought that I was exploring science, and physics, elevating boredom, and contributing to my wealth  of knowledge. When in reality, I was causing myself grief.
    On a nice fall day in 1969, I was watching TV. The program was a western cereal. Painted and feathered American Indians were attacking a wooden fort. The Indians were shooting flaming arrows at the fort. It occurred to me that I didn’t know how to create a flaming arrow. I had the general idea, but what if I ever needed to set fire to a wooden fort? Would I be able to? I couldn’t answer that question! But I had a bow and some wooden arrows, and of coarse I had the time.
    I gathered everything together, and went out into the pasture on the south side of the house. I had dug up a lighter and I figured that I needed an accelerate of some kind.     I found a gas can with some diesel, in one of the barns. Now I would be able to defend the dairy from the invading Calvary.
    I tried dipping the arrow in the diesel and lighting it, and letting it fly. It didn’t stay lit. I decided to try a wrapping a rag around the arrow and lighting it. When I shot the arrow, the rag slid down and caught the fetching on fire, the rag flopping caused the arrow to veer off course. When it hit the ground, the rag came off and bounced away from the arrow. I needed a new strategy.  I raided my moms supply cabinet and got some gauze and medical tape. I figured that I needed some stability with the ability to stay lit. I wrapped the gauze around the arrow and taped it at both ends. I was careful with the diesel, wouldn’t want to dissolve the tape, I lit the arrow and let it fly. The arrow went straighter and further than any that I had previously shot. Which is unfortunate. The arrow stayed lit, and when it hit the roof of the house, the gauze slid down on impact and caught the very dry shake shingles of the house on fire.
        I freaked out! Ran into the back yard and grabbed the garden hose. Luckily Dad was sitting on the back porch doing some paperwork and drinking coffee, hearing my panicked screams, he leapt into action, scrambling up onto the roof, via a decorative rock privacy wall that hid our central air conditioning unit. I tossed him the hose and he managed to extinguish the fire but not before it had destroyed about a 6 foot round area of shingles. Pop was pissed. But on the bright side of this incident, I learned how to construct a flaming arrow, (a talent that I’ve yet to utilize in a combat situation!) and I got a crash coarse in roofing with shake shingles. (Oh yea, I also learned that you can combine swear words regardless of their root meanings, a talent that I do utilize quite often!)

Has Anyone Seen My Finger?

                                                 

    On October 28, 1975, at the 2 story white stucco house on the West side of the street, across from the Fairview High school.  I was laying carpet in my sister’s second story bedroom. When I had a malfunction with the carpet knife.
    It was a curved bladed carpet knife that had a folding locking blade. The knife had been abused a little. It looks like the back of the knife had been used to pry something up. It was all roughed up.

                                              I still own the knife.
     I was laying a snow white shag carpet in my sister’s bedroom, when the knife snagged on the carpet fibers on a backstroke and snapped closed on my hand. Cutting through the knuckle closest to the tip of my longest finger on my right hand. Severing the end off. I quickly removed my tee shirt and wrapped my hand with it while it held the now detached end my finger in its palm. I found my sister who was playing in the driveway of the house next door (which we also owned). She and I loaded into my car, which I had not yet finished restoring. (The 69 VW Beatle) and drove myself to the hospital which was only a few blocks away, Kelly turned, 14 years old, on that day.
    My mother was the chief administrator of the hospital, and on this particular day she was also a patient. She had a case of pneumonia, and had been admitted the day before.      When I arrived my sister went off to find our mother, and I was taken to a surgical room. The surgeon on duty worked for about 3 hours on my hand to reattach my finger. He was fairly successful. I have feeling  in it, and it has good movement, but he couldn’t reattach the top tendon though, and now the tip of my finger droops, even at full extension.
    My sister found my mothers room and told her that I had cut my finger off. Well you can imagine the panic my mother felt after receiving this bit of news. She left her sickbed and came to find me. We were still in the surgical room when she caught up with me.
    This room had a large observation window. I was sitting on a stool with my back to the window and my hand on the table, cradled in a pile of bloody gauze. The doctor was sitting across the table working on my finger, when my mother came into the room. She wasn’t a happy camper.  But there was nothing she could really do but go back to her room and her sickbed.
     My sister never quite forgave me for ruining her birthday. I don’t remember my father’s involvement in the whole incident. It has been 30 something years since the incident.

Prolog to "Tail of The Wolf"

 The whole reason for writing this manuscript was to let my descendants know who I am, or was.
    My father had always talked about writing his story, unfortunately he died before starting his biography. He quite honestly believed that he had more time. He lived 62 and a half years, having perished in an automobile accident in Odessa Texas.
    He believed that he would live to be a hundred years old. He passed away leaving not much more than my memories of him.
     I won’t let that happen to me. This story and these writings may not be of interest to anyone, except to my progeny. But it’s my obligation to write them down and share them, so that they, like me, can be remembered.
     I can only hope that I will inspire those reading this, to write their story, before they pass away. Sometimes these stories are all that’s left, please, don’t be forgotten.
    This is my story, retold through the filters of time and emotions. Please remember that time and emotion distort memory. It's just their nature.
    These are the circumstances of my life and thoughts, as I remember them.
I’ve purposely left out many of my failures in life.  And they are many, but I  honestly try not to remember them.
    My father had a saying that I’ve tried to live by, and pass on to my family, “celebrate your victories, no matter how small, and forget your failures as soon as you can, don’t let them drag you down.”                      
                                                           S. M. Wolf
                                                           8-20-2004

The Crack House And The Snow Covered Bed

    This is a story about me, that my father liked to tell, about a time shortly after he and my mother divorced.  A story that he would tell till the day he died, the story about “the crack house and the snow covered bed”
                    1976 in Fairview Oklahoma    
    After my parents divorced, I was forced to make a choice, move to a different state with my mother or ? (stay with my father) The choice wasn’t a hard one to make, I had a job, friends, a girlfriend, mom and dad really wasn’t a factor in my decision.
    My father moved into his newly remodeled office. My mother took my sister and moved back to where her family was living. In Illinois.
    And, by default, I was left to fend for myself. I was 16, and I worked, and I had money, and transportation. I was self-reliant anyway, so it really wasn’t that big a deal.
    I lived in my parents house for several months, till it sold. I then moved in with friends of the family, the Simmons family. They were more family than friends.  And at the time they were remodeling an old three story Victorian house, and had plenty of room. But that was an uncomfortable situation, partly because it wasn’t the situation that I was looking for and it was their house.
    The solution came in the form of a “crack house” wann’a-be. I won’t lie to you, it was in pretty bad shape. The front door was a piece of plywood that had been nailed over the opening, to keep people out.  It had a good roof, and a decent floor, but virtually no paint on the outside, and windows that had been nailed shut. It had a detached garage that was leaning at a difficult angle. And it had ancient plumbing, no air conditioning, and not really much else. But it was affordable and fixable, and most I could move in without much money.
    The house had a floor heater in the main room, (the living room) at the door of a very short hallway that both bedrooms and the bathroom all opened into. The bedrooms were separated by the bathroom and a linen pantry and a small alcove that was later used for a telephone (who knows what it was originally built for).
    I never tried to connect or operate the furnace, partly because this type of heater relied upon radiant heat, and the fact that they were a death trap. And I simply don’t like them, or trust them, to function properly.
    That type of heater needs to be vented with a roof vent and a pipe that runs to the heater under the house. Otherwise you could find that you don’t wake up some cold morning. Really a very small number of this type of heater was vented properly, which could result in carbon monoxide buildup and poisoning.
     I found an archaic gas space heater at a second hand store. The kind that uses open flames to heat ceramic blocks, and that heated a large room or a small house very well. It connected to under floor pipes, with a flexible hose and a manual ball valve.
    I sat my bed in the corner of the largest of the two bedrooms. This one had 2 windows. The room was small, and the placement of the bed was difficult, because of the position of the room’s door, and the closet.
    One of the windows hit the bed midsection. The other was about a foot from the head of the bed. The window at the head of the bed wasn’t a problem. Duct tape and sheet plastic took care of most of the problems that this window had. And the fact that this window was a south facing window insured that any air leakage wouldn’t be much of a winter problem. The problem was the other window. This window faced west and hit the bed about mid-section. I used this window on nice days to ventilate the room.
    This was an old house that hadn’t been updated or remodeled. The windows operated on a counterweight system. The weights made the windows easier to open than to close. But these windows weren’t very tight and rattled a bit when the wind blew from that direction.  If it rattled too much the window could work itself open just a bit. I usually used towels on the window ledge and at the top where the two sections of the window met each other, this helped to insulate from any air leakage, but also would get wet from condensation when the house was warm and it was cold outside.
    I lived in that house for several months without power. But I really didn’t need it. I had a “boom box” style radio that used batteries, oil lamps and candles for light, and initially I had no refrigerator and I didn’t own a TV, but couldn‘t use one anyway, Fairview Oklahoma, was isolated and remote, there was only one TV station within broadcast range and you needed a 30 foot antenna. This was 1976, cable tv was expensive and real new.
     The water heater, like my space heater was propane, which operated from a large tank in the back of the house. I didn’t have a stove for a while after I moved in. It took me some time to find a good second hand oven and a working refrigerator. By the time winter hit, I had worked out most of the kinks, and I was really quite comfortable.
    The first winter that I owned the house was a bad one, the weather was horrible.  One of the first snows that year blew in with a front that came in fast and at night. It had been bitterly cold for the better part of a week but this front had a lot of moisture with it.     I had several quilts on the bed, and being warm and cozy in my little nest, and the fact that it was a Saturday morning, I had slept in longer than usual.
    My father, who was always an early riser, showed up before I had awakened. I didn’t have a telephone, and this was long before cell phones. He really didn’t have much of a choice but to just show up at the house. He was apparently worried about the weather and wanted to check that I was warm and had everything that I needed. Which I did.
    The storm had been accompanied by a lot of wind, and had come in from the northwest delivering about 6” of a very fine powdery snow. Sometime during the night the wind had rattled the window open by the smallest of cracks, because I had removed the wet towels and hadn‘t bothered to replace them yet, having a limited number of towels and no way to wash them except by hand. And of coarse I didn’t have the towel on the windowsill that night, so snow had blown onto the bed and deposited a tiny sliver across the homemade quilts heaped above me. When my Father came into the room he didn’t notice the snow on the bed right away, until he sat down on the corner of the bed.
    This made a huge impression on Pop. For the next 30 years (The rest of his life) he’d tell the story about the crap hole of a place that I lived in during the divorce.
    He liked to tell people that the house was so bad, that he literally had to brush the snow off me one morning before I could get out of bed. The place really wasn’t that bad, I’ve lived in worse places since then. And I lived there for several years. But to my father, that was “the crack house and the snow covered bed!”

Death and Taxes

    If the old saying is true, about the years that you live and the ones that you simply endure, then 2002, 1982, and 1976 are a few of those years that I  barely endured.
    Its a simple truth that physical wounds heal faster, and sometimes better than emotional ones. Emotional wounds can take decades to heal, if they ever do. The death  of a close relative, father, sister, grandparent, or friend, or simply a divorce. And take it from me, some of those unseen wounds can be just as fatal, I‘ve been a witness to that too. 
    I’ve heard the story of Groucho Marx, in one of his last interviews, he was asked what he would do different if he had to do it all over again. And it’s said that He replied, “Are you insane? I’d rather eat a bullet!” He wasn’t going through that all over again. Burring his family and suffering everything that he had been through all of his 90 + years. He said “I wouldn’t do it, and thank god you can‘t make me!”  I tend to agree with him! But unfortunately, some things are unavoidable.
    Death and taxes.  
We all carry the scares of battles that we’ve fought. Some you can see, and some you can’t. And the old saying of “that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” is a load of crap! Sometimes it can leave you maimed, and  crippled, bloody and lying unconscious in a ditch with no help coming. Or leave your psyche with the craters of emotional battles, unseen by the casual observer, till they accidentally step on one of the buried emotional landmines tucked away, deep in a memory. Sometimes completely unaware of the emotional tripwire that they stumbled across in their walk down the path of casual conversations.
    I guess the trick is, not just to survive your wounds, but understand that others have suffered them as well. And if you want help, while lying in that ditch, then be willing to crawl down in there to help someone else in their time of need. Understand that people are going to step across a few of your emotional landmines. So tread carefully yourself.
And maybe this year will be one that you “live”, and don’t have to simply endure.

Stupid People

    I’ve hunted and killed almost everything I could want, Bear, Elk, Deer, Puma, Javalina,  Pig, Turkey, Dove, Quail, Duck, Rabbit, I have squirrel in the freezer right now.  And I am armed to the eye teeth!
    I’ve eaten most everything there was to eat, Rat, Monkey, Cat, Turtle, Dog, you name it and I’ve probably eaten it and enjoyed most all of it.
    I can testify truthfully that I would never starve. One of the most ridiculous things that I have ever heard are the reports of people calling the authorities because there’s a wild animal in their pool, garage, or trapped in their back yard, or god forbid, running through their living room or kitchen (probably, right at the refrigerator).
     You’ve seen or heard of them on the news. Reporters love these stories because it distracts us from the real news about how much we’re all really screwed. Mostly by the government, but I digress.
    Alligators in the swimming pool. Deer wrapped up in the swing set. Huge snake in the house or garage. My very first thought is, how stupid are these people?
    I know some of these people. Individuals that would starve to death surrounded by bunnies and chickens. It really blows my mind. The universe has delivered a huge bounty of meat to your door step and you’re going to call the police! These are the same people who die from a  power blackouts!
     My only thought would be, how do I kill and clean it without alerting the neighbors or getting caught? And who really needs that! "Again!"
“Oh that crazy bas#$%d is shooting his gun in his house!” “Again!”     Busybodies!
     I’ll worry about freezer space and charcoal, after it's dead, and maybe some lemon butter ( for the reptiles).  You know, I do have friends with freezers!
    Don’t judge me too quickly! Even vegetarians kill. Everything that a human being eats, was once alive. It shouldn’t matter weather it was running around or sitting there minding its own business, killing is killing, it‘s just a fact of nature.
And baby, I’m au naturale! (well unless I get caught, again!)

Work

One of my favorite quotes


                                       " Your Obligations in life"


"If you are poor, work.
If you are burdened with seemingly unfair responsibilities, work.
If you are happy, work. 
Idleness gives room for doubts and fears. If disappointments come, keep right on working. 
If sorrow overwhelms you and loved ones seem not true, work. 
If health is threatened, work. 
When faith falters and reason fails, just work.
When dreams are shattered and hope seems dead, work. 
Work as if your life were in peril. It really is.
No matter what ails you, work. 
Work faithfully-work with faith. 
Work is the greatest remedy available for both mental and physical afflictions."

                                                        " Korsaren"

House-less-ness

    I’ve been virtually house-less several times in my life, yet I’ve never been homeless. There is a huge difference. I guess it’s a state of mind. I’ll give you an example. When I graduated High School, I had several months before I had to be at college. And the house sold really fast, so I really didn’t have any place to live. Not that, that was a problem. I mean, I did have money.
    I didn’t want to rent and apartment for just a few months, just to move again into the school dorms, when classes started in the fall. (school rules that you live in the dorms for at least 2 semesters). I really had no plans.
    I decided to move all my stuff to a storage unit near the college, which was in a different state (Kansas).  I stored my new car. I had an old Chevy conversion van that was for sale, so I figured that I could sell it anywhere right? The van had a nice bed, and a bean bag chair, shag carpet, and a moon roof. I had a port-a-potty and a camp stove. I also had a nice little duel power refrigerator that I had purchased for my dorm room. And of coarse I had my backpack, tent, and my ready bag, which I always carry.
    I owned a new car, a Honda hatchback that my father arranged for graduation, I got the car, and the payment book, the van was just a - for profit “project”.  Don’t get me wrong, the car was a wonderful gift. My father ordered the car, and made the down payment, I got great payments, I was extremely grateful. And it was a great car that I drove to death, over a decade of service. But used transportation was my business at the time. So I owned a motorcycle, a van, and the new Honda.
    When I finally took off. I didn’t really have a destination. I just went south. I quickly decided to go to the ocean. I love the ocean. It was summertime, where better to camp but the beach. I could have gone to the mountains, I‘m quite at home in the mountains, but I really like the beach better.   
    I feel a little guilty now looking back on that summer, I mean I just left my friends. I said goodbye, but I didn’t even think about asking any of them to go with me. I guess they were all thinking about their destinations. My girlfriend was going to school somewhere else. There wasn’t any discussion about me following her, so I don’t really know why I feel guilty now for not including her in my plans. But I still feel a bit guilty to this day.
    I had a clear shot to Galveston, so I headed for the island. I parked on the water way and sat on the beach for a few weeks.
    In the late 1970’s Galveston was a pretty rough place. Bars, strip clubs, and porno theaters everywhere. Sailors and Hookers a plenty. It’s not that way anymore. They have really cleaned it up. Now its a family Vacation spot, water parks and historic tours, tourist shops and museums everywhere. It’s no longer a degenerates playground. It was a fun place for a week or two, but that gets old pretty damn quick. It’s kind’a like a zoo, it’s fun to watch the action, but you really don’t want to get into the cage with them.
    When I finally had enough fun, I pulled up camp and set off down the coast. The next place I came to, that I liked, was Corpus Christi. I went out to the Island and stayed there the rest of the summer.
     No TV, and way before cell phones, absolutely no bills. I was completely “off the grid”.  The occasional beach party, movie, restaurant-bar. It didn’t cost me much to live there. I ate out only a few times the whole summer. I’d make a campfire at night and I’d fish or swim during the day. I even tried surfing. I really had it made. One day I caught so many crabs that I had to give away two 10 gallon buckets full. I really enjoyed that!
    And after 30 plus years I still long for that experience. even though I was alone, I never felt alone, there was always someone within eye-shot.
    I’ve had several excursions into the wild since then but nothing that matches that experience.

Corrections

I placed a link at the end of the post titled "Rainy Days", this link took you to a youtube posting for the song "Rainy Days" by a band called Rehab. That link is still operational but the posting says that the account for the person who uploaded the song has been suspended for repeted violations of the copyright laws. I'm sorry for the dead end. The song is worth listing to but apparently not on that website.

A Wolf In Your Barn, Is Worth A Bird In The Hand

This is a short chapter from "A Tail Of The Wolf" hope you like it.

                                                  Dr. Donald Lee Wolf, age 5
                                               Wynneywood Oklahoma 1945 
       

 When my father was quite a young man, he got into some trouble at school, as I think he did a lot. He obviously believed that something about it was unjust, either the accusation or the punishment. Or maybe he was just out for revenge. I don’t really know. But what I do know about it, is that his “retaliation” against the principal was quite unique.
     My father had this talent for catching birds, especially pigeons. He taught  my sister and I, how to catch sparrows, which is quite easy actually. Catching a pigeon takes a little more dedication.
    To catch a sparrow all you really need is a sack. A gunny sack, an onion bag, or even a pillow case, and a neighborhood with an abundance of clotheslines. Look at the top tube of the clothesline and if there’s a birds nest built at one end, you place the sack over the other end and bang the pole. If there’s a bird  in the nest it will fly out into the bag.     
    With a pigeon you have to work for it. You have to know where they roost. And be able to climb.
    Pop waited till dark, and snuck into a neighborhood barn with a gunny sack. He climbed into the rafters and grabbed the sleeping pigeons, stuffing them into the sack. A total of 18 in all.
    Pop took his bag of pigeons, and snuck over several blocks to the principals house. Once there, he cut a small hole in the top of the screen door and fed the pigeons into the hole one at a time, wedging them between the locked screen door and the wooden house door. Once the birds were wedged between the door and the screen, he simply knocked on the house, and ran.
    The principal, an unmarried, middle aged man,  lived in an old two story Victorian house with his spinster mother, just a few blocks from my father's house. Wynneywood Oklahoma is a very small town. Everything is within walking distance. Dad was probably nearly home by the time his little "time bomb" went off.
     When this gentleman opened the windowless door, to see who had knocked, the birds were freed into the house. Where they were not so easy to catch a second time. The mayhem that ensued must have been intense. The front door, according to Pop, faced the second story staircase, so the birds had a clear shot to the upper floor and the bedrooms. And in the 1940's all the interior doors would have been left open so that the downstairs heat would radiate throughout the second story. 
    The principals elderly mother was so stressed, that they had to call the local doctor (my father’s great uncle) because she wouldn‘t calm down, the story goes, that they had to medicate her, to get her settled for the envning.
     In the following days, the principal conducted quite an inquisition. But to my fathers credit, he hadn't told another sole, till he confessed to me and my sister, some 30 years later. He was never caught, and the mystery was never solved.

Digging a water well

OK, I'm going to try and recreate an article that was written a couple years ago now for a farm magazine, pertaining to the hand digging of a modern water well. This is NOT the original article! If your trying to compare it, you're in for a shock. The original was pretty straightforward with more pictures and a lot less opinion.  This is the pre-edited version, with all it's warts and freckles.
Oh, on a related note, I highly recommend the movie "The Egg and I".

The movie is in black and white and introduces, in minor rolls, the characters of "Maw and Paw Kettle". it's a fair representation the creation of  a homestead farm early in the century. It's a dry comedy.

                                                                Hope you like it.

                                                 Digging a New Water Well                                                      

    After a decade of owning this farm, and having children graduate and move away then move back in with me, It’s has recently become evident  that we simply need more water.
    Living with 4 women and only two bathrooms has been difficult at times. fortunately being a farm boy, I have the ability to “go” outside, when nature calls.
    But there are  times that my water well just simply can not keep up with the demands of a modern family.
    I’m sure that previous generations found this supply quite adequate for their needs, but we have different standards today.
    My Great Grandparents would frequently wear the same outer clothes for several days, washing only undergarments frequently, and bathing only once every several days, opting to ’sponge’ bathe as a “daily” routine. Something that is unthinkable to my children.
    Besides, today we have, Ice makers, dish washers, and High capacity clothes washing machines.
    I experimented with using cisterns as a method for “banking” water for outside use, washing walkways, watering farm animals, and washing the automobiles, but being at the mercy of the weather and the limiting nature of a cistern  made it clear, a rain barrel - no matter how large - just wasn’t the solution to the problem.
    I needed another well!
    Our home is, (as of 2009) 104 years old. And in that century, the structure has gone through a number of remodels. I’m quite sure that when the house was built, it was constructed without “bathrooms” in mind, and that these rooms were later added within existing space. The largest of the bathrooms looks like it was carved out of the space of an existing porch which was later incorporated into the house proper. I’ve came to that conclusion because of the window systems used in that particular room, and the fact that the bathroom is separated from that room by what looks like an outside wall. This room has a hidden window which looks into what is now an existing room, both sides of the window now covered by sheet-rock. I only mention this to demonstrate how different the generations view water needs and usage. But I’ve concluded that this generation needs another water source.  hence my decision to dig a new well.
    Two years ago, my closest neighbor, decided that, like me, he was tired of paying the exorbitant prices that the city of Ardmore charges for providing water services, and he hired a company to dig him a water well, $2,000. dollars later he had a hole in the ground, another $4,000. dollars later he had a working water well. Based on that information, I decided to go a different route.
    In my lifetime, I have been present or assisted in the digging of 4 water wells. The most recent, and the deepest of these wells, was in the mid 1980’s.
    My father in law had decided to dig a well in his backyard after the city of Derby Kansas, started rationing water during a particularly nasty drought. He decided that he needed the well to get around the restrictions on watering his rather large vegetable garden.  And I agreed to help.
    He carefully chose a spot close to the house and near his back porch.
    In the mid 1980’s, and in Wichita Kansas, an individual could rent an extend-able hand auger system, however in 2009 in Ardmore Oklahoma, the three rental businesses, could not even grasp the concept of what it was that I was asking for.
    The equipment needed is fairly simple. An extend-able  hand driven auger and a quantity of pipe in variable lengths to fit the handle of the auger.
    When I inquired about the rental of such a device at a national equipment rental company, the teenager behind the counter, gave me the longest, open mouth, blank stare, that I have encountered in a number of years, in fact it was so remarkable that I deliberately allowed it to go on for an amazing amount of time before I said anything just to see how long it would last. I really wish that it had been captured on film. When he began to finally say something, I stopped him and I started to give a detailed description of the tool and explain the function. He called a manager, who was not much older. Again I started to give a brief description of the tool and it’s function, when this time, I was stopped, and told that there was no such thing in their inventory and to have a blessed day as he showed me the door.  I got a similar response at the other two local equipment rental businesses,
         I was not deterred.
    I searched the local hardware stores looking for the required machine, thinking that maybe I’d purchase the devise, but with no avail.
    I then went online, looking for the auger, and I found several models that looked like they might work, but I wasn’t willing to gamble a hundred bucks on a poor photo and a bad description.
    When I finally found what I was looking for, it was at a farm store, it wasn’t perfect, and it would have to be modified but at least I had one in my hands.

    I bought it and took it home.
    The shaft wasn’t adjustable, and was welded to the handle and the drill head. so we cut the handle off, and re-welded a pipe fitting onto the shaft, giving me the ability to add lengths of pipe to the shaft, thus allowing me to extend the drill farther down the hole as I dug.

    Now that I had the tool assembled, I was ready to dig.

There are three methods to finding water underground,
    The first involves a medieval technique that utilizes a form of magic, known as “dowsing”. This involves a “special” pair of bent rods, and the user’s inherited ability to tap into some sort of energy field. This “dowser” will walk around holding the rods in front of him or her till the energy of the universe causes the rods to cross, indicating where the well should be dug.
    The second method, known as “a reading“, by the practitioners of this particular madness, involves “reading” the “lay” of the energy fields. These fields are known as “Lay Lines”, by reading the lay of the land they determine where the subterranean water can be found. Apparently, the practitioners can determine this using a variety of devises, which includes a tuning fork and a device that is far more sensitive to magnetic fields than a compass, known as a magnaton!  (not to be confused with a magnetron, which is something real).  Apparently a “lay line”, which is something real by the way, causes the topography and the vegetation in the area, in of one these fields, to be affected, and to take on a certain aura that can be "read" by these devices indicating where water can be found.
    There is a third method, and one that I’m particularly fond of, a method that (oddly enough) seems to work just as often as the first two methods. This method is called “WAG‘ing”.  It involves an individuals “special” ability to disbelieve in the effectiveness of the first two methods - and a stubborn belief that he may have to dig a couple holes to find water. The beauty of WAG-ing is that you don’t have to put up with voodoo, witchcraft or magic. WAG-ing (wild ass guessing),(a modern military term) is an individuals ability to “take a shot” and move on from there if he’s wrong! and the only equipment necessary is a  two sided coin and your ability to toss it and catch it again.

    OK, once you “WAG” your location, and you start to dig, you may want to create a cover like a piece of plywood to cover the unfinished hole so that a passing chicken or goat doesn’t fall in or break a leg when your not looking. And if your digging alone, you may want to cut a small hole in the middle of your plywood, in which to pass the downward pipe, this will allow you to clamp off the pipe when your pulling the drill head up from the bottom of the hole to empty the dirt from the previous round of drilling. Pipe must be removed from the rig as you pull it up (or you’ll have a hundred foot of pipe above your head), the clamp allows you to hold the weight of the pipe in a stable position while you remove a section of the pipe.
    This may also be a good time to discuss your “everything went to hell” recovery system. If your working alone and the clamp slips while your handle is off the rig, you could be spending a large amount of quality time alone, fishing your drill head out of a hundred foot hole with a treble hook and a heavy line, or you can plan for the worst and attach a string cord or rope to the drill head and allowing it to twist up the pipe to the top of the hole. Yes it will be a pain in the butt to untwist this line each time you need to dump a drill load, but it could save you from the tremendous frustration of “drill fishing ”.

    There is one final piece of equipment that may or may not be needed, but is prudent to have around. A real lucky dig may not encounter a rock, but if you do, then you may need a tool called a “star drill”. This tool is basically a reinforced and oddly shaped punch, designed to “drill” through masonry or concrete by driving it into the material with a large hammer. If a star drill becomes necessary, then one must be welded to a length of pipe so that you can replace the auger head with the star drill on the end of your rig, this allows you to place it down the hole, then beating it with a hammer till you break the offending rock. The alternative is to find a new location and start all over again. And don't forget the wheelbarrow, shovel, and place to dump the dirt you'll be excavating. 
    Ok, your digging along, and at some point you will find that the material that your extracting from the hole will become finer and wetter. Your almost there. Keep digging and soon you will find that the drill is coming up almost empty and very wet. Wet sand is also a good indication that you’ve gone far enough. now that your done digging and you’ve found water, (yea!) what next.
You need to finish out the well.
    It may take several hours for the well to fill with water, now you need to measure the pipe that you were using to dig the well. This will give you some idea of how much casing pipe you’ll need.
    I was recently told a story, by an elderly gentleman, about a water well that his father dug when he was a child living in Arkansas during the depression. This old man’s father decided that the family needed a water well close to the house since the family had to carry water in buckets from a spring that was about a quarter mile away.
    Apparently this well project involved a shovel, a bucket tied to a rope and a couple of home made, and makeshift ladders. His father dug about a 4 foot diameter hole, some 30 or 40 foot deep with the family rising the dirt filled bucket from the hole with the rope, after he hit water, they retracted the ladders from the hole and built a block and tackle rig above the hole. He then told me that the well provided the family with drinkable water for about 6 weeks. One morning they woke up to discover that the well walls had collapsed destroying the well. Leaving a massive sink hole close to the house.Then it was back to the buckets and the spring.
    The moral of the story is that the well isn’t done till it’s “cased“.
    There are numerous opinions on how, and with what material you need to case your well shaft. In previous decades people thought that a well casing needed to be thick, heavy, and solid, today that means expensive. 
    The water well that I inherited from the previous inhabitant of this farm is cased in 6” steel pipe with a PVC lining.  Wow!, just a bit of overkill. The current opinion seems to be that a PVC casing by itself is good enough. The well that my father in law dug had a partial lining of thin walled PVC and it seems to be doing just fine after 25 years.
    Today you can purchase a 6” perforated thin walled PVC pipe that is that is designed for a septic system’s “Leach” field. Inexpensive and completely adequate to keep your well open and flowing.
    Once you’ve acquired the casing pipe, glued it together and placed it into the hole, allowing about a foot clearance above ground level, your ready to create the “well head”. This is typically a small concrete slab that surrounds and secures the casing pipe.  An alternate purpose for the slab is a platform in which to mount the necessary equipment that you may require for the operation of an active water  well. A jet pump and a pressure tank as well as the electrical and pressure systems. Not all wells use these systems but you may find them necessary for your situation. I use a submersible pump and a tower pressure system, so the only thing coming out of this casing is a single water pipe and a single wire going into the casing. The tower system provides for a method of pumping the well during inactive periods and at night while my family sleeps, banking a volume of water to be used during periods of heavy use. This method is highly effective for a low volume or low producing water well.   
    Beyond whatever pumping and delivery method you decide is best for your situation, you need to cap the wellhead with some kind of covering, keeping dirt and debris from falling into the well.  And depending on your local climate, you may need to cover your equipment with some kind of insulated housing. Any exposed pipe will also need to be insulated from frost, freezes and inclement weather.
This is a simple description of a complex procedure, I HIGHLY recommend that you do your own research, the method that I've described here is complicated and labor intensive, it helps to have some assistance. And this method may not be the solution for you.

Serial Killer, pedophile, cannibal, arsonist

     Since the post "Writing" people have been all over me about writing and publishing, why do I do it? how is it done? do I make any money at it?   
      It really does amaze me, the number of people that I speak to, that think that they can actually write or publish - anything. When they have never written anything more than even an essay in high school.
    I’m not saying that they can’t do it. I’m saying that they will never do it,
    They will never write anything in their lives much more than an email or text.
    I try and encourage everyone to write, anything! Because the sad truth is that in less than two generations their descendants will know absolutely nothing about them, but maybe a couple of embarrassing stories, if even that!
    I understand that very few people can organize their thoughts enough to put together a couple sentences. And of those poor folks, the ones that actually have the ability, fewer of them have the drive, or think that they have something to contribute.
    It’s a very small number of people.
    So let me make it as clear as I possibly can!  Everyone is curious about their grand, or great grand-parents lives. Even the boring, mundane bull that made up their long, hard, days.
    It’s the old question of “who are you and where did you come from?” when it could be as simple as going to the bookshelves and pulling down Grandpa's story.
    But guess what?  You are that Grandparent in two generations, and you were a lazy jerk, who didn’t care enough, to tell your progeny, what a slug you actually were.
    But you should know, that not every story is worth listening to, which brings me to a counter point.
    Don’t believe everything that you read. Not all stories are true.
    Just because grandpa was literate, doesn’t mean that he told you the truth about his life. He may have embellished just a bit,
                                                                 OR
    He may have neglected to write down the fact, that he was a serial killer, arsonist, pedophile, cannibal - But don’t judge him too harshly, it may have just been a “slight” oversight.

                                                                       John Wayne Gasey

    John Wane Gasey, was a serial killer, pedophile, cannibal, and he wrote children's books, and painted clowns, so just understand that you may not always be getting the whole story.
    But any story is better than guessing about who someone was.
    On a completely separate note - and please don’t mistake what I’m about to write as a character flaw of mine.  But, I have two completely separate views on the on the subject of “serial killer, pedophile, cannibal, arsonists“.     And I do know, that they are polar opposites, so sue me.
    Serial Killers, arsonist, cannibal, pedophiles, must be kept alive, happy, healthy, and talking - everything they say after their caught MUST be recorded, studied and analyzed completely in perpetuity.
    Now for the retort, I believe in retribution and vengeance in this life.  You wrong me and you can expect it in return.  An eye for an eye, works for me.
    Like I said, so, sue me!
    And if you don't like what I wrote, then I'll read your article,
               when you write it!