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