By Rob Watson
Surely you have considered what you would wish for if you found a magic genie that would grant your three most desired wishes. Think back. Say to the last year of high school. What is it you wanted most in and for your life at that time. Forget my babbling here. Take some time and recall what you really wanted... then look at your life and see what you have gotten.
It has always been the same three wishes for me. First I would have wished for true love. My second wish would have been for an adventurous life. My last wish would be for money. So, how have I done?
True love... that was a rough road. As I look back over those long ago years. Today I see those times as wandering through a field of beautiful flowers. Opportunities at hand for the thing I was seeking but I did not see, or did not reach out. Maybe I was looking right when that I sought was on my left. Perhaps I over reached, right past what might have been, to strive for what would never be. Fortunately, the story does not end there. I am sure I have found true love. I have been able to share it these 28 years with an especially loving and caring woman.
An adventurous life... I set one of my life's goals as to sail around the world. How boring could that be? As a substitute I bought a plane ticket to circumnavigate the Earth. I have gone most of the places I have wanted to go... well not the moon or one of the stars... but interesting places, battlefields, museums, national parks, cruises, hikes to the top of mountains, an 18,000 mile driving business trip that touched nearly every state... Canada, much of Europe, a touch of Asia. Hunting trips and many more to numerous to mention. I built my own car, drove it, raced it, scared the bejesus out of myself and others. Sang the Messiah (chorus, base) in public performance. I even watched my team, The Saints, win a Super Bowl. (How unlikely did that seem until a couple of years ago) I keep chipping items off one end of my bucket list and adding to the other.
Money... I cannot recall ever wanting for any necessity for more than a few days. If I wanted something or needed something, I found a way to get the money. Early on I would pick up pop bottles and turn them in for the deposit. Later i worked in my parent's store. In college, I mostly did odd jobs. After the Air Force trained me in electronics, I was able to fill time with temp jobs or actually use my education to do substitute teaching. Most of my reasonable desires and a fair number of my wildest dreams have been purchased from money in hand. My pile of money would impress very few. Still there is a little bit for charity, for the church, and an occasional visit to the gambling tables. It may even be enough to keep me in room and board until the end...
Now think about it. Money, a genie would have fixed me up with a lot more, but I have had enough. An adventurous life, I could have climbed a higher mountain, driven a faster car, bet a million dollars on one roll of the dice. Then, true love, maybe a genie could have made the wait shorter. However, he would have had to work to find someone prettier, sexier, more loving, more caring.
I have to say I got my three wishes. What about you?
Saturday, September 7, 2013
Thursday, August 29, 2013
My First Deer Hunt
By Rob Watson
About the age of 13, my father thought it would be good to introduce me to deer hunting... At the time, deer hunting season in State was the week of Thanksgiving. The first two days of Thanksgiving week was also the time of the state teachers convention in the capitol. Therefore, school was out all that week. Daddy had a customer who would let us hunt on his land. Daddy even bought me a box of slugs for my shotgun. (I still have that ammunition, five .410 gauge slugs. I have often wondered, when I come across this box, whether anything short of sticking the gun in the deer's ear would cause it more than a minor irritation.) In any case it did not matter. The fish and game people canceled the deer season... I heard because they wanted to punish deer hunters for using dogs. (highly illegal in State)
Twenty or so years later I finally got the chance to go deer hunting. I was working for a large computer/electronics company teaching technicians how to troubleshoot and repair their computers. A coworker. (who has become a lifelong friend) invited me to join him and his family on their deer hunting lease out in West Texas. (You can find the area on the map of Texas, just northeast of the Big Bend National Park.) Twenty miles south of Sheffield Texas. (the next year the hunting leases were sold, rumor has it, to a vineyard... I had a chance to visit Sheffield a year or so ago. With the hunting gone, and being bypassed by the interstate highway, Sheffield is a sad shadow of it's former self.)
While I still had my trusty .410, I purchased, for no good reason, three other fire arms. One was a sporterized Mauser '98 in 8mm. The second was a old 1903 Springfield in 30-06. The third was a Remington .221 fireball. (an exotic looking pistol.) When the invitation to join the hunt came, and I had paid my share of the lease, I began to develope hunting loads for my toys. When the truth is told, it will be clear that I had very little idea about what I was doing, but I did get lucky.
As in former times, hunting began Thanksgiving week. We departed some hours before daylight and breakfasted about dawn in a small Texas town. The rest of the day was spent driving across the vastness of the Great State of Texas. Near sundown found us in Sheffield. We ate a steak dinner at a nice restaurant there. I was told this would be our last good meal for a while. ( it was a lie, we ate like kings the whole time.) After dinner, we drove the 20 miles to the lease. We set up our popup camper. The rest of the family was delayed as one of the nephews was playing in a championship football game. They bought a moderately large camping trailer. It became the center of non-hunting activities.
On this first night I learned a lesson that was to serve me well over the next many wilderness hunts. Do not drink a lot of beer ( or any other liquid) before going to bed. My bed consisted of a thin sheet of plywood suspended four feet (1.3 meters) in the air, a thin bit of foam rubber, and a thin sleeping bag. (that had served my brother on his geology expeditions twenty five years earlier.) Here you might think it would be relatively warm in late November this far south (You did look this up on the map, Right?) But, you, like me, would be wrong. In Texas they have a saying: "That wind is blowing straight off the North Pole and the only thing in the way is a barbed wire fence... and I think one of the strands is down."
Nature called me three or four times during that night. To speed up the process, the first time, I went out in my undies. It was cold in the popup. It was really cold in the icy wind outside. Things got so cold they did not want to work... if you know what I mean. By the time I got back inside I was near hypothermia. Later calls went no better. Putting on freezing clothes before going outside took away any body heat accumulated in the interim. (The potty being a nearby bush) By the time I had warmed up enough to go back to sleep I had to go out again. Lesson Learned!!
I have decided to tell the whole story of this adventure. You should plan to be reading for a while. The first day was Friday. Deer season opened at daylight on Saturday. ( I shall call my companions Carl and Carl Jr.) But Quail season was open so Carl Jr. and I set out to find supper. Fortunately there was backup in the ice chests. We chased Scaled Quail all over a good portion of West Texas with no result. (if they could, these birds might borrow a quote from Winston Churchill: "Nothing is more exhilarating than to be shot at without effect.")
For weeks Carl had been warning me that the hunting would be tough. We would start out before daylight and return after dark. There were mountains to climb, rivers to cross, and all manner of hardship. I took his advice and planned accordingly... backpack, food, water, emergency equipment... etc. To be fair to my friend, he was right about the start time that first day. And, he was right about when we came back after dark. We wandered around in the dark until daylight, hunted for a couple of hours then came back to camp. After resting a bit we went out for a couple of more hours then returned for lunch and a siesta.
After the siesta we, the 13 of us, discussed the lack of animals and the best way to hunt during the afternoon. There was a lot of finger pointing and directions... which I obviously did not understand. Each person took up his equipment and struck off in his assigned direction. After about 30 yards (meters) we hit heavy brush. When I came out the other side I was very much alone. I picked a trail up the side of a mesa and stopped to look around when I got nearly to the top.
Half a mile ( about 1 kilometer) west of me I saw a number of the others walking along the high side of a gully full of brush. In the gully, three deer crept carefully past the hunters. I shouted "Hey... where... are... you... going...?" The reply, an informative: "You're... going... the... wrong... way!!" My direction was irrelevant, but the deer seemed pleased with their choice of direction as they made their way to safety.
As in all cases, where I go wandering in the wilderness, I had memorized the topo maps of the region. I knew where I was, I could see the camp clearly from my elevated position. Landmarks abounded. I decided, as is usual with my sometimes obstinate nature, to go my own way. Therein lies the tale.
On top of the mesa I wandered along until I came to a well used trail. The trail had numerous cloven hoof tracks and pellet like droppings, just like any good hunter would expect to find when hunting deer. (However, one should also know sheep leave exactly the same signs.) I decided to follow my "Deer" sign and see where it lead. After a few hundred yards (meters) I saw three doe. They saw me as well and dashed off into the scattered brush of the mesa. These deer had been following this trail.
I wandered off into the brush to look for my game. Then a bright idea took root. If these animals were following the trail, then others might follow it as well. I found a comfortable looking pile of rocks and sat down to ready my ambush for the next travelers to come along... and shortly thereafter fell fast asleep. When I awoke, the three doe were about 50 yards away, checking me out. I had the 8mm Mauser in hand, not pointed in the proper direction. As I moved, those doe decided they had seen enough of me and hightailed it back into the brush.
Still laying in the rocks, I looked around. A nice buck was about 90 yards away looking directly at me. I froze. He apparently did not know what a human was if the human was reclining. (I experienced this same reaction among Wyoming Pronghorns.) When he looked away I slowly began to move the rifle. He took a long look back at me, then looked away over the canyon, perhaps to look in the direction my companions had gone.
I very slowly raised the rifle, took careful aim, and fired. He toppled over without taking a single step. I lay where I was for several minutes, allowing him time to die. The precaution was unnecessary this time as the bullet cut all of the blood vessels from the top of his heart. He had died instantly.
After my experience of the morning, I prepared for the afternoon by leaving my carefully prepared pack behind, taking only water. When I got to the buck I realized I had no equipment except my pocket knife and absolutely no knowledge about how to field dress a deer. Hey, I took Biology. There can't be a great deal of difference between cleaning a chicken (A skill, practiced many times under the watchful eyes of my parents.) and field dressing a deer. Plus, there are no feathers to pluck. And, it is so.
After dressing the deer I tried to pick it up to carry back to camp. It was a no go. Many West Texas deer are about the size of a large dog. Easy to lift, easy to carry long distances. Mine was almost too large for me to lift. Once I got him up, I looked down and saw my rifle and the knife. It became clear there was no way I was going to carry all this and the deer the half mile back to camp. After a considerable struggle, I was able to hang him in a tree.
As I pondered my situation, I heard my salvation coming across the mesa toward me. One of the hunters, an older gentleman with one good arm and half another, was driving his jeep, with a companion, directly toward me. To make sure they saw me I climbed upon a rock, about four feet tall, took off my hunters orange jacket and waved it over my head. About 200 yard away they turned right, and seemed to be going away. To attract their attention, I pointed my rifle into the ground in their direction and fired. The muzzle blast of a high powered rifle was bound to draw some attention. They kept on going and did not turn back.
In reconsidering my dilemma, I walked back to camp to get some help. I found Carl Jr. and asked him. He agreed. The older gentleman was there and offered to help, riding being better then walking, we agreed. The event I relate here is summarized in my post "Fear". Our driver had been drinking a fair amount before we started. He took another beer, holding it in his good hand, and driving with his stub of a arm. He took off at high speed over rough and rutted roads. At the edge of the mesa we came to a road directly up the side. The road was narrow with steep drop offs of fifty or more feet on both sides. With time to think, I decided I had a great chance of dying then and there. I said a prayer, asking God for forgiveness of my sins, closed my eyes and expected to die.
Much to my great relief, we reached the top of the mesa. I knew about where we were and directed the driver toward the deer. When we got near, there was a field of large rocks. I suggested Carl Jr. and I go get the deer. Our driver, ignoring my warning that he might damage his machine, drove into the boulders and promptly broke his steering rod. Being familiar with the steering of that jeep, I crawled under it to examine the damage. It was broke and would need a new part or a skilled welder to fix. The driver wanted me to tape it back together.
Carl Jr. was a distance runner in track and volunteered to run back to camp to get help. Unfortunately, he decided to stop at the edge of the mesa and shout down to the camp. In camp, four guys got into a four passenger Bronco to bring us the gasoline. The last of the daylight was fading when the rescuers arrived. The older gentleman got in the front seat. Carl Jr., the deer, a spare tire, a can of gas and myself shared a space roughly two feet by five feet by four feet tall.
The entire eastern edge of the mesa was bordered with a fence and a road. Go east, you get to the road. The rescuers drove around until they got to the edge of the mesa, turned around and drove until they got to the edge of the mesa again. On the third trip to the edge of the mesa I got out. I told them I knew my way back and I was going to walk. Carl Jr. jumped out as well and said; "I'm going with Mr. Watson." There was a fair amount of shouting about the two of us getting lost. I took a minute to show my young companion how to find the north star and told him, if we walk North we would get to camp. Our rescuers would have none of that. More shouting. Finally I decided I had to save everyone myself. I showed Carl Jr. the Seven Sisters constellation (Due east at the time) and began to walk that direction. More shouting. At last, I told the driver of the rescue truck he was pointed east. He must not turn his wheels or he would get lost. We got back into the truck, drove 50 feet and came to the road.
Back at camp, around the campfire, I found the two who had passed me up on the mesa in the afternoon. "You boys didn't see any deer up on the mesa this afternoon, did you?" They answered, "No, we didn't see a single one." "I can explain that," says I. "Anyone who cannot see a six foot, 200 pound man standing on a four foot rock, waving a bright orange jacket and firing a rifle at them, Ain't gonna see any deer either."
A day or so later I was charged with cooking the chili. After throwing everything together, Carl mentioned that his wife had given him a pint of jalapeno peppers. On a normal day I might have added a few. This time I just dumped the whole pint in the rather large pot of chili. It came out a little hot. (OK, OK, the cast iron pot glowed a cherry red from the heat, it was hot stuff) Next morning, for some reason breakfast was light. and a number of the hunters were dallying about the table when one asked if there was any chili left. There was. I was still hungry so I asked for some. then other men asked for a bowl as well. With us were three or four adolescent boys. You could tell from the looks on their faces they would sooner pick up a rattlesnake than eat another bowl of that hot stuff. However the pressure to be like the adults was too great and after a delay they each asked for a bowl.
Carl's brother in law was a jokester. He made a point of laughing up any goofs made by the people around him. One morning as four hunters drove of toward the mesa, a very nice buck showed himself beside the road. One hunter jumped out of the truck, took aim, and pulled his trigger... Snap... he had forgotten to load his gun. BIL retold the story a number of times at the expense of our companion. Next day, again driving toward the mesa, a number of quail appeared beside the road. BIL jumped out, with his shotgun, declaring he would get us some fat birds for supper... Snap, Snap... went his double barrel shotgun. It also ended the jesting at other's expense.
At the end of four days hunting I had gotten my two deer. Carl and Carl Jr. each got one and one other man got one. Everyone else went home empty handed. There is more to this story but I am headed to bed. Will have to write it later.
About the age of 13, my father thought it would be good to introduce me to deer hunting... At the time, deer hunting season in State was the week of Thanksgiving. The first two days of Thanksgiving week was also the time of the state teachers convention in the capitol. Therefore, school was out all that week. Daddy had a customer who would let us hunt on his land. Daddy even bought me a box of slugs for my shotgun. (I still have that ammunition, five .410 gauge slugs. I have often wondered, when I come across this box, whether anything short of sticking the gun in the deer's ear would cause it more than a minor irritation.) In any case it did not matter. The fish and game people canceled the deer season... I heard because they wanted to punish deer hunters for using dogs. (highly illegal in State)
Twenty or so years later I finally got the chance to go deer hunting. I was working for a large computer/electronics company teaching technicians how to troubleshoot and repair their computers. A coworker. (who has become a lifelong friend) invited me to join him and his family on their deer hunting lease out in West Texas. (You can find the area on the map of Texas, just northeast of the Big Bend National Park.) Twenty miles south of Sheffield Texas. (the next year the hunting leases were sold, rumor has it, to a vineyard... I had a chance to visit Sheffield a year or so ago. With the hunting gone, and being bypassed by the interstate highway, Sheffield is a sad shadow of it's former self.)
While I still had my trusty .410, I purchased, for no good reason, three other fire arms. One was a sporterized Mauser '98 in 8mm. The second was a old 1903 Springfield in 30-06. The third was a Remington .221 fireball. (an exotic looking pistol.) When the invitation to join the hunt came, and I had paid my share of the lease, I began to develope hunting loads for my toys. When the truth is told, it will be clear that I had very little idea about what I was doing, but I did get lucky.
As in former times, hunting began Thanksgiving week. We departed some hours before daylight and breakfasted about dawn in a small Texas town. The rest of the day was spent driving across the vastness of the Great State of Texas. Near sundown found us in Sheffield. We ate a steak dinner at a nice restaurant there. I was told this would be our last good meal for a while. ( it was a lie, we ate like kings the whole time.) After dinner, we drove the 20 miles to the lease. We set up our popup camper. The rest of the family was delayed as one of the nephews was playing in a championship football game. They bought a moderately large camping trailer. It became the center of non-hunting activities.
On this first night I learned a lesson that was to serve me well over the next many wilderness hunts. Do not drink a lot of beer ( or any other liquid) before going to bed. My bed consisted of a thin sheet of plywood suspended four feet (1.3 meters) in the air, a thin bit of foam rubber, and a thin sleeping bag. (that had served my brother on his geology expeditions twenty five years earlier.) Here you might think it would be relatively warm in late November this far south (You did look this up on the map, Right?) But, you, like me, would be wrong. In Texas they have a saying: "That wind is blowing straight off the North Pole and the only thing in the way is a barbed wire fence... and I think one of the strands is down."
Nature called me three or four times during that night. To speed up the process, the first time, I went out in my undies. It was cold in the popup. It was really cold in the icy wind outside. Things got so cold they did not want to work... if you know what I mean. By the time I got back inside I was near hypothermia. Later calls went no better. Putting on freezing clothes before going outside took away any body heat accumulated in the interim. (The potty being a nearby bush) By the time I had warmed up enough to go back to sleep I had to go out again. Lesson Learned!!
I have decided to tell the whole story of this adventure. You should plan to be reading for a while. The first day was Friday. Deer season opened at daylight on Saturday. ( I shall call my companions Carl and Carl Jr.) But Quail season was open so Carl Jr. and I set out to find supper. Fortunately there was backup in the ice chests. We chased Scaled Quail all over a good portion of West Texas with no result. (if they could, these birds might borrow a quote from Winston Churchill: "Nothing is more exhilarating than to be shot at without effect.")
For weeks Carl had been warning me that the hunting would be tough. We would start out before daylight and return after dark. There were mountains to climb, rivers to cross, and all manner of hardship. I took his advice and planned accordingly... backpack, food, water, emergency equipment... etc. To be fair to my friend, he was right about the start time that first day. And, he was right about when we came back after dark. We wandered around in the dark until daylight, hunted for a couple of hours then came back to camp. After resting a bit we went out for a couple of more hours then returned for lunch and a siesta.
After the siesta we, the 13 of us, discussed the lack of animals and the best way to hunt during the afternoon. There was a lot of finger pointing and directions... which I obviously did not understand. Each person took up his equipment and struck off in his assigned direction. After about 30 yards (meters) we hit heavy brush. When I came out the other side I was very much alone. I picked a trail up the side of a mesa and stopped to look around when I got nearly to the top.
Half a mile ( about 1 kilometer) west of me I saw a number of the others walking along the high side of a gully full of brush. In the gully, three deer crept carefully past the hunters. I shouted "Hey... where... are... you... going...?" The reply, an informative: "You're... going... the... wrong... way!!" My direction was irrelevant, but the deer seemed pleased with their choice of direction as they made their way to safety.
As in all cases, where I go wandering in the wilderness, I had memorized the topo maps of the region. I knew where I was, I could see the camp clearly from my elevated position. Landmarks abounded. I decided, as is usual with my sometimes obstinate nature, to go my own way. Therein lies the tale.
On top of the mesa I wandered along until I came to a well used trail. The trail had numerous cloven hoof tracks and pellet like droppings, just like any good hunter would expect to find when hunting deer. (However, one should also know sheep leave exactly the same signs.) I decided to follow my "Deer" sign and see where it lead. After a few hundred yards (meters) I saw three doe. They saw me as well and dashed off into the scattered brush of the mesa. These deer had been following this trail.
I wandered off into the brush to look for my game. Then a bright idea took root. If these animals were following the trail, then others might follow it as well. I found a comfortable looking pile of rocks and sat down to ready my ambush for the next travelers to come along... and shortly thereafter fell fast asleep. When I awoke, the three doe were about 50 yards away, checking me out. I had the 8mm Mauser in hand, not pointed in the proper direction. As I moved, those doe decided they had seen enough of me and hightailed it back into the brush.
Still laying in the rocks, I looked around. A nice buck was about 90 yards away looking directly at me. I froze. He apparently did not know what a human was if the human was reclining. (I experienced this same reaction among Wyoming Pronghorns.) When he looked away I slowly began to move the rifle. He took a long look back at me, then looked away over the canyon, perhaps to look in the direction my companions had gone.
I very slowly raised the rifle, took careful aim, and fired. He toppled over without taking a single step. I lay where I was for several minutes, allowing him time to die. The precaution was unnecessary this time as the bullet cut all of the blood vessels from the top of his heart. He had died instantly.
After my experience of the morning, I prepared for the afternoon by leaving my carefully prepared pack behind, taking only water. When I got to the buck I realized I had no equipment except my pocket knife and absolutely no knowledge about how to field dress a deer. Hey, I took Biology. There can't be a great deal of difference between cleaning a chicken (A skill, practiced many times under the watchful eyes of my parents.) and field dressing a deer. Plus, there are no feathers to pluck. And, it is so.
After dressing the deer I tried to pick it up to carry back to camp. It was a no go. Many West Texas deer are about the size of a large dog. Easy to lift, easy to carry long distances. Mine was almost too large for me to lift. Once I got him up, I looked down and saw my rifle and the knife. It became clear there was no way I was going to carry all this and the deer the half mile back to camp. After a considerable struggle, I was able to hang him in a tree.
As I pondered my situation, I heard my salvation coming across the mesa toward me. One of the hunters, an older gentleman with one good arm and half another, was driving his jeep, with a companion, directly toward me. To make sure they saw me I climbed upon a rock, about four feet tall, took off my hunters orange jacket and waved it over my head. About 200 yard away they turned right, and seemed to be going away. To attract their attention, I pointed my rifle into the ground in their direction and fired. The muzzle blast of a high powered rifle was bound to draw some attention. They kept on going and did not turn back.
In reconsidering my dilemma, I walked back to camp to get some help. I found Carl Jr. and asked him. He agreed. The older gentleman was there and offered to help, riding being better then walking, we agreed. The event I relate here is summarized in my post "Fear". Our driver had been drinking a fair amount before we started. He took another beer, holding it in his good hand, and driving with his stub of a arm. He took off at high speed over rough and rutted roads. At the edge of the mesa we came to a road directly up the side. The road was narrow with steep drop offs of fifty or more feet on both sides. With time to think, I decided I had a great chance of dying then and there. I said a prayer, asking God for forgiveness of my sins, closed my eyes and expected to die.
Much to my great relief, we reached the top of the mesa. I knew about where we were and directed the driver toward the deer. When we got near, there was a field of large rocks. I suggested Carl Jr. and I go get the deer. Our driver, ignoring my warning that he might damage his machine, drove into the boulders and promptly broke his steering rod. Being familiar with the steering of that jeep, I crawled under it to examine the damage. It was broke and would need a new part or a skilled welder to fix. The driver wanted me to tape it back together.
Carl Jr. was a distance runner in track and volunteered to run back to camp to get help. Unfortunately, he decided to stop at the edge of the mesa and shout down to the camp. In camp, four guys got into a four passenger Bronco to bring us the gasoline. The last of the daylight was fading when the rescuers arrived. The older gentleman got in the front seat. Carl Jr., the deer, a spare tire, a can of gas and myself shared a space roughly two feet by five feet by four feet tall.
The entire eastern edge of the mesa was bordered with a fence and a road. Go east, you get to the road. The rescuers drove around until they got to the edge of the mesa, turned around and drove until they got to the edge of the mesa again. On the third trip to the edge of the mesa I got out. I told them I knew my way back and I was going to walk. Carl Jr. jumped out as well and said; "I'm going with Mr. Watson." There was a fair amount of shouting about the two of us getting lost. I took a minute to show my young companion how to find the north star and told him, if we walk North we would get to camp. Our rescuers would have none of that. More shouting. Finally I decided I had to save everyone myself. I showed Carl Jr. the Seven Sisters constellation (Due east at the time) and began to walk that direction. More shouting. At last, I told the driver of the rescue truck he was pointed east. He must not turn his wheels or he would get lost. We got back into the truck, drove 50 feet and came to the road.
Back at camp, around the campfire, I found the two who had passed me up on the mesa in the afternoon. "You boys didn't see any deer up on the mesa this afternoon, did you?" They answered, "No, we didn't see a single one." "I can explain that," says I. "Anyone who cannot see a six foot, 200 pound man standing on a four foot rock, waving a bright orange jacket and firing a rifle at them, Ain't gonna see any deer either."
A day or so later I was charged with cooking the chili. After throwing everything together, Carl mentioned that his wife had given him a pint of jalapeno peppers. On a normal day I might have added a few. This time I just dumped the whole pint in the rather large pot of chili. It came out a little hot. (OK, OK, the cast iron pot glowed a cherry red from the heat, it was hot stuff) Next morning, for some reason breakfast was light. and a number of the hunters were dallying about the table when one asked if there was any chili left. There was. I was still hungry so I asked for some. then other men asked for a bowl as well. With us were three or four adolescent boys. You could tell from the looks on their faces they would sooner pick up a rattlesnake than eat another bowl of that hot stuff. However the pressure to be like the adults was too great and after a delay they each asked for a bowl.
Carl's brother in law was a jokester. He made a point of laughing up any goofs made by the people around him. One morning as four hunters drove of toward the mesa, a very nice buck showed himself beside the road. One hunter jumped out of the truck, took aim, and pulled his trigger... Snap... he had forgotten to load his gun. BIL retold the story a number of times at the expense of our companion. Next day, again driving toward the mesa, a number of quail appeared beside the road. BIL jumped out, with his shotgun, declaring he would get us some fat birds for supper... Snap, Snap... went his double barrel shotgun. It also ended the jesting at other's expense.
At the end of four days hunting I had gotten my two deer. Carl and Carl Jr. each got one and one other man got one. Everyone else went home empty handed. There is more to this story but I am headed to bed. Will have to write it later.
Friday, August 2, 2013
Best Friends
By Rob Watson
More than a half century ago, when I was six years old, My parents had a retail business. In the block, half the businesses faced East and half west. A small alley ran behind the buildings. The rear of each business opened onto this alley. Here trash was deposited and collected every few days. In the days before large plastic trash receptacles and dumpsters, the businesses used large cardboard boxes. Two of these businesses were furniture stores. Thus a large and ready supply of large cardboard boxes was available to everyone.
It was not unusual for the children, such as myself, of the business owners to play in and around the trash boxes. They made great fortresses and hiding places. Large trash trucks would drive down this alley to pick up the trash. Also, some of the employees were volunteer fire fighters. When the city fire alarm sounded, these men would race down the alley, in their cars, to get to the fire station two blocks away. It was the greatest fear of these parents, that one or more of their children would be killed by one or the other of these means. None ever were, protected as we were by vast ignorance and total disregard of our parents demands and commands.
One day, of unknown date and time, Jim and I met, we claim, crawling through the same trash box. He was seven months younger than me, but a whole year behind in school because of state law. Together we were in Cub Scouts, boy scouts, little league baseball... We were great adventurers, at least until real life raised its ugly head. Separation by time and distance would mark the whole of our friendship. We lived on opposite sides of town. They built a new school. He went to the new one, me to the old. He worked in his parents store, me in mine. Just as we were to be in high school together, his parents sold out and moved to another city.
After one year of college we were together again. After a few months my parents bought me a small house trailer. It was 40ft X 8Ft (13m X 2 1/2m). Jim moved in. The college town was 'dry', and, the nearest liquor store was 22 miles away. A wet bar quickly popped up in my trailer. It became the center of activities after adventuring, studying, and work were done. The long term result being a very close, relaxed relationship. In later years we would sit for extended periods without speaking, sipping tea (we both mostly gave up liquor after college) and watching the woods behind his house.
It was during this time that I developed most of the principles by which I relate to others. Cook the meals together. Wash the dishes together. Clean the house together. Repair all the broken things together. Getting mad solves no problems. Keeping the mouth shut and walking away keeps things from going bad to worse. Keep track of all expenses, food, utilities. Settle up at the end of every month. When he does something nice for me. It is my task to find something to do nice for him. Honesty in thought, word, and action is a must. (But, there is such a thing as being too honest, at least with words.) I respect your choices. You respect mine. When they conflict, compromise. Then, there are such things as too much together and too much help. Not every problem needs an immediate solution.
There are always people who want to give too much. Fortunately only a few try to take too much. Fair is fair. I accept those things you wish to do for me. Then, you must allow me to do things for you. Over the years, when a relationship seemed out of balance, I would ask myself, "how would I behave if this were Jim?"
My plan, over all these intervening years, was to move near Jim and we would spend our retired years as great adventurers again. When Wife finally closed her business and we became able to execute this plan. On a Saturday before Thanksgiving, on my way to visit my friend of more than 60 years, I got a call from his son. It was the notice of the ultimate separation. "Mister Robert, Daddy died last night."
Friday, July 26, 2013
Charlie: Shotgun
By Rob Watson
Over the years, Charlie had restored a lot of old farm equipment. In the early years it was of necessity. Later it became a hobby. One day an old farmer was persuaded, by his wife, I think, to dispose of his collection of Ford Model T parts. Being near at hand, Charlie was offered first dibs. To the apparent irritation of the old farmer, Charlie negotiated a lower price, help in moving the junk, and a larger amount of materials than the original offer.
Among the parts was a body that had been used for target practice. It had numerous bullet holes. Being the patient man that he is, Charlie began to repair the holes by pounding out the defect and filling it in then smoothing it over. Having finished repairing one of the holes, he wanted to show off his handiwork to his New Year's party guests.
One of the guests challenged his decision to repair the holes, declaring they gave the car character. Seeing the wisdom of this suggestion, as it would save a huge amount of work, the decision was made to leave the bullet holes. The car, completely restored and running, now an individual with much character, (bullet holes), required a name. Bonnie and Clyde was suggested, among others, but Charlie settled on "Shotgun".
In following years, Charlie drove Shotgun many places. It became his trademark.
Over the years, Charlie had restored a lot of old farm equipment. In the early years it was of necessity. Later it became a hobby. One day an old farmer was persuaded, by his wife, I think, to dispose of his collection of Ford Model T parts. Being near at hand, Charlie was offered first dibs. To the apparent irritation of the old farmer, Charlie negotiated a lower price, help in moving the junk, and a larger amount of materials than the original offer.
Among the parts was a body that had been used for target practice. It had numerous bullet holes. Being the patient man that he is, Charlie began to repair the holes by pounding out the defect and filling it in then smoothing it over. Having finished repairing one of the holes, he wanted to show off his handiwork to his New Year's party guests.
One of the guests challenged his decision to repair the holes, declaring they gave the car character. Seeing the wisdom of this suggestion, as it would save a huge amount of work, the decision was made to leave the bullet holes. The car, completely restored and running, now an individual with much character, (bullet holes), required a name. Bonnie and Clyde was suggested, among others, but Charlie settled on "Shotgun".
In following years, Charlie drove Shotgun many places. It became his trademark.
Friday, July 19, 2013
Charlie: Beating The Rap
Charlie: Beating the Rap
Charlie's first auto accident happened when he was 85 or so. He was driving in Bigtown, had stopped for a traffic light and proceeded when the light changed. His car was struck by a pregnant young woman who ran the red light while talking on her cell phone. Being a gentleman, and unaware of the protocol controlling accident investigation, he moved his car and his bumper, torn off by the other auto, so that other traffic could proceed.
When the police arrived and examined the scene, Charlie was, falsely, found to be at fault and was ticketed. When I heard of the accident, I suggested he pay the fine and forget the whole thing. He declared he was not at fault and was going to fight the ticket in court. His greatest fear was what might happen to his car insurance rates. In the months before the trial we discussed this several times. Because I had never seen anyone successfully fight a ticket, I repeatedly advised him to pay the fine. He repeatedly refused and was determined to argue his innocence. I saw a disaster in the making. I saw a big lawsuit for damages to the unborn child and the mother, based on the courts finding of fault. Charlie saw complete exoneration.
He consulted a number of people about court proceedings and discovered what needed to be done. He asked me to go with him for his trial. On the appointed day, we both dressed in our best business suits and went to face the music. The court dress code was obviously casual. The judge was in shirtsleeves and the prosecutor wore jeans, as did everyone but ourselves.
As each case was called and judged, it became clear this was a "hanging" judge. There was no mercy or leniency shown to any defendant. I was getting really nervous. Then the bailiff called Charlie's case. We both stood as the charges were read... then the prosecutor interrupted the bailiff and told the judge the charges had been dropped. No reason was given.
With this opening Charlie was left to find his own explanation, always given when the story is retold: When the court saw the defendant and his high-powered lawyer, they quickly decided not to tangle with the pair.
Charlie's first auto accident happened when he was 85 or so. He was driving in Bigtown, had stopped for a traffic light and proceeded when the light changed. His car was struck by a pregnant young woman who ran the red light while talking on her cell phone. Being a gentleman, and unaware of the protocol controlling accident investigation, he moved his car and his bumper, torn off by the other auto, so that other traffic could proceed.
When the police arrived and examined the scene, Charlie was, falsely, found to be at fault and was ticketed. When I heard of the accident, I suggested he pay the fine and forget the whole thing. He declared he was not at fault and was going to fight the ticket in court. His greatest fear was what might happen to his car insurance rates. In the months before the trial we discussed this several times. Because I had never seen anyone successfully fight a ticket, I repeatedly advised him to pay the fine. He repeatedly refused and was determined to argue his innocence. I saw a disaster in the making. I saw a big lawsuit for damages to the unborn child and the mother, based on the courts finding of fault. Charlie saw complete exoneration.
He consulted a number of people about court proceedings and discovered what needed to be done. He asked me to go with him for his trial. On the appointed day, we both dressed in our best business suits and went to face the music. The court dress code was obviously casual. The judge was in shirtsleeves and the prosecutor wore jeans, as did everyone but ourselves.
As each case was called and judged, it became clear this was a "hanging" judge. There was no mercy or leniency shown to any defendant. I was getting really nervous. Then the bailiff called Charlie's case. We both stood as the charges were read... then the prosecutor interrupted the bailiff and told the judge the charges had been dropped. No reason was given.
With this opening Charlie was left to find his own explanation, always given when the story is retold: When the court saw the defendant and his high-powered lawyer, they quickly decided not to tangle with the pair.
Thursday, July 11, 2013
Charlie: Introduction
Charlie: Introduction
By Rob Watson
I have been thinking about writing about my friend Charlie for a while now. These stories could be said to be the history of a friendship but they are really the history of a unique character who happens to be my friend.
Charlie is over 6 feet (2 meters) tall, weighs about 220 pounds (100kg)and is a second generation American of German immigrants. He can be heard, from time to time, speaking in his families native tongue and even recognizes the few words I know of that language. As of this writing he is 86 years of age, the second of 6 children. He and his wife raised two adopted children to successful adulthood. The son died a few years ago in an auto accident. Because of his generous nature, he treats all the children of his daughter-in-law as his own grandchildren, even though only two are the natural children of his son.
Six or so years ago Wife and I bought a commercial building in State. While wife cleared up business in the old state I was here getting things in order and starting on my new job as science and ecology teacher. One Sunday after church I went to the popular and only restaurant in town. Every table was taken. An older gentleman and his wife occupied a table for four a few feet away. The gentleman, Charlie, invited me to join them. This began our association.
Born in 1927, Charlie grew up during the great depression, the dust bowl days of this region, and served during the last years of world war II. He speaks of the hardships and challenges of those days infrequently, usually only if asked. He does frequently pass along the advice given him by his father: "Put your labor where the money is." He is also very conservative when it comes to parting with his hard earned cash. Most of these stories will document how we made things from the piles of junk he accumulated over the years.
Do not be mislead by the above description. When an investment is needed there is no hesitation. However a bit of patience usually yields the needed item for a greatly reduced price. Often acquired from someone who has it and no longer needs it. He has many sources.
The second thing I learned about Charlie (The first being he never met a stranger) was that he knows everybody and everything about everybody. While he seldom speaks ill of anyone, there are folks with whom he will not do business, ask for, or grant favors. I have traveled with Charlie a great deal. In all the places we have stopped, all the places, he will find one or several folks he knows and calls by name, discusses a mutual interest, or catches up on family events. We never hurry anywhere. While driving through the local area, a radius of 50 or so miles, He can give you the name of the owner of nearly every parcel of land, the genealogy of the owner, and whether they are good stewards of their land.
The thing we most often disagree over is what is fun. Charlie's idea of fun is driving around the country examining the crops. He will stop in the road, stroll into a nearby field, dig up a sprouting seed, or pluck a grain head, and patiently explain, to me, the condition of the crop. He thinks work is fun. More than that, no job is ever finished. you will see this frequently in the chapters that follow. The closest we ever got to fun was the time I talked him into a trip to the casino. His usual response to such requests is "I'm a farmer, I don't need to go to the casino to gamble. Everything I do is a gamble." My winning argument was "At the casino You only risk $5. And, the payoff is seconds away instead of 10 months." He won $5 playing blackjack. We almost went fishing once, as well.
By Rob Watson
I have been thinking about writing about my friend Charlie for a while now. These stories could be said to be the history of a friendship but they are really the history of a unique character who happens to be my friend.
Charlie is over 6 feet (2 meters) tall, weighs about 220 pounds (100kg)and is a second generation American of German immigrants. He can be heard, from time to time, speaking in his families native tongue and even recognizes the few words I know of that language. As of this writing he is 86 years of age, the second of 6 children. He and his wife raised two adopted children to successful adulthood. The son died a few years ago in an auto accident. Because of his generous nature, he treats all the children of his daughter-in-law as his own grandchildren, even though only two are the natural children of his son.
Six or so years ago Wife and I bought a commercial building in State. While wife cleared up business in the old state I was here getting things in order and starting on my new job as science and ecology teacher. One Sunday after church I went to the popular and only restaurant in town. Every table was taken. An older gentleman and his wife occupied a table for four a few feet away. The gentleman, Charlie, invited me to join them. This began our association.
Born in 1927, Charlie grew up during the great depression, the dust bowl days of this region, and served during the last years of world war II. He speaks of the hardships and challenges of those days infrequently, usually only if asked. He does frequently pass along the advice given him by his father: "Put your labor where the money is." He is also very conservative when it comes to parting with his hard earned cash. Most of these stories will document how we made things from the piles of junk he accumulated over the years.
Do not be mislead by the above description. When an investment is needed there is no hesitation. However a bit of patience usually yields the needed item for a greatly reduced price. Often acquired from someone who has it and no longer needs it. He has many sources.
The second thing I learned about Charlie (The first being he never met a stranger) was that he knows everybody and everything about everybody. While he seldom speaks ill of anyone, there are folks with whom he will not do business, ask for, or grant favors. I have traveled with Charlie a great deal. In all the places we have stopped, all the places, he will find one or several folks he knows and calls by name, discusses a mutual interest, or catches up on family events. We never hurry anywhere. While driving through the local area, a radius of 50 or so miles, He can give you the name of the owner of nearly every parcel of land, the genealogy of the owner, and whether they are good stewards of their land.
The thing we most often disagree over is what is fun. Charlie's idea of fun is driving around the country examining the crops. He will stop in the road, stroll into a nearby field, dig up a sprouting seed, or pluck a grain head, and patiently explain, to me, the condition of the crop. He thinks work is fun. More than that, no job is ever finished. you will see this frequently in the chapters that follow. The closest we ever got to fun was the time I talked him into a trip to the casino. His usual response to such requests is "I'm a farmer, I don't need to go to the casino to gamble. Everything I do is a gamble." My winning argument was "At the casino You only risk $5. And, the payoff is seconds away instead of 10 months." He won $5 playing blackjack. We almost went fishing once, as well.
Saturday, April 27, 2013
The Most Beautiful Woman In The World
By Rob Watson
I have been thinking about this for three days now. I saw the pictures of Miss Whats-her-name. I have to comment. First, I think somebody is trying to sell movie tickets. Who could resist paying $15 to spending two hours watching "The Most Beautiful Woman In The World" cavorting around on a 20 foot (6m) high screen. Heck, she might even shed some of those clothes. Then one would really see "Most Beautiful Woman In The World". Why, on a screen that large, if one of her assets were to be exposed, in a closeup it would be twelve feet across.
What I really think is this: I am over 60. I know a few women my age who have not "gone over" yet. Lets take the same money that Miss Whats-her-name and her producers spent on her appearance. I'll pick four of the women mentioned above and we will do the following...
First take the four and spend three days in a fancy all-you-could-want spa. Just to get in the right mood. Then we go to a foundations designer and get some appropriate underwear. You know, a little squeeze here a little pad there.
Next we go to a clothes designer. Every woman would get custom designed clothes for her figure, match her color wheel, etc
A hair dresser for the stars would be our next stop. Maybe a touch of color and a style that accents each face. Throw in a manicure and pedicure...
Next everyone moseys over to the makeup artist to get the top of the line "war paint". Lastly...
The five women are lined up side by side, like the finals of the Miss America pageant. Anyone who says one is more beautiful than any of the others is a liar or a fool... or he is looking to make a bunch of money off his new movie.
PS: Any man, married or dateing, who does not commit this to memory, is leaving himself open to the biggest trick question ever devised by woman!!
I have been thinking about this for three days now. I saw the pictures of Miss Whats-her-name. I have to comment. First, I think somebody is trying to sell movie tickets. Who could resist paying $15 to spending two hours watching "The Most Beautiful Woman In The World" cavorting around on a 20 foot (6m) high screen. Heck, she might even shed some of those clothes. Then one would really see "Most Beautiful Woman In The World". Why, on a screen that large, if one of her assets were to be exposed, in a closeup it would be twelve feet across.
What I really think is this: I am over 60. I know a few women my age who have not "gone over" yet. Lets take the same money that Miss Whats-her-name and her producers spent on her appearance. I'll pick four of the women mentioned above and we will do the following...
First take the four and spend three days in a fancy all-you-could-want spa. Just to get in the right mood. Then we go to a foundations designer and get some appropriate underwear. You know, a little squeeze here a little pad there.
Next we go to a clothes designer. Every woman would get custom designed clothes for her figure, match her color wheel, etc
A hair dresser for the stars would be our next stop. Maybe a touch of color and a style that accents each face. Throw in a manicure and pedicure...
Next everyone moseys over to the makeup artist to get the top of the line "war paint". Lastly...
The five women are lined up side by side, like the finals of the Miss America pageant. Anyone who says one is more beautiful than any of the others is a liar or a fool... or he is looking to make a bunch of money off his new movie.
PS: Any man, married or dateing, who does not commit this to memory, is leaving himself open to the biggest trick question ever devised by woman!!
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