Know What I Want

A good 'ole RC Cola and a Moon Pie. Perhaps one of those little bags of Lance salted peanuts and a  tiny bottled Coke in which to pour the nuts and sip the fizz...

Don't even tell me you haven't tried Coke and peanuts.

It's been so long for me I can't remember the last taste.

Think of this as my bucket list in reverse.

Stephen

Just Stuff

When I walked outside for the paper, this morning, I found a thick fog and the river was flat and I felt wrapped in silence. Smoke twisted from my neighbor's chimney and gave the slightly chilled air a brambly oak scented undertone. Acorns splatted the roof of our travel trailer as the squirrels fed.

I need to splat a few of them for the pot.

Fall, is the best.

Fifty years ago I'd of been out the door and deep into the oak groves well before sunrise. Back then I humped an old single shot four-ten purchased Lord knows where. It suited my purposes. It along with my worn hand me down tan hunting vest, and a lunch, and about ten shotshells, and my trusty nine shot .22 revolver comprised my gear.

Tree selection wasn't important as long as it was situated deep in the woods. I'd settle my young backside at the base of the tree and wait. The squirrels moved early and I took any target offered. Seems like I'd sit their for hours but in reality when the sun reached the peaks of the tree tops I'd ease out.  With my gathered game I'd move quietly towards the dark creek and field dress my furry friends. I dressed the squirrels with a half rusty old Barlow I'd found at my school bus stop. Even though it held a good edge it had seen better days. I just liked the name, Barlow. I remember this tidbit because I'm sure it's still snuggled deeply in the mud on the bottom of the creek where I lost it that day.

I still remember the stark white banks of the creek, the sand polished by eons of rain and yearly floods, tiny bleached bones of ancient rock, and how it squeaked underfoot. The creek sat beneath high banks where palmettos and cabbage palms formed walls of green and brown. Afterwards I'd fill my canteen with the tepid tannin water and then retreat to a dry place in the brush for my lunch.

I always had a small fire for company. Lunch was simple. Do you remember those logs of red paper wrapped bologna. That was lunch. I'd cut my slices thick and unceremoniously slap the slices between two slabs of bread sans condiments and then wrap my sandwiches in wax paper. I liked my lunches simple. Creek water and bare meat and bread - a ten year old kids fantasy of mountain men.

I'd often kick out the fire and walk the creek towards the railroad tracks  - the long way home. While on the trail I'd pretend to be Jim Bridger, the famous mountain man. As a child any mountain man was my hero but Jim held the honor as I had just finished his biography. Even kept a flint and steel in my gear bag which amounted to nothing more than dead weight.

It was a long walk back to our little house. I had to travel the tracks, cross a huge field of cattle and its six barbed wire fences, but I enjoyed the time. Then, back to the world of farm work and family and school, and my books. The boots stomped free of dirt and cleaned and placed near the back door of our little house. Inside my mother would smile and praise me as the great hunter of the family.

Another day in the silence of the woods lost forever. Then she'd always ask, "Did you leave a little piece of yourself among the oaks for memories?"

I'd answer, "Always." 

"Good. Then your dreams will be filled with happiness."

Perhaps.

Stephen









 

I Remember

I still retain the weariness of my movements as I ambled the house well before sunrise - my gear and firearms packed and stacked and my impatience and the feel of loneliness the house gave with her out of state. I remember thinking, loose ends. Tie the loose ends. Don't forget a towel for the sweat.

I remembered to make a simple breakfast and then ate in silence and as I sipped my coffee I remember it was stupid of me to have locked the gun safe because now I remembered one more handgun to add to my list.

I had agreed to meet Senior at noon to help him mow the range, and now I remembered I'd had second thoughts to have set my departure so late in the morning. My skin crawled with the weariness of the wait. So I sat and once again penciled a list of items and chores. I remember it didn't help.

Then into the garage and to one of my work benches where I keep my gun gear and cleaning supplies and before long I've swiped several barrels and don't remember any of the process other than the wonderful scent of Hoppe's Number Nine, still my old standard.

Afterwards I remember I said, "The hell with it," and loaded the truck with my gear. The Coleman cooler tied securely in the bed, I drove for ice. The traffic was light and soon I remember placing two dollars into the slot and a nice bag of cold dropped. I poured the ice over my bottled water and three bottles of Gator Aid and the ice tea. Two store purchased turkey sandwiches were nestled into the cold and I remembered thinking - what a sorry lunch.

I knew it was far too early to head out, still, I was bored to tears. To kill time I topped off my trucks tank with expensive gas. Afterwards, I checked my watch for what seemed like the hundredth time then said, 'the hell with it,' and hit the road.

I remembered to keep my speed set to easy as the truck moved over the bridge and through the mist of massed humanity. Then out the other side and up onto the expressway and west. I remember thinking if a cop pulls me over he'll poop a brick when he takes a glance into the back seat.  Several hundred rounds of ammunition and several cased rifles and shotguns tends to make the average policeman reach around and tug his panties.

The drive was peaceful and about forty-five minutes later I was off the interstate and the truck moved along a black road enclosed in green. I remember the water filled ditches and the snow white egrets and the contrast of colors each species of tree lent the other and I remember I lowered the windows and allowed fresh country air to fill the cab and I remember how much I truly missed the smell of fragrant summer grass and acorn mast.

I remember when I reached the farm road I was unsure of the wet ground and traction so I flipped the key and sat in silence for a few moments. I remember, from the farm next door, the scream of goats, the heaviness of humidity, but most of all the horrid heat even so early of a morning. Our farm, my families, sits on the river and unfortunately is now all but abandoned. I remember the sadness of it as I sat and waited. How the farm is so ideally located butted as it is alongside state land. It is now only occupied by deer and coyotes. Turkeys and racoons. Skunks and shell casings. And, of course, memories and one lone horse.

I eased from the truck to test the wet ground and found it sufficient. It would carry the trucks weight. I drove slowly towards the range by easing between our Boar's Nest and the tack room. I parked close alongside the range shelter.

As I removed and placed my gear I remembered how we'd gathered last year to rebuild the shed after the one hundred year flood; how the ten feet of tannin stained water had moved over the land and tried its best to wipe clean the structure of the land.

I smiled at the memory of how we'd gathered and, without so much as a word, began to rebuild. I remember Duke dressed in his overalls and how he strained under the weight of two hundred pound crossties, and ShooterSteve's motor-mouth. I remember how PirateJim, our group medic, hovered, worried about injuries. Like a flash I remember Senior and his four wheeler as he buzzed about to move timbers and the quiet intense Gary as he studied solutions to difficult problems. I remembered it had been a fine day and now I once again stood beneath the result of our hard efforts.

I placed my gear and range bag on the board, and waited. I remember how I glanced down range and to find the river had risen close to the one hundred yard line. The dark water outlined an olive green Mayhaw bush now stripped by the deer. I remember my brother once mentioned he caught several deer standing on their rear legs to reach the tiny fruit.

I remember it wasn't long after when I was greeted by the sound of Gary's Jeep. He backed in and jumped out and I remember how much I'd missed his warm smile. I remember how he held my Colt Commander as we tried to sort a continued minor malfunction in its operation. I remember thinking the Colt should be dressed in a new set of elkhorn grips.

I remember when Senior arrived and then mowers and weed whackers and heat and fresh cut grass and sweat-soaked heavy shirts and towels and bottle after bottle of water gulped rapidly, the intense sun. Forty minutes later we're seated with towels wrapped around our necks. I remember it was about then Duke arrived and parked close behind my truck and soon we're all full of laughs.

I remember how Duke revealed his answer to the gun weenie problem, his newly painted orange flash suppressor. I remember we all agreed he'd found the answer to the left's fear of firearms - bright colors dispel fear.

Later, I remember the children's laughter, and my father seated with a quiet smile on his face as he watched Senior teach his little boys the art of rifle. I remember Senior's lovely wife, Glock Mom, seated to the left of my father, as they chatted while she kept a close watch over her two little boys.

Hours later I remember the sound of thunder and how the wind finally freshened and to the south of us the black clouds rolled and boiled and gave threat of rain. Senior and his family hugged and shook hands and then were gone. I remember thinking he and his family, those two little boys and their little rifles, are the future of this nation. 

Even as the storm clouds closed I remember those of us left continued to shoot. I remembered to practice my 'draw and twos,' fired a few rounds from my newly acquired thirty-eight special derringer then when we were down to three, Duke, Gary and yours truly, we sat and ate. I seem to remember we chatted for another hour but my memories of yesterday were tinted with a headache and the weariness of the heat.

And I remember this picture.

I remember how sweet the old classic Savage model 24 performed and how Duke asked if I'd be willing to fire a forty-five long Colt from its chamber...and I remember the nice thud the slug made on the metal target. I remember the nice explosion of Tannerite when I connected with a single round of five point five six. I then remember my father said, "That's enough, Son," him worried about the neighbors reactions. Even at my age I still replied with a 'Yes, Sir.'

Then, I remember the light rain. How we quietly packed and loaded our gear. I remember I followed close behind Duke on the long drive home and how we waved after we reached our separate turns. I remember the hot shower, afterwards.

And, I remember it was good - this freedom, yet.

Stephen








    








 

Just An Old Pair of Boots

I'm uncertain what it was that attracted her to our travel trailer. Perhaps it was, in her little mind, a big life-sized doll house. Maybe it was the fact it was locked and not easy for her to open and play inside. Either way, she loved it.

I was never surprised when I'd hear, "Papa, can we please play in the camper?"  By 'play' she meant I'd escort her and she'd tell me what to do and when to do it. It wasn't always convenient and many days I just didn't need nor want the hassle. Never the less, I'd play.

I do not remember the last time she asked me to open the trailer - but I still remember her as she stood, pretending as she did, to cook breakfast. I was placed on the bed, just so, and given orders to not move. She stood by the stove and made pretend noise, "Whoosh,  there goes the eggs, Papa. They'll be good just like yours, Papa, but I don't have milk stuff or that green stuff like you put in yours, Papa, but you'll like my eggs cause I'm gonna scramble 'em, Papa. Papa, what's that green stuff you put in your eggs?"

"Chives, Honey."

Her little arms swirl and swish as she cooks and then she puts a funny smile on her face as she grabs her imaginary plates and spatula and prepares to serve Papa breakfast in bed at four in the afternoon.  With her 'meal' in hand she walks over and climbs into bed, sits and serves me. I liked her eggs. Then,
"Papa."

"Yes."

"See them old boots on the floor. They sure are old, and ugly. Are them your boots, Papa?"

"Yes, Honey, those are Papa's boots."

"Why don't you wear them, Papa? I bet you don't wear them because you have other boots, huh, and cause they're so ugly."

Just an old ugly pair of boots. Purchased so many, many years ago in Long Beach, California when twenty dollars was a huge sum of money and I was young and freshly married and still making adjustments to the real world.

My then love and I had taken a walk. I'm sure the day was sunny, and warm as is normal for southern California, I really can't remember. I do remember the old wooden pier was just a couple blocks away when I noticed the shoe store. It was the Red Wing sign that caught my attention, the dog. An Irish Setter - a Big Red touting boots.

I was in need of boots. A good civilian pair of hunting and work boots. I asked if we could afford a nice set of boots and she replied, yes. She was sweet that way.

"Papa."

I look over and she's sitting with her hands in her lap, a tiny concerned lip-set to her face. "What, Sweetheart."

"Are you okay, Papa?"  I said yes. Just thinking. Then, "Papa, do you still wear those ugly boots?"

"Honey, the boots aren't ugly, they're just well used. They've traveled many miles and been worn all over the world. Papa loves those boots, Honey, and I guess I do need to oil them."

For much of the first year the boots were worn only in California. Weekends they accompanied us up into the foothills to places like Arrow Head, or our favorite, Ojai, where we'd spend time in the old bookstore located in an open air market under ancient oaks, the book shelves built for support tree to tree, and just down the street an old Indian sold fresh pine nuts from his roadside stand, and where just around the corner the hippies sold the best homemade oatmeal cookies west of the Divide. 

She liked it all, too, and wherever she wanted to walk and shop I went along just to be near her side, to be able to reach over and smell her, to hold her hand. We'd been apart for so long.

"Papa, you're ignoring me. I don't like it when you do that, Papa." I said I was sorry, and we played.

The boots were worn to other places, afterwards. They took me to Idaho on a few bird hunting trips, were scraped and scrubbed by sage and lightly ripped by rocks and brambles. A few times small drips of grouse or quail blood stained their toes but I cared less - added character.

The boots were worn on a few cross country trips. The Irish Setters stepped inside Judge Roy Bean's old store. Splashed along the Pecos river and were soaked in Mississippi mud. Once, in a fit of stupidity we took out across the sands of some Arizona desert. Two hours later they found their way back to my truck. That night in my motel room I spent quite a long time banging sand from my leather friends.

A few months later they took me to Canada where I fought huge stocked rainbow trout in the most beautiful lake I'd yet seen. Then to Alaska where God certainly finished His creations in style. They tracked Elk in fresh snow. Walked behind my old dog, Dixie, as we searched for Ruffed Grouse. My old boots liked to hunt.

"Papa, do you like them old boots more than me?"  I remember I reached and took her into my arms. She is so little. I hugged her and told her no, Papa loved her more than anything in the world. Still do.

"Then why are you looking at those ugly old boots and not playing with me?"

"Tell 'ya what. Let's step outside a moment while Papa takes a couple of pictures." She said, "Fine, but then you're playing with me. We're gonna play 'dead woman,' okay...."

For several years the boots helped me climb Six Mile Ridge over on the eastern side of Washington State just outside Winthrop. We'd camp at a local lake where I'd rise just before dawn and pouch trout for breakfast then set out for the ridge as the cry of coyotes bounced thru the thin air. It was always cold. I'd begin my climb to the plateau and reach the top just as the sun peaked its bright light on the far horizon.

I'd take a few minutes to recover at the top. I'd place my pack and rifle aside and sit to sip coffee from my thermos. The view was wonderful. Later, on the far side of the ridge the boots would begin the descent. Two, maybe three soft steps then to stop and listen and watch. Always, we'd finish with a mule deer, quartered, and hung for our return climb.

On our way back to camp we'd stop at the old barn where one was able to drive close and reach and drop a dollar in a box and take a gallon glass jug of freshly pressed apple cider. The cider cold and sweet with bits and pieces of apple-flesh loose inside. Resistance was futile and half would be gone before we'd reach camp and the old canvas tent.

We were so young, so very young.

Not long afterwards my young wife asked if I'd take her to the Badlands. She wanted Black Hills gold. So the boots were tied and they took us to the Dakotas. That was the year we found St. Maries. Afterwards I wanted to move, lock stock and barrel, to Idaho. The boots didn't want to leave. She said no, just like that.

So, the boots walked. They strode Montana. Ambled around Rushmore. Stood silent where Custer killed his men. She got her gold, but the boots remembered and were sad. They never fully recovered.

"Papa."

"Yes, Sweetheart."

"Papa, please can we go back inside and play. Are you okay, cause you seem sad." I told her I was fine. How does one explain.

Time passed. The young wife, and a child, were lost. I wore the boots aimlessly for a few years. Then one morning I rose and made a few calls and placed my home on the market, sold my business then laced up my boots. I packed a few items, mostly firearms and books, and me and my boots drove away.

We drove without destination in mind. Sometimes for hours, or days. We'd stop and walk many paths. I can remember a rocking chair in Montana where I took a seat and propped the boots on a rail and just stared for hours at the mountains. I'd ask, 'should we stay here, or travel.' The boots wanted to leave. In Minnesota they walked away from a campground and a beautiful lady, just kicked sand on the fire and said goodbye.

The boots turned south and then west again and one morning, as they were laced, I watched rabbits nibble grass along a set of railroad tracks outside my motel in Sheridan. The evening before the boots asked me to put the handgun back into its leather. I complied. The boots were restless, so we drove east.

Days later we entered the great state of Tennessee. The nose of my truck insisted we drive further south....the boots, never at rest, wanted to go home. There is life after death.

"Papa."

"Yes, My Love."

"Do you think we should oil the old boots?" She was always able to read my mind. "Yes, Honey, let me find my mink oil."

We sat and gently rubbed the oil into the old dried leather, her little hands a blur. She pushes mine away as I try to help. "I can do it, Papa. You just watch." After a few minutes she asked, "Papa, did you buy these when I was a baby?"

"No, Honey, Papa bought these boots long ago."

"Are they special, Papa?"

I thought about it for a while. Considered my answer. Then, "No, Honey. You are special. They're just a pair of old boots."

We sat them aside.

"I love you, Papa."

I'm sure I answered her with the same. I can't remember for sure, it was a long time ago, now. I haven't unlocked the trailer since.

The old boots sit and wait. 


Stephen

Rain & Chili

The rainfall is steady and unrelenting. It has been reported we've received over seventeen (17) inches in the last five days. Yet, I enjoy it. 

Yesterday, after work, I came home with the roar of rain, like a steady drum beat, on the roof of my truck. I parked in the garage, a rare occurrence, and unloaded a few items from the market and my satchel. Afterwards I reparked on the street. Fiddler crabs had made their way from the river into my yard, hundreds of  bright orange and white claws held aloft as if to scold me for my intrusion. I was soaked long before I made my way back to the garage.

Back inside I made chili. I'm not sure what it is about rain, but when gray days of wet weather arrive, for some odd reason, an instinctive need arises within me for chili or soup or stew. The reason why isn't important -  I just follow orders and cook.

After a change of clothes I built a pot of coffee and laid out my preps. Yesterday I used stew meat, beef, floured and browned in a liberals nightmare - bacon grease. I said, browned. Not stewed, brown. Don't crowd the pot with the meat. Be patient.

As I worked the music of the rain played in the background. The wind sweep waves of water along my roof at a steady three part beat and then far in the distance the roar of thunder began not unlike a cymbal struck by a cushioned hammer which increased in volume until it reached me with a hard thud and then the soft steady ting of a wind chime as it danced with the wind.

I pulled a cup of coffee and went and stood at the French doors and watched and listened, and for a few minutes, was at peace. The banana trees swayed. The birdbaths overflowed and I noticed my rain gutters were like overflowed rivers. Moss and leaves clogged their arteries. I just didn't care.

Our cat, I'm sure, held company with a couple of raccoons, and possibly a possum or two, under our deck. I don't begrudge their company with my cat. I'm sure wet fur is as uncomfortable as rain soaked denim and flannel. Cold too.  The cat shares fleas with all of the wild critters and they all get along and I have even seen them share her food bowl.

Back in the kitchen I moved the browned bits of beef back to a paper plate and begin to deglaze the pot with stock. This is important if you want flavor. I then add the onions.

Before, this was the part of the session where Little Bit would tell me to stop and wait while she retrieved her step stool. She liked to help stir the onions. She'd eat raw onion as she helped Papa stir.  Outside, the rain continued to roar, and I listened.

With the flour in the pan and the bits and pieces of browned beef stuck, as if by glue, to the bottom you will find after you add the stock it will begin to make gravy. Don't panic. This is what you want. It will thicken and add richness to your chili. After the pan is deglazed replace the meat, then your tomatoes and beans. (I'm not Texan. Build your chili as you see fit. I don't care.) Stir and add just enough stock and spices to your taste. Hey, it's cooking, not rocket science. Bring to a light boil and simmer for a few hours. I like French bread with my chili.

 

I moved to the family room with a good book and my coffee and sat back and listened to the storm. I napped with the music of rain and dreamed of her as she ran with outstretched arms.

Stephen