THE WRITER'S HEART

I DIDN'T DO IT!!! HONEST!

2010-05-03T16:02:00.004-04:00

Greetings to you all.
As a close friend told me recently, I have been obvious by my absence. Sorry about that. I have been doing a lot of writing, just not blogging. The thing that has rattled my cage is this debacle in the gulf. When are we going to learn? And now the nice folks at B.P. are denying responsibility. This has the potential of being the greatest ecological disaster in history and all we are hearing is, "I didn't do it!" Imagine the loss to the ecosystems contingent to the gulf. Think about the short term and long term loss to marine life. Think about the devastation of wildfowl. Think about the turtles that will ingest tar balls and die from it. Think about the loss to tourism. Think... damn it, think! What are we going to do about it? The government and the get rich schemers will always deny culpibility but...?
They are talking about a dome to lower down over the rupture. Why in the name of all that is holy wasn't something already constructed in the eventuality of such a disaster? I'll tell you why not. MONEY!!! Oh well, let's just blame someone else. That's the way kids play and they get away with it so we'll play by children's rules. Sorry about that dear folks but darn, somebody needs to be held accountable. Chaz

HOW TO KNOW IF YOUR CAT LIKES YOU

2009-12-09T02:53:00.000-05:00

Cats virtually always underestimate human intelligence just as we, perhaps, underestimate theirs.
-- Roger Caras --

Why would anyone in his or her right mind care? The repulsive things are nothing but walking hairballs!
Right?
Walking around purring all of the time, rubbing up against your legs and trying to squirm into your lap!
Yes, they are downright disgusting.
As I am writing this, my hairball invasion is taking joint naps. Vociferous, the large, bull puppy kat is sleeping on the hassock. He has insisted that I place it at my side so that he can edit my writing, while Smoky, the manic puppy kitten lays on the floor not far away, twitching in his sleep as he dreams of who knows what and Caligula stalks grasshoppers in the garden.
How do you know if your cat loves you?
Well, to begin with, cats are not at all like dogs.
Dogs are incorrigible, almost retarded when it comes to expressing themselves with all of that goofy, tail wagging, slobbering, face licking, barking, jumping up and down, worshipful behavior.
Absolutely no shame at all.
Cats, when compared to dogs are almost sphinx-like in their demeanor.
One of the good things about having three cats ruling your home is you are able to observe how they treat each other. Grooming is a good case in point. Generally speaking, cats that groom each other are on friendly terms. Therefore if a cat grooms you he is telling you that he likes you loud and clear.
And please understand that I am not advocating that you groom your cat, (I hate having cat hair on my tongue.)
One of the ways Vociferous expresses his love for me is a little thing I like to call, ‘the head butt’. At times he will walk up to me, put his head down and bump gently, holding his head against me while he closes his eyes dreamily. He also does this gentle little head butt when he is lying next to me.
And by the way, if a cat seeks out your company and makes any kind of contact, it is a good sign. Cats avoid people that they don’t like.
Bumping with his head is telling you loud and clear that the cat is claiming you as his own.
Cats, when they rub their faces on you are bringing special scent glands into play and though you usually are unable to smell that subtle, sweet (to a cat) odor, it is very obvious to all members of the feline world that you are already possessed by a cat.
Again, any time a cat makes gentle contact, such as lying next to you or laying in your lap you can accept it as affection.
Be patient, not pushy. Let the cat make the advances in his time and you will have a friend for life.
Another expression of love or affection, from a cat’s point of view is when you approach and the cat flops down on his side in front of you. This is an obvious request to be petted and loved. If the pet owner responds favorably to this invitation the behavior will become standard, part of the routine. But, if the cat is ignored he will cease this most endearing gesture.
Another sign of friendship and trust is when your cat rolls onto his back and allows you to pet that most vulnerable soft spot, his tummy. This should be considered one of the greatest compliments you can receive from your feline friend because he is saying, “I trust you!” When your friend does this it might be tempting to do a little rough housing, DON’T! He will respond in like manner, with teeth and claws, and you will regret it. ‘Gentle’ is the order of the day.
Remember that your cat is essentially a wild animal.
The dog was domesticated long before the cat. Dogs were welcomed into the community as canine servants, assisting in the hunt and serving as beasts of burden while cats, opportunistic hunters that they are, found that rodents abounded in the proximity of man’s dwellings. With few exceptions, Egypt for one, the cat was little more than tolerated, in many cases being considered a harbinger of evil and a consort of witches.
Hated, maligned and misunderstood, it has really only been in the last hundred years that cats have become anything more than tolerated by the vast majority of the population in this country.
For years my attitude towards cats was less than charitable.
As a zoo director and breeder of the endangered species of the big cats, feral cats were not tolerated. They were carriers of disease, particularly feline distemper which could infect the lions, tigers, leopards and other species in my charge. Thus it was that those little feline typhoid Mary’s were usually destroyed out of hand.
I have come to believe, as hundreds of thousands of other cat lovers before me, that cats are probably one of the most loving creatures on God’s green earth.
Welcome a cat into your heart and your home and you will be the richer for it.
Have a beautiful day and may your cats teach you.

I'M TOO STRONG TO BE HYPNOTIZED

2009-11-17T06:42:00.000-05:00

HOW TO BE YOUR CAT’S BEST FRIEND
By
Charles Towne
THE CAT'S CURMUDGEON

Smoky, the manic kitten, loves running water. Whenever I go to the bathroom he comes dashing in, looks in the toilet and squeaks, this has, understandably, improved my aim.
-- Charles Towne --

I hate katz. I can’t stand the varmints. Having declared my true feelings about them I find it quite puzzling that I have three of them living in my house. As I write this brief missive I have to lay my pen aside due to the fact that the youngest member of my feline invasion, Smoky, has insisted that it is his right to sit in my lap, on my notepad.
That is one of the reasons why I hate katz, they are so, well, catty.
He lays there for a few minutes staring into my eye’s and then decides to get real affectionate by rearing up and nuzzling my throat with his nose as he kneads my neck with his paws, purring all the while.
He does this for only one purpose, to weedle his way into my good graces. Well it ain’t going to work!
Now he is leaning on my arm as I write, his eyes watching my moving pen. He knows how I feel because he is reading everything I write.
Now he turns his head and looks into my eyes, a soft, drowsy gaze meets my own.
I hear a low voice speaking my name, “Charles", the voice says, "Charles, you are becoming sleepy, you are tired, very tired. Your eyelids are becoming heavy. You want to go to sleep, sleeep, sleeeep. When you hear my purr you will be asleep. You will do whatever I tell you to do.”
I wake up an hour later and discover that someone has filled bowls with all of the katz favorite food.
MY favorite sliced breast of turkey, MY fresh Atlantic salmon!
It should be understood that what has taken place is not, and I repeat, not, hypnosis.
I am too strong to be hypnotized.
It is very obvious that a stranger has forced his way into my house while I slept and fed the katz.
Smoky returns and wiggles his way into my lap, under my notepad. He nuzzles my arm, jumps to the floor without my permission and begins playing with his partner in crime, the alpha kat, Vociferous.
A little while later both katz are demanding attention.
One is sitting in my lap and the other is on the back of my chair with his head resting on my shoulder.
I hear a low voice.
What is that? You want me to scratch your tummy? Yes master, whatever you wish master!
Boy, do I hate katz!
Have a beautiful day and may your cat teach you.

AUTHOR STUFF

2009-10-26T21:08:00.000-04:00

From my earliest memories I wanted to be a writer. Yes, even though those first crude attempts were discouraged by my critics I persisted. (Critics, by the way, are not nice creatures.)
Even though there were two great, almost overpowering obstacles standing in the way of my journalistic endeavors, mainly mom and dad, I persisted.
How could anyone in their right mind see my early efforts as anything less then genius? Instead of collecting those early works my parents repainted the walls and took my crayolas away from me.
As we all know authors do stuff. Some of the stuff authors do probably wouldn’t make sense to the average, non-discerning non-author but sense or not, those things are important.
One of the most important things an author can do is sharpen pencils. Yes, having a big coffee cup filled with sharp pencils reposing upon ones desk is good for the author’s mental well being.
You might think that pencils have gone out of style what with the use of word processors but in reality they are just as important today as they were… well, when they were important.
Pencils have saved more than one author from being cast upon that dreary and dreamless shore that demands that they write.
A writer, skilled in pencil sharpening, can while away many hours otherwise spent in writing, sharpening and re-sharpening until ones hours have been spent and one can escape again into relative normalcy where one can journey to ye olde pencil store and replenish the pencils he sharpened into nubbins during the last writing session.
Another thing that authors do is sign books. Have you ever heard of an author who didn’t have book signings?
At one of my recent book signings I was signing away when the manager approached me with one of those self righteous manager expressions that gives one the idea the man was sucking on a lemon.
The first thing out of the managers mouth were the words, “And just what do you think you are doing?”
I gave him my best all knowing author look and answered, “Well, as you can deduce by the pen in my hand and this huge pile of tomes, I am signing books!”
To which he replied in a somewhat haughty tone, “Bibles and Webster’s dictionary?”
That is probably something one should remember about book signings it would probably be good to sign your own books.

GIVE ME A BEAR ANY DAY

2009-10-20T19:07:00.001-04:00

It is downright dangerous being around people these days. Compared to some people bears are very sociable folks.
I was in a hardware store the other day looking for a left handed whatsit to fix my gallyrimple and as I walked down an isle I sopped and moved aside to allow this gent to pass. And pass he did. He bulled into me, shoved me aside and half raised his cane as if to hit me as he exclaimed, "Git the hell out of my way you, go on, git!"
My first reaction was surprise, after all, he darned near knocked me down, then my surprise turned to alarm as I noticed that he was brandishing a heavy wooden walking stick!. I mean, hey, I was there to get a farfanoodle for my glammersnit not to have some rock troll club me with his shelaliegh!
Now, as you probably know I am of a somewhat sensitive and docile nature, but about the time I saw that cane lift menacingly over my noggin I reached for a three foot long piece of steel pipe that resided conveniently on a nearby rack. Woe is me, I wasn't able to utilize said steel pipe for its intended purpose because the gentleman hustled past without smiting me and as he went he was mumbling incoherent somethings about my ancestry, some of which certainly surprised me because he obviously had information about my paternal stock that I was unaware of.
In all of my years following and photographing bears I have been bluff charged, trampled, cussed at, and "run" over and threatened by them but then one might say that is what one would expect from bears. (I wanted to say 'ran' over but my wife said it should be 'run' over, but then what does she know, she wasn't there when the damned thing RAN over me! People!)
After my encounter with Mr. Knee Anderthal in the hardware store a Japanese gent walked up to me and with great concern in his voice asked, "You O.K.?" I answered to the affirmative to which he shook his head and said, "That man clazy!" I certainly had to agree with him, that man was definitely "clazy.".
Yep, you can give me a bear any day.

HOW TO BE YOUR CAT’S BEST FRIEND, or, THE CAT FROM HELL

2009-10-15T17:14:00.002-04:00

Cats, being cats, do not need us. They stay with us by choice, not necessity.
-- Charles Towne --

Lets see, where were we last week? Oh yes, we had just summarized uncle
Timmy’s most exemplary character. And as you remember uncle Timmy was my mother’s favorite cat.
Today our story begins with old jack, a big black and tan hound and daddy’s favorite coon dog. Jack was the ugliest, most worthless, no good, shifty eyed, disreputable, lying, chicken killing, egg sucking, mangy, fornicating, vulgar scoundrel of unblemished and exemplary character it has ever been my honor to know. His one redeeming quality was the fact that he could turn any room into a gas chamber at a moments notice. He was the ‘green air’ king, a veritable gas generating machine, and though, for obvious reasons, Jack was rarely allowed in the house, daddy was very proud of him.
Jack had somehow managed to stay out of uncle Timmy’s way for quite some time but the day arrived when the dog decided that the cat had been walking too tall around the yard for much too long.
They met at high noon out near the corral and everybody knew that one of them was going to fall.
Jack, courageous, disgusting old Jack, sauntered up to uncle Timmy, curled back a lip exposing a huge sharp canine, and said, “Ah am goin’ t’ tear down yore meat house katt. Y’all been askin’ fer this fer ah long time!”(Jack always talked with a western tang known as ‘early cowboy.)
With those words Jack slapped uncle Timmy right smack dab in the mouth with one of his big floppy ears. Uncle Timmy, terrified by Jack’s vicious attack, split the ear down the middle. Then in a lightening move old Jack hauled off and stuck one of his feet in Uncle Timmy’s mouth while at the same time he struck all of the cat’s claws with his nose. Then, in a daring move, old Jack began bleeding all over Uncle Timmy.
It was about this time that old Jack decided that he had punished Uncle Timmy enough so he calmly turned and began casually strolling back towards the house at a rather high rate of speed. Feeling sorry for the cat he considerately allowed Timmy to ride on his shoulders part of the way.
The screen door leading into the kitchen was closed but Jack, in a move of quick thinking and lightning reflexes decided to remove it completely in a remodeling effort.
The cat followed the dog through the house, and across the dining room table.
Chairs were knocked over in the mad dash, as was mama’s potted fern.
The dog and the cat fought their way the length of the sofa disregarding the preacher who had come for a visit and who probably would never come again.
They finally crashed through the dining room window that was open at the time except for the screen. The last we saw of old Jack and Uncle Timmy that day the dog was still leading the way as he headed into the cornfield with the cat, doing a good imitation of a tornado and a berserk buzz saw, obviously insane with rage, heavy on his heels.
They both returned the next day, Jack, poor Jack, somewhat the worse for wear. As far as I could tell uncle Timmy didn’t have a scratch on him and he immediately resumed his job as head honcho of the premises. I don’t remember old Jack challenging him again.
Have a beautiful day and may your cats teach you

HOW TO BE YOUR KAT'S BEST FRIEND

2009-10-13T00:04:00.002-04:00

As the years pass I am persuaded that I am becoming more cat-like all of the time. Please don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining and I don't lounge around grooming myself with my tongue or leave little dead critters such as deactivated mice on the carpet for my wife to find. No, this 'becoming cat' phenomenon is most evident in the area of afternoon naps. Cats take a lot of naps and so do I. Naps are definitely a cat thing. Naps are good.
But we are not going to discuss naps today. No, we are going to discuss cats and their abhorrence to anything snakish.
There is an ancient Arab proverb that states, "A cat, once bitten by a snake fears even a rope."
I was watching Vociferous, my bull puppy cat as he stalked whatever wee beasties should cross his path in our garden. Nothing escaped his scrutiny. From the butterfly that wisely flew away upon his stealthy approach to the leopard frog that judiciously leaped into the koi pond, even the dragonfly that helicoptered overhead, just beyond his reach.
Suddenly the cat's hunt was interrupted. He stopped, leaped backwards and sideways, almost collapsing onto his side in his haste.
He recovered, glanced at me with an expression of embarrassment upon his face and then, composure restored he tentatively extended his head toward the cause of his fright.
Cautiously he approached. His head moved back and forth, up and down so that he might better see the threatening snake in the grass.
He stopped; one paw slowly lifted, then, faster than my eye could follow there was a flash of movement as that paw stabbed forward tapping the short piece of garden hose coiled in the grass.
What is it that causes cats to fear anything snakish?
A kitten, even though it has never been exposed to snakes, knows the serpentine race is to be avoided. A puppy on the other hand will approach a snake no matter how deadly as though there was nothing to fear.
Could it possibly be that the cat's tendency to avoid snakes stems from its ancient forebears, such as the African wildcat?
Those ancestors must have encountered poisonous snakes, sometimes with fatal consequences but then there were the survivors that told their offspring to avoid the snake at all costs.
Another indication of this deep ingrained fear can be observed in the cat's response to the hissing phenomenon.
Many snakes hiss, thus warning creatures to stay away.
When your beloved pet is being naughty, perhaps using the end of your new $3000.00 designer sofa as a scratching post, if you hiss, what is the response?
There is the likelihood that puss will leap sideways and run away, thus saving the sofa from any further damage, or not.
Hissing is a snake thing, cats do not like snakes and tend to avoid them; therefore hissing can be a powerful deterrent to abhorrent behavior.
Understanding that there are exceptions to every rule, years ago back in Illinois my mother was befriended by a walking disaster of a cat that she called Uncle Timmy. He was a big cat, fifteen to sixteen pounds, and gray.
I called him Gimp due to the fact that he was missing a leg. He was also missing an eye and half of his tail. Parts of both ears were gone due to a combination of fighting and frost bite. He had lost enough body parts to build another cat and he was beautiful in an ugly sort of way.
Uncle Timmy loved snakes. Yes, he loved to eat them. No snake was safe from him.
The fact that there were few, if any poisonous snakes in our part of Illinois was probably one reason Uncle Timmy lived a long and snake filled existence.
I remember coming across him one time as he was finishing up a serpentine snack. The cat laid there in the grass drowsily blinking as the last three or four inches of a fox snake's tail protruded from his mouth waving a feeble farewell to the world with little, spasmodic twitches.
From my experience Uncle Timmy was unique in his penchant for a snake meat diet but there are other exceptions such as my neighbors Siamese that likes to carry small snakes through the cat door and leave them, somewhat worse for wear, still twitching on the kitchen floor as gifts for her mistress. It goes without saying that these reptilian endowments were not all that appreciated
Thankfully, for most of us, cats avoid snakes at all costs.
Have a beautiful day and may your cats teach you.

ON NAMING A CAR

2009-09-29T18:47:00.002-04:00

Sometimes I obviously have WAY too much idle time on my hands. Today my mind started going in these strange, convoluted directions, like I started thinking of automobile names.
Somebody else came up with the name for making up bad names for new cars, the word is, Autoneokakonymia, which means, of all things, "Making up bad names for new cars." Who can figure! I guess he has a lot of idle time on his hands also.
I am sure you have probably noted with some interest the names the auto manufacturers have given to their mechanical progeny over the years.
I remember well the Ford Falcon. Now that was a nice little car with its cute little six cylinder engine that one could overhaul on the dining room table, but then they started coming up with names like, The Barracuda. The Barracuda must denote sleekness and speed as does Mustang, Impala, Roadrunner, and Ram. Then we have the "Viper." I suppose that signifies something, though I'm not sure what.
I'm surprised that someone hasn't come up with a name like, The Rodent, as the name for a car, or how about The Rat, and you must admit, Roach has a nice sound to it as does The Bedbug, as well as, The Tick. Bedbug and tick really are good names considering you have to give a gallon of blood every time one of those behemoths enter the repair shop.
Then of course we have already started naming cars after fruit and vegetables. I have owned a few Lemons in my time and can you just imagine the G.M. Cauliflower, the Ford Eggplant or the Chevy Onion. (The Chevy Onion makes you cry.)
And why not name automobiles after diseases and bodily functions? With the gas prices the way they are I can just imagine jumping into my Chevy Flatulence to putt my way to the corner grocery, and Wouldn't you want to own a Dodge Leper, (They named it that because things keep falling off. A Chrysler Heart Attack would be popular, especially when you fill the beast up at the gas pump. Or wouldn't you want to own a Ford Constipation or a Cadillac Acne?
And then there are always natural disasters? We already have The Avalanche and The Tsunami so we could have The Hurricane, Typhoon and The Forest Fire as well as, The earthquake.
And medical procedures would be clever don't you think? We could have the Chevy Stint, The Mitsubishi Enema, The Datsun Finger Wave, and I bet what with folks letting the politicians do their thinking for them the American people would just love the Volkswagen Lobotomy
Well, I am sure you will have some suggestions of your own so I am going to post this to my blog and run to the corner store in the wife's cute little Menopause.
You have a nice day now ya hear, Chaz

THE TURTLE DANCE

2009-09-22T13:39:00.000-04:00

This morning I walked out into the back yard and was greeted by two gopher tortoises doing the turtle dance. The mating dance of the gopher tortoise is really quite an elaborate display of head bobs and weaves along with tender love nips. The head bobs take the place of footwork among gopher tortoises I suppose, and for quite obvious reasons considering the tortoise's slow movements. I wouldn't really expect turtles to dance a waltz, perhaps a clog but never a waltz.
The head goes up and down quite fast, not only up and down but periodically it moves back and forth but it mostly moves in those quite graceful up and down, up and down, up and down gestures. This head bobbing indicates that the male is interested in much more than simply bobbing his head. Once he has the attention of the lovely young lady tortoise she approaches him head on and says something like, "Hello, big boy. Where have you been all my life?" To which he replies, (in turtlese I might add,) "Whoa boy, she noticed me, oh goody, goody, goody!" And then he proceeds to bob his head even faster pausing now and then to give her some playful little love nips on the front legs.
The only thing that we can possibly learn from this elaborate head bobbing ritual is that persistence pays off, maybe.
I tried the head bobbing thing with my wife and she went into the bedroom and locked the door. Not exactly the results I was looking for.
Oh well, perhaps I need to perfect my head bobbing technique and maybe the love nips would help, you think maybe?

TOUCHED BY A RIVER

2009-09-14T22:24:00.002-04:00

When Mama was carrying me she prayed that she would have a little boy just like Huckleberry Finn. It just goes to prove that you should be very careful what you pray for, you just may get it.
I was birthed on the larger of the two big islands located on the Fox River just below Oswego, Illinois on the 28th day of July in the year of our Lord 1934. That was a very good year.
In the fall and winter months Dad was a trapper, hunter, and fisherman. During the warm spring and summer months he farmed the land that he had cleared. At other times he worked as a heavy equipment operator and welder in Oswego and Aurora.
What few people knew was that my father was born on the Mille Lacs Indian Reservation located in the St. Croix forest of Minnesota. It was from his Ojibwa mother and Ojibwa/ French Canadian father, that he derived his deep and abiding love of nature. This devotion to the wilderness is perhaps what drove him to settle on the islands in the beginning. It was a place where he could co-exist with the people around him and still claim his individuality as well as his native heritage. The Fox River gave him that and much more. As the blood coursed through our veins so the spirit of our beautiful Fox River ran through our lives. She fed us, sustained us, and there were a few times that she frustrated and frightened us. Yes, she frightened us, like in 1954 when we had what was called a ‘hundred year flood’. But that is another story. Most of the time the Fox River was our friend, providing for us, pleasing and entertaining us. This she had done for the various peoples who had chosen to live within her embrace for centuries, both white man and red. Back in the ‘40’s television had not yet captured the soul of America and the term ‘neighbor’ was synonymous with ‘friend’, not a geographical fact. During the summer on Saturday evenings just before dusk, people, young and old alike, began to gather from all over the village of Oswego for the free movies. The meeting place was the big empty lot between Shuler’s Drugstore and Johnson’s Tavern. This served quite well as an open air theater, the rear brick wall of the tavern a temporary movie screen. Blankets would be spread on the ground and our folks would sit and socialize, while we kids sat impatiently waiting for the sun to completely set so the movie could begin. There were always cartoons and then the feature followed by the adventures of Flash Gordon! That was my favorite! (Flash Gordon was always victorious against the evil emperor Mung.)
During the warm summer months there was always swimming and fishing as well as exploring on the river, but the free movies were a special treat.
Then there were those mystical winter evenings after a cold spell when a thick layer of smooth ice blanketed the river’s surface. Folks would come from all over town to ice skate on the river and socialize around a big bonfire burning brightly in the winter night. That is another of the things the beautiful Fox River did and still wants to do my friend, it built community.
As a young man of fifteen or sixteen my father claimed squatters' rights on the two big islands. Those islands contain approximately sixteen tillable acres of black, rich, river bottom land. For the hard work of clearing the land he used a team of horses and an ax. He grubbed out each of the scrub oaks and dogwood trees, dragging them aside and burning them until crops could finally be planted. In 1958 my mother and father moved to Wisconsin. For the last forty years that land has lain fallow. Today the islands look very much as they did when as a boy my father began clearing them over seventy years ago.
Post Office Box 314, Oswego, Illinois, was our mailing address, but the beautiful Fox River was our home and always will be. That is where our hearts remain.
I have made a request to my friend God that when He takes me home He will let me have an island on the river of life! Which by the way He has assured me, looks just like the Fox River of my youth, only much more beautiful, and THERE you can drink the water.
Daddy married my Mama and soon that rich land began producing a crop of another sort.
Seven babies were birthed there on the islands. Two were laid to rest in the Oswego cemetery, Little baby Mary, died of S.I.D.S., or as it was known back then, a crib death. The other, little Kenny, was a victim of yellow jaundice. Five of us went on to have families of our own.
Doctor Lyman Perkins delivered several of us. He even made house calls all the way down to the island to check on me after Mama birthed me by herself. If I may be so bold as to say so, she did a pretty good job! Doc Perkins also delivered my oldest sister Betty as well as little Mary and his namesake, baby Kenneth Lyman. Sure there were tears, tears of sadness and frustration, but as the river cleansed itself so the tears had a way of cleansing the soul.
The Fox River, meandering its serpentine way through the fertile valley of the Fox has suffered abuses from the careless, the indifferent. Neglected, ignored, dammed and damned, she flows yet. Today the people are giving something back, a most precious tribute, they are returning to the river their friendship.
Let the river called the Fox touch you. Let her wash over you and into you. Let her heal you. Let her teach you. She has so much that she wants to give. Oh to be a child again, barefoot, innocent, excited with life, always knowing that the beautiful Fox River will be there tomorrow, a faithful friend.

HOW TO BE YOUR CAT’S BEST FRIEND

2009-09-05T09:04:00.001-04:00

My experiences have led me to suspect that my housecats thinks they are lions.
-- Charles Towne --

God made the cat to give man the pleasure of stroking the tiger.
- Francois-Joseph Mery, 1792-1865 --

I heard these two cats talking the other day. They were very religious cats. You ask how I know that they were religious? I will tell you. I heard one say to the other, “Let us spray!”
I am sorry about that.
Spraying tomcats are no joke.
Several years ago I owned a conversion van. One evening I inadvertently left the drivers side window down. The next morning I discovered that a tomcat had paid me a visit, giving an entirely new meaning to the word ‘conversion’.
I mean he had converted it.
Air freshener had no affect.
One helpful soul suggested washing the inside of the van with tomato juice.
When male cats spray, and unless they are neutered they all do, they are marking their territory. That cat didn’t realize the van was MY territory! I made sure the windows were rolled up after that but it was several months before that smell was somewhat tolerable.
I rented a house a few years back that a couple had lived in for two or three years while they built their new home.
They moved out and I moved in only to discover that all of the time they had lived in that house their cat, a large tom that had never been deprived of his masculinity, had been confined during the day to the spare bedroom.
The couple, accustomed to the smell, (it happens) kept all of their good clothing in the closet in that room. In church they had an entire pew (very appropriate word) to themselves. When the couple left for work in the morning they put kat into that cursed room all by himself. He sprayed either because he was frustrated or because he was seeking revenge for being left alone, I am not sure which.
Remember, all cats spray, females less than males but they spray nonetheless. And when I say all cats, I mean all cats, large as well as small. Spraying is their way of marking their territory, telling other cats that somebody has already taken possession.
Zoo animals are rarely if ever neutered for the simple reason they are often used in captive breeding programs, guaranteeing the survival of the species.
The exception to this rule is the African lion. He breeds so prolifically that there is no shortage. There have been many cases in the past in which there were so many lions being born that the zoos couldn’t give them away and they had to be destroyed. Lions were cheap, caging and food are expensive. Like any other business, zoos work on a budget. Thus neutering, at least in the lions case is practical and humane.
While directing a zoo in the mid-west I had a large male lion that was still in possession of his masculinity and he loved to spray visitors.
I will never forget the little grandmother that was standing admiring Mr. Lion. The big bad boy, with malice in his black heart, took aim and fired. His aim was perfect. That cat sprayed granny head to toe with a vengeance. All she had to do was step aside and she would have been out of the stream but no, granny kept backing away, yelping like a scalded cat all the while and Leo just kept pouring it on. That cat must have peed a gallon and every bit of it hit granny dead on. Though I am glad that it didn’t happen to me, it was a beautiful thing to behold.
Have a beautiful day and may your cat teach you.

I will tell just how to prevent your cat from spraying in detail in a future column. Please remember to send us your true pet stories along with a signed statement giving your permission to use them in a future column
600 words

HOW TO BE YOUR CAT'S BEST FRIEND

2009-08-28T21:00:00.000-04:00

Man, do we ever love our kats. We just lost our youngest kitty, Smoky. He escaped from the house and we believe he ended up as owl pellets. Our other two kats have not been too anxious to go outside since Smoky went missing and if they do wander outside they keep looking up as though expecting to be carried off. Kats are really very smart people and train their humans very well. I hope you enjoy the following.

Cats really do seem to regard humans more as part of the furniture than as comrades.

Following are several trict and unbending rules for dealing with stray cats.

(1) Stray cats will absolutely not be fed.

(2) Stray cats will absolutely not be fed anything but dry cat food.

(3) Stray cats will absolutely not be fed anything other than dry cat food moistened with a little milk.

(4) Stray cats will absolutely not be fed anything other than dry cat food moistened with warm milk along with yummy treats and salmon cutlets.

(5) Stray cats will not be encouraged to make this house their permanent residence.

(6) Stray cats will absolutely not be petted, played with or cuddled unnecessarily.

(7) Stray cats that are petted, played with or cuddled unnecessarily will absolutely not be given a name.

(8) Stray cats with or without a name will absolutely not be allowed inside the house at any time.

(9) Stray cats will absolutely not be allowed inside the house except on days ending in 'Y'.

(10) Stray cats allowed inside the house will absolutely not be allowed to jump up on or sharpen their claws on the furniture.

(11) Stray cats allowed inside the house will absolutely not be allowed to jump up on or sharpen their claws on the best furniture.

(12) Stray cats will be allowed on all the furniture but they must sharpen their claws on the new $250.00 sisal rope covered cat penthouse scratching post with three perches.

(13) Stray cats will absolutely always answer the urgent call of nature outdoors.

(14) Stray cats will absolutely always answer the urgent call of nature in the high impact litter box filled with nice fresh and sweet smelling kitty liter.

(15) Stray cats will absolutely always answer the urgent call of nature in the brand new, $200.00, motorized, self cleaning litter box.

(16) Stray cats will absolutely sleep outside.

(17) Stray cats will absolutely sleep in the garage.

(18) Stray cats will absolutely sleep in the laundry room.

(19) Stray cats will absolutely sleep in the bedroom.

(20) Stray cats will absolutely sleep in the bedroom in the basket with the pillow.

(21) Stray cats will absolutely sleep in the special, $150.00 thermostatically controlled kitty bed with the non-allergenic pillow.

(22) Stray cats will absolutely not be allowed to sleep on our bed.

(23) Stray cats will absolutely not be allowed to sleep on our bed except at the foot of the bed.

(24) Stray cats will absolutely not be allowed to sleep under the covers of our bed.

(25) Stray cats will absolutely not be allowed to sleep under the covers of our bed except at the foot of the bed.

(26) Stray cats will absolutely not be allowed to play on the desk.

(27) Stray cats will absolutely not be allowed to play on the desk near the computer.

(28) Stray cats will absolutely not be allowed to walk on the computer keyboard when the human rrrrrrrrgggggggggghhhhhhjjuyyhjjiiu66785ttggtfffgghhhhhg5554543232739303-tijfkjcm mjcxcm, u9w9q33113871982187 is using it.

We love our kats

Have a beautiful day and may your cats teach you.

SHADOW BEARS

2009-08-10T11:00:00.000-04:00

The trail I follow is really no trail at all. From highland to lowland, sometimes in pines, sometimes in oaks, I finally enter an area rampant with aspen and birch.
I cross a small stream. I know that just below me there is a large area flooded by beaver activity but before I reach it I have to cross a seldom used dirt logging road.
I reach the road and decide to follow it a little distance to check for animal tracks.
Oh boy, deer tracks aplenty, coyote tracks, obviously two of them. Perhaps they are scouting the deer? Beaver tracks, perhaps traveling from one forest lake to another. There were the drag marks of a large snapping turtle and porcupine tracks. I stop and search the tree tops for my friend the porcupine. No luck. I like porcupines. They tend to approach life in a very casual, peaceful manner, if you leave them alone they will leave you alone.
I finally decide to retrace my tracks and continue on to the beaver dam. I had not walked back more than 100 paces on the road when I suddenly stop. There are tracks here, new tracks, the tracks of a medium size black bear weighing perhaps 150 to 200 pounds . The reason I stop is that the bear tracks, some of them at least are so fresh they are superimposed over my own. The bear had been following me from the time I left the forest and for how long before?
I search the surrounding forest for any sight of Blackie but I know that I won't see him unless he wants me to. He could be a mile away by now or he could be watching me from that clump of gorse or maybe he is laying behind that dead pine. It is best not to think that way because soon imaginary bears will be dropping out of the sky.
I continue on my way trying to avoid the thicker clumps of undergrowth. Darn, it is all thick.
What was that? I glance behind me. Nothing. That darned bear has given me the willies.
I reach the beaver dam. There in the mud at the end of the dam are fresh bear track, they are still wet and lead up onto and across the beaver dam. Is it the same bear? I don't know, could be. They are the same size, but then there are a lot of bears that size. First he was following me now I am following him. Bears don't like to be followed.
I decide to retrace my steps and soon re-cross the road, back across the stream and up onto high ground again.
There is something mysterious about bears, something that makes us wonder in the night, something that causes us to cast fearful glances behind as I did as a child in Illinois where no bear had prowled for two hundred years. Bears leave more than their tracks in passing. Perhaps it is some bear spirit thing? Nah, we don't believe that do we?

THE PORCUPINE, OR, ERETHIZON DORSATUM

2009-08-03T11:55:00.001-04:00

I will never forget my very first porcupine. It was dead. That is the way of it with porcupines and automobiles, the porky usually come out second best.
It was obvious the porcupine had not been long dead by the still uncongealed blood. Other than a bloody nose there were no obvious injuries. I was struck by the immediate and powerful urine smell which I would learn was typical of porcupines due to their diet of twigs and bark and the fact that rarely do they drink.
Carefully, I moved the carcass from the traffic lane of the two lane highway with the toe of my shoe but even with that gentle touch I stared at the half dozen quills embedded in the leather of my shoe. I reached down and took hold of a quill and pulled. That quill had a mind of its own and having found a new home it didn't want to leave. I was able to remove the quills only with some effort and in doing so I realized the difficulty an animal would have in removing quills buried in its nose and mouth.
Coyotes, wolves, bear and mountain lion have died after suffering such an encounter. Dogs simply can't seem to learn that the slow moving beastie is not to be played with and some dogs suffer over and over again. "Oh goody, something as slow as that must be good to play with!" And so the dog bites, or the porky slaps the dog with that hair trigger tail and twenty or thirty quills are decorating Mr. Pooch's mouth or face only to be removed with the strong hand of a caring human.
Upon embedment the quills always react in a peculiar way. The warmth and moisture of living tissue causes the quills to swell with the result of thousands of tiny fishhook like scaly barbs hooking into the surrounding living tissue. Not only does this make the quills difficult to remove but with each movement of the victim the quill works deeper and deeper with agonizing and sometimes fatal results if they are not removed.
The Porcupine's Latin name is Erethizon dorsatum, or, the "irritable back, and believe me when I say it is well named because its back, sides and tail are covered with over thirty thousand loosely embedded quills, ready to detach at the lightest touch, and no, porcupines do not throw their quills.
Besides its unique armament the Mrs. Porky lays claim to an extremely long gestation period of seven months and when mama gives birth the baby is huge considering a female weighing seven pounds can give birth to a 1 1/2 lb. youngster. And now you understand why it is rare that twins are born. The adorable pups are born with soft quills but within a matter of hours after being exposed to the air the quills harden and the little fist sized creature is an immediate pin cushion.
Carefully! That is the way porcupines copulate. A gentle, often hours long encounter accompanied with soft grunts and whistles, the pair really do get caught up in what can only be described as tender and slow.
I like porcupines, I find them to be quite endearing if prickly creatures. I have caught many of them, invariably receiving a few quills for my efforts. I learned the hard way to remove the embedded quills as soon as possible. At that they do present some resistance but if left any length of time the resistance multiplies at which time you can appreciate what a wild animal must suffer with numerous quills all doing their damage.
One of the real neat thing about porky quills is the remarkable fact that the resulting punctures rarely if ever become infected which seems to lend credence to the idea that porky's do become victims of their own defense system.
Imagine a porky falling from a tree, (yes it happens and sometimes with fatal results) the porky lands on the ground and is stuck with some of its own quills. (Porkys are quite adept at removing their own quills.)
But now comes the wonder.
Nature has coated the quills with a fatty substance known as palmitic acid, a substance as affective as penicillin, which, to me is a miracle of nature. Just think, antibiotic coated weapons!
Whenever in porcupine country I can't refuse the temptation to search out Mr. Porky and carry on a bit of conversation with him, or her. These conversations are admittedly a bit one sided but I always go my way with regret, sad to say goodbye to such a wonderful and very tolerant creature.

THAT CURIOUS TWO-STEP DANCE

2009-07-21T12:03:00.001-04:00

It was more than just a few years ago that my brother-in-law and I were coon hunting in Illinois. We never shot the raccoons that our dogs treed, OH no, that would have been too easy. We took turns climbing the trees and shaking the raccoons out and then it was that the guy on the ground was supposed to catch the raccoon, alive.
Some people have far too much free time on their hands.
It was my turn to climb the tree so up I went.
At this point it should be noted that the shakee (the raccoon) considered the shaker (me) as its worse enemy, and for very good reason. There were those times that a raccoon simply refused to be shaken loose so the shaker would resort to climbing out onto branches which were no longer branches but twigs and there is an interesting phenomenon that claims that the weight ratio of a shaker in relationship to the diameter of said twig should be carefully determined before stepping onto said twig. Miraculously, due to the law that the Good Lord takes care of old men, idiots and little children, we survived.
(By the way, we were both old enough to be out of the child category and much too young to be called old men so I will leave it up to you in which category to place us.)
I don't remember what the cockamamie excuse was that night but we decided to take the raccoon home.
We had left the bag in which to carry said raccoon back at our vehicle so there we were, me leading the way, taking the shortest route, while my brother-in-law followed carrying the raccoon.
It should be noted that tempers were rather hot about this time, my brother-in-law's due to the fact that I had considerately lead him into the middle of a particularly nasty bramble patch, and the raccoon's because it was not too happy with the treatment it had received so far that night.
I must confess, I knew the fence was electrified, that was probably why I led my hunting partner to it. I scooted under the fence while dear, dear, brother-in-law, noting that it was low, stepped over it.
That fence was low enough to step over and just high enough to meet with a particularly sensitive part of the male anatomy.
I wish you could have seen it. It was beautiful!
There he was, holding that raccoon by the nape of the neck with one hand and the base of the tail with the other hopping back and forth from one foot to the other giving out these cute little yelps each time he straddled the electric fence.
After about the twentieth yelp he finally had enough presence of mind to get rid of the 'coon which promptly headed for the closest county line.
Well, it all turned out o.k. and eventually my brother-in-law and sister had three healthy children so obviously the electric fence didn't do any permanent damage.
That night I discovered that my brother-in-law didn't have a very good sense of humor 'cause he never did forgive me for not helping him in his time of dire need but then, what could I do? I was laughing too hard to help anybody.

THE MONKEY DID WHAT ON THE DINNER TABLE?

2009-07-10T11:59:00.002-04:00

I suppose I could have called this one, "A PLAGUE OF PRIMATES," or how about, "A MOB OF MONKEYS!" But then, "A SWARM OF SIMEONS!" Is kinda catchy, or, "A HERD OF HOWLERS!" But then, they weren't howlers so we are going to go with the catchy title, "THE MONKEY DID WHAT ON THE DINNER TABLE?" And yes, that is a question mark because if one sees such a deposit on the dinner table it is highly unlikely that one would even begin to think that it was the gravy, or even the cook's mystery dish.
The years pass as does the statute of limitations. People, wise and not so wise go to their rest, which being the case, I can write about the Mindanos family without fear of recrimination.
I was buying and selling wild animals for Ross Allen, the originator of the well known SILVER SPRINGS REPTILE INSTITUTE at the time of the call which went something like this: "Mr. Towne, we have thirteen rhesus monkeys that we have reared from infancy and we need to find a home for them, are you interested?"
(Who was the wise individual who said that the number 13 is unlucky?)
Yes, we were interested.
Ross Allen and I drove to south Florida, all the way down to the Everglades, to get as it turned out, a somewhat strange adventure.
When we drove down that long driveway it was quite obvious we were looking at something different than your average cozy little bungalow.
The house was built up on eight foot tall stilts to protect it from flood and it was completely surrounded, four sides and the top by a tall cage made of chain link fencing. Yep, that's right; the house was enclosed in a huge cage, an environment for the monkeys. When the Mindanos' came or went they drove through two gates. They drove through the first gate into a smaller cage, got out and made sure there were no monkeys hiding on or under the vehicle attempting an escape from the gulag. Then they closed the first gate and locked it, opened the second gate, drove through it, got out and closed the second gate and made their escape for a few hours of relative normalcy.
By the way, anybody who lives in a house with thirteen monkeys does not have the faintest clue what "normal" is.
It took us two days to catch those #$%@#&^%$%$#$% Monkeys during which time, due to the fact that we were thirty miles from the closest motel we could sleep in the truck or sleep in the Mindanos' guest bedroom "which", we were assured, "is absolutely monkey proof."
I woke in the middle of the night to feel someone trying to cuddle up to me. Now knowing Ross as I did I was sure it wasn't him, and the Mindanos' family, though a tad strange, seemed happy as a couple which left only one other answer as to who the night cuddler was. I reached over and turned on the bed lamp and there were two, not one, but two, adult rhesus monkeys staring at me while they displayed inch long canines as their way of reassuring me that the room was NOT monkey proof.
Needless to say, I didn't get much sleep that night.
The next morning at breakfast, (Now that was an experience that lingers!) we sat and talked like normal folks as half a dozen monkeys helped themselves from the dishes on the table.
Mrs. Mindanos, as she sat there chewing her pancakes and grits, exclaimed through tears, "We are going to miss our babies so much." It was then that the big male rhesus monkey squatted in front of her and relieved himself. Mrs. Mindanos exclaimed, "Oh Booby, mama loves you doesn't she?"
Yep, sorta strange folks them Mindanos'.
Oh yes, and let's not forget Joe and Moses. Joe was their pet crow who also pooped on the table and Moses was a manic raccoon who was prone to poop anywhere he felt the urge and it seemed he felt the urge quite frequently.
Two days with the Mindanos family, two days of slipping and sliding through monkey dookus, two days of monkey screams, Mrs. Mindanos' crying, some creative cussing and monkey bites, and finally we caught the last miserable monkey and escaped the Mindanos household, er… monkey cage. Believe me folks; monkeys are not good house pets, especially thirteen of them.
Ross is long gone as are the Mindanos family but, if you drive to the everglades and travel down that long driveway you will come to a strange house. It is completely surrounded by a large cage made of rusty chain link fencing. Don't go in. Listen carefully and you might hear strange sounds, screams, screams of a horde of mad monkey spirits seeking a place to poop.

FEAR AIN'T NECESARRILY A BAD THING

2009-07-02T11:57:00.002-04:00

I believe it was Brenda Euland that said, "The dogs of knowledge send the lions of fear running."
I like that. There have been quite a number of times in my screwy life when I was afraid. I came close to drowning once, that was a fright experience and I have had enough animal encounters, not just a few of which were enough to cause the hackles of fear to raise on my scrawny little neck.
When I was just a wart of perhaps seven or eight years old, I climbed a tree. It was one of those strange, "Hmm, I wonder what's up there?" moments in my life when my curiosity overruled common sense, and soon, quite mysteriously, I found myself Wayyy up there. Now "Wayyy up there is not a bad place to be until you look down. I looked down and froze. "Yikes, how did I get Wayyy up here?" One thing about being Wayyy up here is that when you get "Wayyy up here!" there is an opposite phenomenon called, "Wayyy down there!" The ground looked a long way down.
"What if I fall! What if I break my arm, my leg, my neck?"
I became one with the tree and that is not a Zen thing, that is fact! I originated the term, "tree hugger." I am sure I left little boy nail prints in the skin of that tree. Scared? Naw, I wasn't scared, I was terrified!
I was stuck up there. I knew that if I didn't fall and break something useful I would stay up there and starve to death. And speaking of starving to death it must be getting close to dinner time, oh God, I was going to miss dinner!
My fear of starving to death was incentive enough.
Inch by inch I worked myself closer and closer to the ground, until…?
I never knew standing on the ground could feel so good!
So, obviously I didn't starve to death and I didn't fall and break anything. I went home and was in plenty of time for dinner but do you know what? The next day I went back and climbed that tree again and I went through the same agony, the same fear, all over again.
I learned to love that old tree.

HOW TO BE YOUR CAT'S BEST FRIEND

2009-06-26T22:45:00.000-04:00

As the years pass I am persuaded that I am becoming more catlike all of the time. Please don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining and I don't lounge around grooming myself with my tongue or leave little dead critters such as deactivated mice on the carpet for my wife to find. No, this 'becoming cat' phenomenon is most evident in the area of afternoon naps. Cats take a lot of naps and so do I. Naps are definitely a cat thing. Naps are good.
But we are not going to discuss naps today. No, we are going to discuss cats and their abhorrence of anything snakish.
There is an ancient Arab proverb that states, "A cat, once bitten by a snake fears even a rope."
I was watching Vociferous, my bull puppy cat as he stalked whatever wee beasties should cross his path in our garden. Nothing escaped his scrutiny, the butterfly that wisely flew away upon his stealthy approach or the leopard frog that judiciously leaped into the koi pond to the dragonfly that helicoptered overhead, just beyond his reach.
Suddenly the cat's hunt was interrupted. He stopped, leaped backwards and sideways, almost collapsing onto his side in his haste.
He recovered, glanced at me with an expression of embarrassment upon his face and then, composure restored he tentatively extended his head toward the cause of his fright.
Cautiously he approached. His head moved back and forth, up and down so that he might better see the threatening snake in the grass.
He stopped; one paw slowly lifted, then, faster than my eye could follow there was a flash of movement as that paw stabbed forward tapping the short piece of garden hose coiled in the grass.
What is it that causes cats to fear anything snakish?
A kitten, even though it has never been exposed to snakes, knows the serpentine race is to be avoided. A puppy on the other hand will approach a snake no matter how deadly as though there was nothing to fear.
Could it possibly be that the cat's tendency to avoid snakes stems from its ancient forebears, such as the African wildcat?
Those ancestors must have encountered poisonous snakes, sometimes with fatal consequences but then there were the survivors that told their offspring to avoid the snake at all costs.
Another indication of this deep ingrained fear can be observed in the cat's response to the hissing phenomenon.
Many snakes hiss, thus warning creatures to stay away.
When your beloved pet is being naughty, perhaps using the end of your new $3000.00 designer sofa as a scratching post, if you hiss, what is the response?
There is the likelihood that puss will leap sideways and run away, thus saving the sofa from any further damage, or not.
Hissing is a snake thing, cats do not like snakes and tend to avoid them; therefore hissing can be a powerful deterrent to abhorrent behavior.
Understanding that there are exceptions to every rule, years ago back in Illinois my mother was befriended by a walking disaster of a cat that she called Uncle Timmy. He was a big cat, fifteen to sixteen pounds, and gray.
I called him Gimp due to the fact that he was missing a leg. He was also missing an eye and half of his tail. Parts of both ears were gone due to a combination of fighting and frost bite. He had lost enough body parts to build another cat and he was beautiful in an ugly sort of way.
Uncle Timmy loved snakes. Yes, he loved to eat them. No snake was safe from him.
The fact that there were few, if any poisonous snakes in our part of Illinois was probably one reason Uncle Timmy lived a long and snake filled existence.
I remember coming across him one time as he was finishing up a serpentine snack. The cat laid there in the grass drowsily blinking as the last three or four inches of a fox snake's tail protruded from his mouth waving a feeble farewell with little, spasmodic twitches.
From my experience Uncle Timmy was unique in his penchant for a snake meat diet but there are other exceptions such as my neighbors Siamese that likes to carry small snakes through the cat door and leave them, somewhat worse for wear, still twitching on the kitchen floor as gifts for her mistress. It goes without saying that these reptilian endowments are not all that appreciated
Thankfully, for most of us, cats avoid snakes at all costs.
Have a beautiful day and may your cats teach you.

THE RAGING TYPO

2009-06-24T23:05:00.000-04:00

I have a paperback book reclining in lazy repose between my well worn Roget's and my dog eared Webster's. This book serves one purpose and that is to keep my feet on the ground. It is not important what the title of the book is. Suffice it to say that it is a little known book by a little known author published by a well known publishing house.
As I began reading the book, there, on the third page, hiding in plain sight, I found a typo. Two pages later, another typo leaped off the page! All I could see was that damned typo!
Well now, there I was holding a book in my hands that I had paid out good money for so I kept reading.
Next page another typo.
Suddenly I discovered that most despised animal raging within me, the critic, and I began reading not for story but to edit the book.
When I finished reading the darned thing I had discovered 163 typos and the book was 212 pages in length.
That book has taught me a lot about my craft, it taught me, (1) that if that author could be published, so could I! (2) It taught me a lot about the editing process, primarily that we cannot depend upon the publisher for the painful, seemingly endless task of editing. (3) It taught me that the author has a certain obligation to his readers and his publisher. (4) It taught me that no matter how spellbinding your story may be, typos are the sign of a sloppy writer and they can be very distracting. (5) It taught me that if that author can be published so can I!
You will likely have noticed that (1) and (5) are identical, this is to give you hope. If you sharpen the sword called "craft" and write, if you never give up, if you persist, you will succeed.

ON HEARING VOICES

2009-06-24T22:50:00.002-04:00

Writers such as Steven King, Dave Barry, Jack London, James Michner or Ernest Hemingway write, or wrote, and they write in a distinctive voice, their own. They write from their own unique experiences, their lives, and each one writes as only he can write.
When I call someone on the phone after several months, or years of silence the person whom I am talking to immediately exclaims, "Hey Chuck, how are you doing?" They have recognized my "voice."
If you or I try to write as Steven King or Dave Barry we are destined to fail, therefore we need to write as ourselves.
I always travel with a pen and notepad, to which you exclaim, "you’re a writer so what's so strange about carrying a pen and notepad?"
Well, and I hate to admit this, I hear voices.
And lest you imagine me a tad balmy let me set something straight. If you are a working writer and not a shadow of a writer, a wannabe, you also should be hearing voices.
When I hear a voice speaking to me and I realize it is a character whome I have been nourishing, I listen and listen well and I write down what he, she, it, they, have to say for obviously that character has something to say, some secret to be revealed that will allow me to see into it's heart and soul, something important about that character.
When you write "yourself" you write what another writer can never write.
Listen for the voices. Yes, listen for the voices for they will speak to you. Sometimes they whisper, sometimes they whimper, sometimes they shout, sometimes they might even speak in language only you can decipher but they will talk. Listen to the voices, and remember, you are the only one that can hear them therefore if you don't pay attention to what they say and write it down nobody will, for they are, after all, the voices of your characters.
Yep, perhaps I am a tad, just a tad mind you, balmy after all… What's that? Oh, you will have to excuse me, one of my characters wants to tell me something important. Go ahead, talk, I'm listening!

QUESTING FOR…?

2009-06-10T17:57:00.000-04:00

I was looking through one of my bear journals and came across the following and decided to share them with you. I hope you enjoy it. Chaz

Predawn, Jan.
I rise at 4:30 and after eating a hurried breakfast I step outside. For a winter morning in Florida It is colder than a witch's tit and blacker than the devil's heart. I could be lying next to my Nancy in a nice warm bed but the bears are calling me so here I am, heading for the swamp.
Within twenty minutes I am walking down a little used jeep trail that boarders the swamp. I am loaded down with my portable camp stool, my video camera, tripod and various pieces of equipage and I approach the bear trail that I will follow into the dense habitat. Here I have seen my old friend Bigger, many times in the past but I am still surprised when a shadowy movement causes me to stop and stare. There, no more than twenty feet from me stands Bigger. We recognize each other and though we are not exactly on speaking terms we communicate with thought.
'Hey buddy; say have you been putting on some weight? You look bigger somehow!"
To which he answers, "Well Chuck, seeing as you are getting personal, you look like you have gained a few pounds yourself!" We stand there throwing a little friendly banter back and forth for a few minutes, neither of us feeling threatened.
I feel great respect for him; I wonder what it is that he feels toward me? Tolerance most likely, nothing more.
I yearn for more but the yearning is not so great that I will abuse the relationship. I weigh some tiny bit more than 200 lbs. but Bigger, as probably the largest bear in the state will likely exceed a quarter of a ton which would be like a bantamweight going up against a heavyweight, David against Goliath, Tweety bird against Sylvester on steroids.
Oh well, I am fortunate in that Bigger tolerates me.
He moves closer two or three steps, stops and continues to watch me.
The camera is getting heavy but I don't want to move for fear of breaking the spell, the magic of the moment.
A faint dawn is making him appear even blacker. The cold is penetrating due to my inactivity but if I move it will startle him and he will be gone. I stand still tolerating the cold. Thus we stand, the alpha bear and the little man.
He can move as fast as thought but he doesn't move. Perhaps he doesn't want to frighten me. Very considerate bear. Thank you bear.
After minutes, or has it been days, he swings his massive head and moves away on silent feet, vanishing into the early morning mist and shadows of the swamp.
This mortal stands and stares, yearning as after a friend. I walk to the spot where a moment before he stood and it is as if I can still sense his presence. He is gone, and I am sad.
You will forgive me if I compare my experience with my bear friend, Bigger, to another, infinitely larger and more powerful friend, God.
There have been times in my life when I went in search of God and couldn't find Him. Perhaps I was looking in the wrong places.
Then, as I was strolling down one of life's jeep trails, imagining that I was going to cleverly surprise Him He was still able to surprise me.
The power of those meetings has been awesome.
Now I have discovered that I don't have to search for Him for He is always there.
My bear friend, Bigger, has incredible power and every time that I quest for him I take a calculated risk and I suppose being in the presence of infinite power has its share of risks but one thing I have discovered, I don't have to quest for God, he is always searching for me and when I walk away He yearns for me.
Some may consider me a fool for walking with bears but then God, our infinite friend has chosen to walk with us and boy do I love Him for it.

Here it is, several years later and a lot has changed. I have gone through an incredible lifestyle change and Bigger would probably comment on the fact that I have lost some thirty pounds. But then, I am sad to report that Bigger, my bear friend, is no longer with us. He died at the hands of a sick poacher and his feet were removed for whatever insane reason, his magnificent desecrated body discovered dumped alongside a lonely, country Florida road.
I will carry his memory with me always.
Rest in peace Bigger.

A BRIEF MISCELLANY OF THINKING

2009-05-31T18:26:00.000-04:00

Why is it that so many "Christians" are mad dog miserable?
The next time you go to church look around and tell me, honestly now, do those folks look happy to you? Do they look like they are excited about being there?
What I have discovered is that if I want a real downer, look at people. On the other hand, if I want "happy," look at Jesus.
To my way of thinkin' Christians should be about the happiest folks on the face of this green earth, and I don't mean, "giggly, giddy, jumping up and down," happy, I mean, "The Lord is coming again and he's my best friend!" happy.
So many folks are emotionally disturbed today. They want to cast out the demons they 'hope' to see in others and ignore their own private 'disturbed'.
Remember the Bakers? That is Baker, as in little Jimmy and Tammy Faye? Tammy Faye was especially known for her penchant for wearing twenty pounds of cheap cosmetics so that when she cried on national T.V., goop would run down her cheeks and clog the sewers like something out of a Steven King novel.
I remember the Bakers pleading with their audience to help with their various ministries. "Send us your nickels and dimes, send us your dollar bills and you will be blessed!" Folks sent so many nickels and dimes and dollar bills Jimmy and Tammy Fay were able to build a $10,000 doghouse in the backyard of their mansion. (I don't really know if the dog was blessed, or happy.)
Religion to so many folks today is laughable so they search elsewhere or give up the quest altogether.
"Religion" I have discovered aint as important as relationships, sweet wholesome relationships, with each other and Papa God.
That's some of my thinkin' on the subject and I guess that's what folks should be doin' more of when it comes to religion, think.

HOLY SHORTS!

2009-05-25T13:26:00.002-04:00

As you were walking out the door to go to school as a boy do you remember your mother asking you, "Did you put on clean under shorts? If you are ever in a terrible accident I don't want anybody seeing you in dirty underwear!"
Oh come on mama, if I am in a terrible accident I am sure that would be about the worse thing that could happen. I can just imagine the doctors and nurses standing around looking down at my horribly mutilated body and saying, "will you look at this poor kid's skid marks? Why,he must have a terrible mother!"
In a far distant blog I mentioned the fact that while photographing bears I have been accustomed to leaving a piece of clothing in the camera blind when I was absent so that the bears would become accustomed to my odor. (My wife pronounces it, "odour" when she is feeling charitable.)
One time I was somewhat reluctant to leave my shirt, and my pants were definitely out of the question, so I left my under shorts hanging in the blind as my way of saying, "hey bears, it's me, your ol' buddy Chaz!"
When I returned the next day my under shorts were soaking in the middle of the shallow creek and some bear had shredded them. I mean, Holy shorts batman!
The other day my dear, sweet wife had washed and put my clothes away and I noticed a pair of her pink panties on top of the pile of my under shorts. Assuming this was an error on her part I took the pink undies and laid them on her dresser only to find them back on top of my shorts later in the day?
Hmmm, "Hey honey, what do you want me to do with this pair of panties?" And she called back, "You can have them!"
As I was standing there trying to figure out what I was supposed to use a pair of pink girly panties for she walked into the closet with a pair of my Jockies in her hand. She held them up to reveal a large hole where no hole should be and said, "If you are too cheap to buy yourself new shorts when yours are so far gone the waistband is about all that's left you definitely need a pair of mine!"
Well, I went out and bought several pair of new shorts but not before she had a laughing fit as she tried to come up with creative uses for my well worn shorts. The first idea was really practical, "I could sew them up!" Followed by, "Maybe we could repair them with black electrical tape or duct tape!" But the idea that struck her as especially funny was, "Why don't you hang them on the antennae of the truck for a flag!" Or, "That hole is so big we could use them as a creative picture frame!"
Have you noticed that some wives are really mean spirited?
Holy shorts folks, it's a guy thing!

THE RIGHT TO LIVE

2009-04-29T12:15:00.001-04:00

Ahh, another beautiful day!
This morning as I took my walk I saw a possum. I don't know what his name was; just that he was a possum. My little possum friend was out for a stroll, meandering along licking the dew from the grass and though I was sure that possums do this I was pleased to see it.
The thought came to me that all too often possums are considered nothing more than pests and of little value, to be destroyed with little consequence and little if any thought or consideration. Sad, yes, so sad.
There is not a creature on the face of the earth that is not in danger of being negatively impacted by that greatest of all predators, man.
The law of immanent domain is still alive and well.
"If it does not serve a direct beneficial purpose to man than it must not be good for anything, kill it!"
That little possum deserves to be protected.
Man has been given a wonderful responsibility. It has been given to us the charge of protector and keeper and yet how much of our impact has been, if not indifferent, than downright destructive.
Here in Florida the most desirable land is adjacent to water and the cost of waterfront property soars. The next most sought after property is woodland.
This in it's own right seems benign, harmless. Who wouldn't enjoy a home set in such surroundings?
But! The threat to wildlife is rarely given little more than lip service if it is considered at all.
The land is considered valuable but the creatures that have called it home are nothing more than a nuisance, a threat.
Take the alligator for example. He is seen swimming or sunning himself on the bank and soon the homeowner calls the authorities and the alligator is removed to be turned into belts, wallets and shoes.
You might say, "so what, it's just an alligator!"
But isn't nature to be protected?
What about the Florida black bear?
A bear is sighted in someone's back yard and again the "powers" that be, are called. The bear is not transported to another area. No, he is killed out of hand as a nuisance animal.
There is no place in Florida where a bear can be transported where he will not be able to migrate back to his home range in a short period of time therefore the state has adapted the rule, "if it is a nuisance bear it is a dead bear."
Where does that end? Believe me when I say, all bears have the potential of being "nuisance" bears? I ask again, where does it end? When there are no more bears?
Isn't it time for people to be informed, to be told that their call to the authorities is essentially a death sentence for the animal in question.
There are some people who see little or no value in the wild creatures.
I listened recently as a boat owner complained about the no wake laws protecting the manatees on the St. John's River. To him the manatee Is no more than a hindrance to him and all boaters.
Is that the way all of nature is to be treated, as of little worth, no more than a nuisance to be destroyed.
Bury the gopher tortoises in their burrows so we can have more paved parking lots. Kill off all the snakes, everybody hates snakes!
Soon, altogether too soon, we will one day step outside and be greeted by silence. There will be no bird songs, there will be no threat of any creature other than our own kind and we are doing our damned well best to eliminate that threat.
The right to live must start with the premise and the belief that there is also a responsibility to let live.
Chaz

REACHING YOUR GRAND POTENTIAL

2009-03-29T13:29:00.002-04:00

REACHING YOUR GRAND POTENTIAL BY RECLAIMING THE
GOD GIVEN GIFTS THAT HAVE BEEN STOLEN FROM YOU.

Just recently I read of a 93 year old lady that went back to school and earned a doctorate in psychology. When asked why she did this at her advanced age she She stated, "I just want to help folks!"

Have you seen the advertisements encouraging the reader to call "1-800-you are an idiot" to see if there is a large sum of money, perhaps an inheritance, waiting for you to claim it?

What I am going to show you right now is much more plausible that free money, much more realistic than being notified that you have won the lottery when you know that you have not purchased a lottery ticket and a whale of a lot more realistic than being notified that your long lost, malted millionaire Uncle Zeb, was trampled to death by a herd of raging, carnivorous manatees and he has left you a quadzillion dollars in his will and yet you know that you never had a rich uncle Zeb.

If you are waiting for any of those things to happen lots of luck, but, believe it or not, I can almost guarantee that you have an unclaimed inheritance.

Have you ever watched a baby move, bouncing and swaying to music? That child was born with a love, an innate appreciation for music and a natural rhythm.

Have you ever seen a child pick up a pencil and start to write or draw what perhaps appears no more than illegible scrawls to you, and you failed to see that the child was expressing himself in a natural way?

Someone, a self proclaimed critic, (a pox on all critics by the way) perhaps a parent or a sibling, immediately exclaims, "Oh, that is wrong!" Or, "You can do better that that!" Or, "That doesn't look like a dog!" Or, "That is silly, that's not the way to do that!" Or even worse, "That's ridiculous, you can't do that!"

To do the above is stifling and can have lifelong consequences for any child, even diminishing the very life force of that child.

We are born with gifts but if those gifts are repressed for whatever cause or reason, as we develop we will eventually enter adulthood and go for the rest of our lives as though something were missing, which it surely is.

Eventually, after being told that we can't do 'whatever' as children, in our adult life we set out to regain that which was lost, spending valuable resources, time as well as finances, endeavoring to either regain, rediscover or rekindle those gifts which were ours by God given right.

We all have incredible gifts, perhaps they are gifts that have been repressed but they are nonetheless, our gifts. Now it is time to reclaim that which has been stolen from us.
You might say that it is too late, that you are too old, that you don't have enough money, or time, or contrary to what I have said, you don't believe you have the needed talents, gifts, abilities, or propensities to attain your dreams, and if you really believe that those negative statements are true then all I can say is, you are, above all men, most wretched. But, if you can see yourself realizing your dreams, if you can believe what the bible says when it declares, "I can do all things through Christ Jesus our Lord, if you can, by the grace of a loving God see it happening, whatever it might be, than good for you for your dreams not only can, but will, become reality.
Chaz

FEEDING FRENZY, Or, THEY ARE BACK!

2009-03-11T07:52:00.000-04:00

You are the target! You and only you, nobody else will do, they want you! Or so it seems.
Attracted to CO2 they are drawn to you like steel filings to a magnet. They are tiny, so tiny you can hardly see them. In fact they are so tiny the can go through regular window screens, thus the common name, "No-see-ums"
It seems that it does little or no good to slap the little darlings considering there are always about a dozen ready to take the deceased bugs place.
The mouthparts are quite well developed with cutting teeth on elongated mandibles in the proboscis. This cute adaptation turns them into the equivalent of invisible wolf packs. The female needs your blood for the development of her young and to ensure there will be more no-see-ums next year and in case you are wondering there are 4000 species of biting midges worldwide and 47 species that call Florida home.
As irritating as the bites may be you will be best advised to not scratch and dig at the bites. That's right, just grin and bear it and it will go away. Scratching is likely to cause infection so be tough!
One of the best no-see-um or midge deterrents is a good air flow so turn on the ceiling fans and when in the yard apply any insect repellent containing DEET. Be sure to apply the repellent as instructed on the label and you should be able to venture outside without too much discomfort and please don't take the no-see-um attack personal, all they want is your blood.

STRANGER THAN FICTION

2009-02-21T22:00:00.002-05:00

Have you ever wondered about some of the strange things that we see going on around us? Have you ever asked yourself, "Well now, how did that happen?" Or, "What caused that?" or, "I wonder what happened to him?"
I had to ask that latter question recently when I saw an armadillo that was missing half of its tail. What could possibly have happened to the animal to cause it to lose its tail?
Well let's see, perhaps a dog grabbed him and the dog ended up with some 'dilly tail! Or, just perhaps the armadillo was swimming the river, (I have seen them do this two or three times over the years so it can't be all that uncommon) and an alligator grabbed the poor animal's tail? Ouch! Well, we will never know what happened to it but one thing I do know is that Mr. Armadillo wasn't hampered a bit by the fact that he was sans tail. He was fast, he was foraging as armadillo's forage, rooting and snuffling and scratching, and due to the fact that he was butterball fat it was obvious that in spite of missing his tail, yes, in spite of his seeming disability he was thriving, life as usual.
Perhaps we could learn something from the armidillo, ya suppose?
Sometimes we see things that cause us to rethink old beliefs like the time not long ago when I saw a mature bald eagle glide down and land on an osprey's nest containing two osprey chicks. As I watched I saw the eagle drop its head and the next thing I new the large bird flew away clutching a struggling osprey chick in its talons. Now why this should surprise me I don't know after all other birds predate chicks of other species, I just had never heard of it happening between eagles and ospreys and to see it did surprise me. Later that week I was in the area again and the osprey's nest was empty and seemingly abandoned. The nest was not used for awhile but then one day I looked up and there was an osprey on the nest. Yep, business as usual.
I guess it just goes to prove that truth is stranger than fiction and the wild critters are perhaps almost as unpredictable as we so called, "civilized" human varmints.

If you have seen or heard of some strange or unusual behavior in the animal world please let me know and perhaps I will include it in a future blog entry.
You have a nice day now, ya hear!

THE INCIDENT AT THE ZOO

2009-02-12T12:25:00.001-05:00

Zoos can by the very nature of their inhabitants, give rise to some most interesting incidents. Add into the mix of assorted animals, birds and reptiles a motley crew of employees and you just might have the makings of what my dear 93 year old mama refers to as, "some most peculiar happenings."

Take the monkeys for instance, The sooty mangabey, a small grayish monkey from Africa to be exact.

I went on vacation for a week and left the zoo in the capable hands of my assistant who upon my departure had the gall to come down with some debilitating illness that rendered him quite incapable of caring for himself let alone our animal charges.

Realizing his physical limitations he promptly called the other zoo employees to him and told them that they would have to go it on their own for a few days and then he went to the hospital and proceeded to inconsiderately nearly die from a bad case of some intestinal ailment that left him quite helpless, weak as an anemic night crawler and near death for the rest of the next two weeks.

In my own defense I did call regularly and each time that I called I was informed that all was well. No one told me that my assistant was in the hospital but sensing that not all was well, at the end of three days, we cut the vacation short and my family and I returned to chaos.

My assistant was still in the hospital, the employees who were supposed to be caring for the animals were sitting around eating the monkey food, (really), and the animals were caring for themselves.

Surprisingly, animals being the sort of resilient folks they are, were alright except for the aforementioned monkeys. The mangabeys had been without water for the previous two days.

At that time we supplemented their mainly fruit diet with Purina monkey chow which, being very dry, needs water to reconstitute it in the animal's digestive system. The monkeys ate the dry monkey chow which promptly turned into cute little rocks. Yep, No water, and I ended up with a bunch of very sick monkeys, so constipated and dehydrated they were all near death.

For the next twelve hours my wife, our two oldest children, Chuck Jr. and Faith and I sat giving warm water enemas to a bunch of very ill monkeys.

My wife was holding one little gray monkey when it spasmed and died in her hands. She wept but kept on rendering aid to our sick charges. A few minutes later the monkey she was holding suddenly screamed, shat a stream of monkey dookus all over her and bit her hand all at once. She, being the person she was, laughed and reached out and grabbed another monkey and continued giving monkey enemas and saving monkey lives.

Two monkeys died but due to our care eight others lived.

Some folks imagine working in a zoo as somehow being an adventure, even glamorous. Sometimes there are those adventures but glamorous? I can think of a few better word and none of them come even close to glamorous.

Rewarding? Satisfying? Gratifying? Yeah, sure, it is all of those. Would I do it again? No, I don't think so. At my age I have suffered enough indignities to my person so I am going to leave it to you younger folks to get bit, chewed upon, kicked, chased and desecrated with every king of animal poop known.

Go ahead, work in a zoo. It is an adventure, and by all means, don't forget the glamour!

MORE, PLEASE GIVE ME MORE!

2009-02-03T00:57:00.002-05:00

I have a buddy that was raised in New Jersey. For want of a better name we will call him Ed.
Ed, though he denies the fact, is not exactly a nature lover. The only time I ever got him to take a stroll in the woods with me I almost had to blindfold and hog tie him which would have been some difficult because he stands six four and weighs about two twenty five. On our stroll I showed him some bear tracks and he, unimpressed, shrugged his shoulders. I showed him some fresh bear scat, (poop) to the uninitiated, and he wrinkled his nose. I took him to a beautiful, bubbling spring and again Ed wrinkled his nose as he made the comment, "Smells like a Jersey sewer to me!" Hey, could I help it if it's a sulfur spring!

After my walk with Ed I began remembering some of the wonderful things I have seen and experienced during my lifetime as a professional small boy, things that Ed, poor, poor Ed, will never experience.

It has been my distinct privilege to see some strange and wonderful things in my lifetime of wandering in the forests and streams of our land.
I have blown up beaver dams to prevent flooding, watched bears play and I have seen bears fight and I have watched eagles mate.
I have seen crows mourn the loss of a mate, seen one blue heron attack and kill another and seen a bald eagle carrying a large diamondback rattlesnake into the sky.
I've seen an albino raccoon in the woods and an albino muskrat on a northern stream.
I caught a two tailed snake once and caught a small soft shelled turtle that was obviously intended to be two turtles because instead of being flat its back rose five inches, almost to a point and it had two nostrils in the top center of its shell.
I watched as a bullfrog ate a small cottonmouth water moccasin and witnessed a mob of raccoons kill one of their own kind.
I have seen a red shouldered hawk attack a pileated woodpecker and a barred owl catch a large pine snake and eat it.
I have seen an alligator kill and eat a coral snake, a black bear run away from a diamondback rattler and another run away from an alligator and had a mink sit on the end of a log and watch me for the longest time as I sat no more than five feet away writing in my journal.
I have sat for hours and watched ottors at play and been pooped on by nesting great blue herons.
I have been bluff charged by black bears several times, mauled by an African lion and charged by an angry African elephant.
I was kicked and bitten by a camel and chased by a bull elk that had murder in his eye and I had a medium size black bear run over me knocking me and my camera flat on the ground.
I have been bitten three times by poisonous snakes had a cottonmouth water moccasin try to climb onto my shoulder, been bee, hornet, wasp and scorpion stung and had the distinct pleasure of being kissed by a scarlet velvet ant, an experience I could very well have done without. (I am NOT going to try to grab one of those suckers again!)
I have been chased by mama alligators while stealing eggs from their nests for a captive breeding program, handled a fourteen foot long king cobra and had an African spotted leopard blown off the top of me by a ten gauge, double barreled shotgun and do you know what? I am anxious to see what is going to happen next! Aint life grand?
Chaz

P.S. "Hey Ed, look, see this big, red, furry ant! Yeah, he sure is big isn't he? What's that, Is red a sign for danger? Naw, Go ahead, grab him, he won't hurt you! Heh, heh, heh"

PERHAPS I WORKED WITH THE BIG CATS TOO LONG?

2009-01-27T09:43:00.000-05:00

"YOU THERE!" "DOWN!" "UP!" "BACK!" "ROLL OVER!" "JUMP!"
For several years during the duller portion of my life I worked the big cats. That is lions, tigers and leopards to those who are interested.
I would enter a cage with one of the larger felines and I would bark a command, I mean, hey, I wanted Mr. Lion to know who was boss, right?
For a long time I tried the same tactic with my wife and usually one of two things happened. She usually barked back something like, "AND JUST WHO THE H--- DO YOU THINK YOU ARE TALKING TO BUSTER?" Or there was total silence and the only sound I heard was the bedroom door slamming, which, just in case you are wondering, did not bode well for one's love life.
Boy, did I learn from this? Well, even a lobotomized lab rat or week old road kill would learn from this but it took me awhile longer.
There was that interesting period when I began taking a different tack. Yes, I started using the word, please. The way this worked was this, I would shout the command and then I would shout "PLEASE!" The way this worked was thusly, (is that a real word) Say we would be going someplace, I would shout, "GET IN THE CAR, PLEASE!" With the resulting long silence followed by that altogether too familiar sound of the bedroom door slamming. Who was it that said something about lobotomized lab rats?
Oh well, not being a fast learner it took me awhile but I am happy to say that eventually I learned that force isn't nice and it has been some time since I heard the old familiar sound of the bedroom door slamming.

BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU PRAY FOR

2009-01-17T21:57:00.005-05:00

My occupation as a small boy was always trying to see how close I could come to mayhem, and then later as a zoo director and my more recent relationship with bears has given opportunity for many encounters with interesting denizens, both animal and human.
Recently I had the opportunity to provide the black bear footage for a T.V. series featuring the wild places of central Florida. While questioning me the interviewer made the statement, "You do realize that there are some people that would think you are crazy.
What could I say?
Let's consider that "Crazy" remark.
There was a time when my mama was young and foolish that she prayed for a little boy just like Huckleberry Finn.
It just goes to prove that praying, like playing with dynamite and swimming with sharks has its own peculiar share of risks.
Eventually mama's prayer was answered, which just goes to prove that the Almighty, while listening to our prayers, has an incredible sense of humor.
In my defense, as I grew and the years passed, mama would often tell me, "You were very cute when you were a baby."
It was only years later, and I am sure there are some that will disagree, that I learned that cute babies usually turn into very homely adults.
Oh well, such is fate.
It wasn't long before I was exploring and experimenting. You will notice that both of those words begin with 'ex' which might very well have described my condition if it hadn't been for mama constantly praying, "Please God, keep my little boy safe."
As a youngster I must admit to the fact that I didn't have the good sense that God gave a goofy gopher and usually the principle that governed my life was, 'act, don't think', which for most of my life has worked so well I have seen little cause to change.
What with me turning over rocks, sticking my hands into holes and hollow trees, molesting bald-faced hornets and other wild critters in the woods and streams of our neighborhood, and otherwise, "venturing where no human has ever gone before." I was equipped with not one guardian Angel but an entire battery of the heavenly host watching over me.
Such was my reputation among my winged protectors that when an Angel drew 'guardian Angel' duty with me as the subject some strong Angels would break down and weep.
My Angels were the only Angels that were consistently wearing casts and walking with the use of crutches and if you have never seen a guardian Angel with a broken wing it's not a pretty sight.
There was a hazardous duty award given to my guardian Angels for protecting me. It was called the 'Big Freckle'.
Contrary to the popular rumor which would lead one to believe that freckles are angel kisses, freckles are really awarded to the recipient for the number of times that they are rescued.
A typical conversation among my guardian Angels usually goes something like this. "Hey Ariel, you are his number one guardian, you watch him today."
Ariel, with a pained expression on his face, exclaims, "I watched him yesterday! Don't expect me to do it two days in a row. Just keeping a record of the times that the kid has had to be rescued keeps me busy writing. Hank has weaseled out of the job for the last three weeks, let Hank do it. HANK! Hey Hank! Where did he go off to now? He was here just a minute ago." Larry, another Angel, speaks up at this point. "I don't know where Hank went but his fishing pole is gone!" "Well isn't this a sorry lot of guardian Angels," Ariel exclaims, "Hank is just as apt to get into trouble as that little freckle faced kid we are supposed to be guarding." "Well, I don't know about that," Zeke exclaims, "But the kid is playing with a dead chicken again, not only that but he is popping maggots between his fingers!"
A loud moan can be heard coming from the crew of elected guardian Angels.
Ariel, with a pained expression on his face exclaims, "O.K., I'm on my way but tomorrow two of you are going to have to watch over him or I'm going t' talk to the Chief." With this departing comment Ariel flies off to watch the kid, (Yours truly) play with the dead chicken and try to keep me from tasting any of the maggots.
I am not particularly proud of the fact that among all of the Angelic host mine are the only Angels that have to go for counseling sessions on a regular basis.
Having painted that fascinating picture I would appreciate an interest in your prayers because mama is tired and she knows that I still can't leave hornet's nests alone and any hole in the ground or hollow tree is more than I can resist.
Crazy? Did you say? Now I do take umbrage at the 'crazy' remark.

HUNTERS OF THE WEKIVA

2009-01-09T10:46:00.002-05:00

The mosquito larva would be safe if it could reach the leaf. That it did not realize that the thing was a leaf was not important, only that its shadow represented a safe haven, a place to hide.
The tiny insect swam toward the leaf.
The water was only inches in depth but to so small a creature those inches could very well have represented fathoms.
Propelled by sporadic whips of its tail the larva moved forward in an erratic up and down motion without realizing that those very movements were what attracted the minnow's attention.
The mosquito larva had almost reached the leaf, totally unaware of the tiny mosquito fish that lay hungrily waiting and watching, under that very leaf. Suddenly there was a flash of movement and before the mosquito larva could flee it was seized and a moment later, engulfed.
The minnow, only an inch and a half in length, resumed its role as predator back under the leaf.
It had eaten several of the tiny insects and for the moment its hunger was satisfied. Hanging there motionless, in perfect equilibrium, pumping water through its tiny gill slits, unaware that it also was being watched.
With a Patience born of an insatiable appetite the crayfish waited.
The little crustacean was, as all of its kind, an opportunistic feeder. It would always scavenge the dead, but if the chance should present itself?
It watched the minnow hungrily, hopefully.
The minnow saw movement. Another mosquito larva! It dashed in pursuit, so intent on capturing the larva it was unaware of the crayfish until it was too late. The larva swam within an inch of the crayfish, the minnow in swift pursuit, intent only on its prey.
The crayfish, pinchers poised, lunged forward! The minnow was seized, allowing the larva to escape under a bit of flotsam. The crayfish, with rapid thrusts of its tail jetted backward, settling near the shore in less then two inches of water and immediately began feeding on the yet living minnow.
The half grown bullfrog watched greedily, and then, when it was sure, it lunged! Both the crayfish and the feebly struggling minnow were seized.
The bullfrog moved backward and settled itself, then It swallowed, blinked, and relaxed. To relax can be fatal.
The frog was only about half grown as was the cottonmouth water moccasin that was watching nearby. The snake had seen the frog’s movement and was now moving forward.
As the bullfrog settled down to digest its meal the cottonmouth continued to move closer, ever closer. The snake’s movements were slow, born of patience as it closed the gap. When it was sure of itself it struck. The reptile did not use its deadly poison apparatus, it seized the frog with innumerable recurved teeth, immediately throwing a loop of its powerful body around its prey. It then began to constrict, suffocating the frog, squeezing the life giving air from its lungs. If the frog had been a little smaller it would not have been constricted, it simply would have been swallowed alive. Soon, very soon, the bullfrog moved no more. Minutes had passed, such a brief time that the crayfish inside the frog’s gut was yet precariously clinging to life as the snake began to swallow the frog.
The great blue heron was hunting. It stood very still, all of its concentration on that spot of water. Or I should say its attention was on the small garfish that lay there pumping water through its gills. The gar, seven inches in length, intently watched a small clump of water hyacinths which floated there. A fingerling bass had disappeared into the floating bit of vegetation only moments before. In its brief life the gar had already learned that patience rewards those that know her well, and so it cruised, waiting for the bass to leave its haven.
Suddenly the gar was struck a terrible blow! Its first instinct was to flee, but somehow its movements were impaired. Its tiny brain screamed a series of escape messages but the messages were to no avail.
Raised high and shaken until tiny scales and bits of bloody flesh flew in a spray, the gar was flipped into the air and seized by its head to begin a dark journey which it would never comprehend.
The great blue heron shook its head, blinked several times as it swallowed, bent its long neck and using one foot, groomed itself. The large bird then spread its wings and shook them, restoring circulation after its long vigil. After this ritual it took one, two, a half dozen slow graceful steps, and stopped. That foot which was raised while taking that last step slowly descended, barely rippling the water’s surface and all was still again. The heron was again the hunter.
An errant breeze lifted one of the long crest plumes on the bird’s head but this made no more movement then a leaf would were it nudged by a vagrant breath of air. Again that long neck unwound, the head darting down in a blur of movement. That long rapier beak pierced the water to seize a large crayfish which promptly followed the dark path the garfish had taken only minutes before.
Noticing a slight movement in the reeds along the shore the heron moved with a shadowy grace, only intent on filling the remaining void in its gut. It approached the area cautiously. Even though the water was not a foot deep it was deep enough to conceal an alligator large enough to include a tough old blue heron on its broad list of dietary preferences.
The great blue heron was all the hunter, its bright eyes darting this way and that as it searched for anything small enough to eat, even a small version of that alligator if chance should allow it.
The cottonmouth water moccasin lay there in the shallow water at the shoreline. It had just eaten the bullfrog only minutes before and was now searching for a place where it could curl up and digest its meal and perhaps soak up a little sunshine at the close of the day. The great blue heron saw the snake and decided that this would be a fitting main course to its dinner.
Aiming with the precision born of instinct the heron thrust, not out of malice for it knew no such thing. Only with a need driven by hunger, the desire to survive, did it act.
Immediately the snake reacted. Writhing and twisting in a violent attempt to escape, it reached back, jaws agape. In a rapid series of movements its jaws opening and closing spasmodically, the fangs erect, audibly clicking on the heron’s beak. The snake impulsively worked muscles that sent a spray of amber venom splashing into the water at the heron’s feet. It continued to struggle, striving mightily to reach the heron’s flesh with its fangs, all to no avail. The heron walked up onto the river bank carrying the reptile.
The struggle might have been different had the snake been seized another three inches lower on its body. It could then have reached the heron’s head and neck, but as it was the outcome was fairly certain. Casting the reptile to the ground the bird swiftly stepped on it, pinning it there.
Then, almost as rapidly as the snake could strike it repeatedly stabbed with that long rapier sharp beak, always aiming for the reptile’s deadly head.
The cottonmouth attempted to strike the foot and the leg that held it, but to no avail. Hard scales on the heron’s feet and long bony legs were not very good targets for the specialized flesh piercing fangs of the cottonmouth. Soon the snake lay twitching under the heron’s feet, its head demolished. Only then did the heron begin to swallow its prey.
Twenty minutes later the great blue heron was perched on a branch of the ancient cypress. The large bird settled itself, clucking contentedly. It blinked, and then, tucking its head under one wing, it slept.
As the sun set those creatures that hunt through the night began to stir.

TOUGH LOVE, eagle style

2008-12-26T09:18:00.002-05:00

You might have seen it there on that high bluff overlooking Michigan's Muskegon River. The tree has dominated the site for how many years?

The two mature bald eagles perche side by side in the top of the great white pine.

Their nest is most impressive. Six feet wide and eight feet tall it has been added to each year by the pair of large raptors.

Some of the branches that make up the nest are as large as a man's arm and over four feet long. The resulting nest weighs over half a ton.

Built strong, it has survived many a storm and it will withstand many more.

How many chicks have began their lives as fledglings, way up there?

There were those early years when the eggs were fragile, so very fragile that they broke just from being brooded or they would break as they were being rotated but the adults did what they do, they laid more eggs and sat vigil until one year two chicks survived.

The eagles didn't understand D.D.T., only what they must do, and so it was, since the deadly pesticide diminished in the food chain many young eagles have survived and thrived.

This particular year the female had brooded three eggs. The first to hatch was a female followed a short time later by her brother. It didn't take long for the female to set herself to the task of eliminating any competition for food.

With determination she rolled that last egg over the edge of the nest.

The egg dropped some twenty feet before it smashed into a large branch, its contents to fall lifeless and unknowing to the ground below.

Once the egg was gone the female turned on her sibling and with a hungry gleam in her eyes she attacked him, determined to either kill him or force him from the nest but he was more determined to live than his sister was that he should die.

The parents spent countless trips from the river to the nest, back and forth, carrying salmon to feed their growing, ravenous charges.

The eaglets grew and gained strength.
Whenever possible the female, never satisfied, stole the scraps of fish from her brother but he persisted and survived.

Nearing that time when they should leave the nest they practiced flying.

They would stand on the edge and grasp the nest with needle sharp talons and flap their wings, building strength in preparation for that day when they would no longer be confined to the only home they had ever known.

Time passed and the eaglets grew and more time passed until one day the young male, tired of fending off his sister's savage attacks, stood on the side of the nest and stretching his wings wide, he launched himself from the familiar, from death at his sister's behest, into a new life.

More days passed and then weeks but the young female, now flying and able to fend for her self refused to leave the nest.

The youngster, easily distinguishable from the adult birds by the absence of white on her head, sat on the edge of the nest. She dozed, now and then awakening to gaze out over what she considered her domain.

The two mature eagles sat side by side, close to each other not far away. Clucking and chirruping to each other the female expressed her need, her concern for she was again ready to lay her eggs.

All of her maternal instincts were directed now toward what would be.

A few more chirrups and the male leaned forward and spreading his wings he launched himself from the perch.

Dropping a few feet he caught an updraft and soared, up, up, and beyond.

The impertinent young female dozed in the warm sun. She shook herself, fluffing her feathers and with closed eyes she groomed herself, raking her soft breast feathers with her powerful beak. She slept.

The adult male, casting off all paternal instincts, came in low and from the rear of the unsuspecting youngster.

Holding his feet in front of him, talons curled inward almost like a fist; he swooped in and struck the youngster from behind, knocking her from the nest.

Dazed, surprised, the young female tumbled almost to the ground before she was able to catch herself. She rose, wondering what had struck her.

Circling around she was about to approach the nest again when her father struck again, this time from above.

As he dove down on the younger bird he screamed in anger, the cry unheard more than two hundred yards away. For such a powerful bird it has a surprisingly weak call but the young female heard it just as she was truck that second time.

Again she tried to approach the nest but this time the adult male struck her such a blow she was forced to settle on the ground to gather herself.

She had learned her lesson. That night she perched in the top of another tall pine some distance away but within an easy flight of the river. The river contained fish and fish were life itself.

Back at the nest the female sits contentedly while the male perches protectively nearby.
Nestled into the female's breast feathers are two eggs.

And so life goes on.

ROPING A DEER!

2008-12-17T07:57:00.001-05:00

This "deer" experience occurred in Michigan. I had completely forgotten the encounter until my sister-in-law sent, "ROPING A DEER" and suddenly all those memories came flooding back.
Both of these experiences go to prove that… well, I am not sure what they prove. I hope you enjoy.
Chaz

Many years ago I was pen feeding several "tame" deer. The word, "tame" definitely being a misnomer at this point unless "tame" means, man eating carnivore.
A three year old buck decided to have me for lunch one fine day and attacked me with great joy and enthusiasm.
I dodged behind a little four inch pine tree while the demon deer strove mightily and with some small success to make some most interesting alterations to my anatomy.
Then I had what I thought was a monumental idea. (As much as I hate to admit it my monumental ideas don't always turn out all that good.)
I waited for the deer to butt the tree again and when his horns were on either side of the tree I grabbed a horn in each hand thinking I could easily hold him there with his head against the tree. I couldn't. He held me there! After about fifteen minutes of having my arms jerked out of their sockets a state game control officer showed up and recued me by shooting the poor, sweet, innocent little Bambi. To be honest I would have been just as happy at that point if he had shot me.
I had about a thousand contusions, multiple abrasions and four nice puncture wounds. I have long known that deer are much more dangerous than bear so I prefer to follow bears. Bears are much more considerate creatures.
You have a nice day now ya hear

The following deer tale was sent to me by Barb from California, thank you Barb!

ROPING A DEER!

I had this idea that I was going to rope a deer, put it in a stall, feed it up on corn for a couple of weeks, then kill it and eat it.

The first step in this adventure was getting a deer. I figured that, since they congregate at my cattle feeder and do not seem to have much fear of me when we are there (a bold one will sometimes come right up and sniff at the bags of feed while I am in the back of the truck not 4 feet away), it should not be difficult to rope one, get up to it and toss a bag over its head (to calm it down) then hog tie it and transport it home.

I filled the cattle feeder then hid down at the end with my rope.

The cattle, having seen the roping thing before, stayed well back. They were not having any of it.

After about 20 minutes, my deer showed up -- 3 of them. I picked out.. ..a likely looking one, stepped out from the end of the feeder, and threw.. my rope. The deer just stood there and stared at me.

I wrapped the rope around my waist and twisted the end so I would have a good hold. The deer still just stood and stared at me, but you could tell it was mildly concerned about the whole rope situation.

I took a step towards it...it took a step away. I put a little tension on the rope and then received an education.

The first thing that I learned is that, while a deer may just stand there looking at you funny while you rope it, they are spurred to action when you start pulling on that rope.

That deer EXPLODED.

The second thing I learned is that pound for pound, a deer is a LOT stronger than a cow or a colt. A cow or a colt in that weight range I could fight down with a rope and with some dignity.

A deer-- no chance.

That thing ran and bucked and twisted and pulled. There was no controlling it and certainly no getting close to it. As it jerked me off my feet and started dragging me across the ground, it occurred to me that having a deer on a rope was not nearly as good an idea as I had originally imagined.

The only up side is that they do not have as much stamina as many other animals.

A brief 10 minutes later, it was tired and not nearly as quick to jerk me off my feet and drag me when I managed to get up. It took me a few minutes to realize this, since I was mostly blinded by the blood flowing out of the big gash in my head. At that point, I had lost my taste for corn-fed venison. I just wanted to get that devil creature off the end of that rope.

I figured if I just let it go with the rope hanging around its neck, it would likely die slow and painfully somewhere. At the time, there was no love at all between me and that deer. At that moment, I hated the thing, and I would venture a guess that the feeling was mutual.

Despite the gash in my head and the several large knots where I had cleverly arrested the deer's momentum by bracing my head against various large rocks as it dragged me across the ground, I could still think clearly enough to recognize that there was a small chance that I shared some tiny amount of responsibility for the situation we were in, so I didn't want the deer to have to suffer a slow death, so I managed to get it lined back up in between my truck and the feeder - a little trap I had set before hand...kind of like a squeeze chute.

I got it to back in there and I started moving up so I could get my rope back.

Did you know that deer bite? They do! I never in a million years would have thought that a deer would bite somebody, so I was very surprised when I reached up there to grab that rope and the deer grabbed hold of my wrist.

Now, when a deer bites you, it is not like being bit by a horse where they just bite you and then let go. A deer bites you and shakes its head --almost like a pit bull. They bite HARD and it hurts.

The proper thing to do when a deer bites you is probably to freeze and draw back slowly. I tried screaming and shaking instead. My method was ineffective. It seems like the deer was biting and shaking for several minutes, but it was likely only several seconds.

I, being smarter than a deer (though you may be questioning that claim by now), tricked it.

While I kept it busy tearing the tendons out of my right arm, I reached up with my left hand and pulled that rope loose. That was when I got my final lesson in deer behavior for the day.

Deer will strike at you with their front feet. They rear right up on their back feet and strike right about head and shoulder level, and their hooves are surprisingly sharp. I learned a long time ago that, when an animal -- like a horse --strikes at you with their hooves and you can't get away easily, the best thing to do is try to make a loud noise and make an aggressive move towards the animal. This will usually cause them to back down a bit so you can escape.

This was not a horse. This was a deer, so obviously, such trickery would not work. In the course of a millisecond, I devised a different strategy. I screamed like a woman and tried to turn and run.

The reason I had always been told NOT to try to turn and run from a horse that paws at you is that there is a good chance that it will hit you in the back of the head. Deer may not be so different from horses after all, besides being twice as strong and 3 times as evil, because the second I turned to run, it hit me right in the back of the head and knocked me down.

Now, when a deer paws at you and knocks you down, it does not immediately leave. I suspect it does not recognize that the danger has passed. What they do instead is paw your back and jump up and down on you while you are laying there crying like a little girl and covering your head.

I finally managed to crawl under the truck and the deer went away.

So now I know why when people go deer hunting they bring a rifle with a scope to sort of even the odds!!!

AWWW RATS!

2008-12-12T22:00:00.002-05:00

RATS! Interesting critters rats, yes they are

Have you noticed that rats always seem to get a bum rap?

And when someone wants to be real nasty they call the object of their animosity, "Ya dirty rat!" Or, "Ya lousy rat!" Or, "Ya stinkin' rat!" Or, "Ya filthy rat!" But you never hear anyone exclaim endearingly, "Oh darling, you sweet rat you!" So now I am sure you get the idea, rats fell from favor long ago.

Rats were the carriers of the bubonic plague that swept through Europe reducing the population, according to some estimates, by as much as half. This in itself might tend to give dear brother rat a bad name and an even worse inferiority complex.

Me now, I'm somewhat of an expert on rats having been to the rat wars and back, usually on the losing side I might add.

As a boy my friends and I hunted rats at the city dump. Armed with bb guns, slingshots and various missiles we waged war against those cat-size dump rats and usually the rats won.

We did hit on what we thought was a surefire tactic when someone suggested we pour water down the rat holes and drown them out. Try it sometime.

We commandeered every bucket and container available and started carrying water from the river. Our enthusiasm knew no bounds as we expectantly poured water down that rat hole.

Bucket after bucket of water went down that hole as we ran back and forth carrying more water.

There is an interesting phenomenon that occurs when a group of boys set themselves to a task such as drowning rats. The task is approached with a spirit of excitement and joy, but if a parent were to order a son to water the garden the task would be reluctantly approached and even then the grumbling and protestations that would ensue would be unparalleled.

As the water flowed down yon rat hole obviously the rats were enjoying our efforts for I was sure that I could hear rats laughing and jeering.

How much water did we pour down that rat hole you might ask?

How much is a zillion gallons?

We wore ourselves ragged carrying water and do you know what? Never a rat did we see.

Reminds one of some business ventures doesn't it.

You approach the task with zeal and you do everything right but does it come out right in the end?

You keep pouring money down the "sure fire, guaranteed to earn you $5.000 per week" rat hole with great expectations but always with the same results, and why not? Them there rats are sitting high and dry above the water line drinking rat wine and eating a rat feast at your efforts that's why not.

"If you always do what you have always done, you'll always get what you've always got and you'll always have what you've always had."

I don't know who said that but he was some clever dude he was.

THE "CHIRPING NOISE!"

2008-12-06T08:01:00.001-05:00

"Charles?"

"Unh."

"Charles?"

"Yah."

"CHARLES."

"Yes."

"CHARLES!"

"Yes Nanny, what?"

"Do you hear that noise?"

"What noise?"

"That noise!"

"What noise?"

"That chirping noise!"

(I am silent as I listen for "the chirping noise" that has been keeping my sweet, darling wife awake so that she could wake me from a sound sleep so that I could enjoy "the chirping noise" with her.)

She thinks that I have gone back to sleep.

I wish that I could go back to sleep but no such luck.

"Charles?"

"YES!"

"Do you hear the chirping noise?"

"Not yet."

"YOU HAVE TO HEAR THE CHIRPING NOISE!!"

(This from a woman who would not hear Genghis Kahn and his hordes if they were to race through the living room on horseback!")

And yes, you might notice a tad, just a tad mind you, of sarcasm there.

I lean toward the floor fan and listen intently. Eureka! I hear a faint noise that just might be described as a "chirping noise". In fact, to be honest with you it does sound just like a "chirping noise."

Yes, the "chirping noise" is coming from the fan.

I reach out and smack the offending fan.

"Why did you hit the fan Charles?"

"The "chirping noise" is coming from the fan."

"Will hitting it help?"

"At this point it can't hurt."

"Oh."

I get out of bed. I would like to not only hit the fan but I would like to smite it mightily. I pick up the fan and set it down a little more firmly than intended. The fan takes the hint and stops chirping.

I crawl back into bed and lay there listening into the darkness.

I am wide awake. I expect my dear, sweet Nancy to say something, ANYTHING. No such luck.

She is sleeping, snoring lightly. I lay there listening to her snoring. I have this sick thought, "I wonder if she would stop snoring if I gave her a good smack on the bottom. That thought causes me to laugh. Nancy wakes up. She asks, "What are you laughing about?"

"Just that confounded chirping noise, it's keeping me awake!"

She lays there listening into the darkness, straining to hear the phantom chirping noise. Yes, you are right; I am not a very nice person.

I lay there smiling in silence. I am still smiling as I close my eyes in peaceful sleep.

AND I CALLED HIM DARWIN

2008-11-28T16:15:00.003-05:00

Strange as it may seem I will began my story with a question, have you ever eaten a worm?

Worms to my way of thinking aren’t really all that appetizing. It is not so much the flavor as it is the texture. They, the worms, should never be chewed. They are gritty when chewed. They must be swallowed whole, like spaghetti.

Fish on the other hand have a somewhat less fastidious dietary preference than I do. Thus, being a fisherman, I was bent over and in the process of turning over a large flat rock in search of some nice, fat, juicy wigglers to use as fish bait when I first became aware of him.

Sounds as such are really not all that much to be concerned with unless it is a train whistle blasting in your ears moments before it removes your automobile from its path while you are still in the drivers seat, thus giving you good reason for singing, “nearer my God to thee,” or perhaps a raging bull elephant trumpeting his displeasure moments before he smashes you flatter than a crepe suzette.

But there I was catching worms when I first heard the creature.

At first I thought some poor soul was having an asthma attack. You know what I mean. A terrible gasping and wheezing and then a thrashing about in the weeds, then more gasping and wheezing. I had never heard such an agony of sound and the hair stood up on the back of my head as though it too was fearful of whatever was making that dreadful noise.

The sound grew louder as whatever was making it drew closer. With much Gasping, wheezing, and choking, and with a great deal of thrashing about as The weeds and small saplings along the riverbank crashed and clattered together in a frenzy of movement. It was quite obvious that whatever was making the insidious racket was in terrible and insufferable agony.

On one hand as you can imagine I was of a mind to seek the thing out to see if I could relieve its suffering, but then on the other hand I wanted to flee with all haste.

My quandary was finally solved when out of the weeds along the shoreline staggered the strangest creature I have ever seen.

I hesitate to tell you what I saw that day for fear you will think me mad but please, I beg you, before passing judgment on me hear me out and then, if that selfsame judgment be harsh at least I will have rid myself of the terrible burden I have carried these many long years.

Yes, there among the rushes at the shore was a creature few men have seen for there was a fish! Yes, that is right, a fish! But you must know that this was no ordinary fish but a fish like I had never seen before or since.

It was huge, five feet long at the very least.

He, (I was to eventually learn from obvious reasons that it was a male,) he floundered there in the shallow water at the shoreline unaware of my presence.

Gasping and wheezing, wheezing and gasping, he lay there on his side until he was able to drag himself a little further into the water using his fins as poor hands. It was slow work and I stared from my concealment, mesmerized by the creature’s behavior.

I expected to see him throw himself into the stream to swim away and was the more puzzled when he thrust his head beneath the surface. I could see his body shake in a paroxysm of convulsions and then he lifted his head again with a great sigh. Again he thrust his head under the water’s surface and I could see his chest expand, and again he raised his head. From where I stood concealed I could see relief in the creature’s eyes.

Surprised! You ask if I was surprised? In my long life I have never seen such a sight. It was obvious that what I was watching was one of those rare oddities of nature, a freak if you will. What I had discovered that day on the bank of the river was a fish all right but a fish that had never learned to swim! That’s right, there, mere feet from me was a swimless fish!

Finally, after refreshing himself the creature made his way back up onto the shore and disappeared in the weeds and the thick foliage that grew there.

This was such a strange sight that for several days and weeks I went back on a regular basis to spy on the creature from concealment. Though I was curious I didn’t want to frighten the beast. I must admit I watched it with no small amount of pity and a measure of compassion.

I have never been what one would consider a strong swimmer so you might say I understood his fear.

What agony of spirit the creature must have been suffering. Imagine if you will its lonely existence separated as he was from his own kind, unable to converse in his own tongue for it has always seemed obvious to me that fish have a somewhat piscatorial language.

Oh what a lonely existence. He lived on land and visited the river, that which should have been his natural habitat, briefly to gasp the life giving fluid into his lungs and then back to his exile. Oh what a tragedy was being played out before my eyes.

One day I followed him, most carefully so as not to make my presence known and thus I discovered his place of hiding, his refuge. He led me to a hollow tree, where he curled up to sleep amidst old spider webs and dry beetle remains and decaying wood dust.

Imagine what an existence this poor, poor fish lived there on the shores of the river. A lonely outcast from his own kind, grubbing for worms, splashing around in the shallows for crayfish and the occasional frog. At least that is what I thought until one day I saw him eat.

It was early morning and I was surprised to see him already on the stream but in a position I had never observed before. He was lying between two large logs that partially dammed the river at that point. There he lay with only his eyes and nose above the water’s surface and it was quite obvious that he was intent on his task whatever it might be.

As luck would have it the river was forced between those two logs and every fish that passed that way had to migrate between them.

Curious, I watched and then I was shocked for as I watched a large carp, perhaps eight or nine pounds started to swim that swift channel. There was a lunging movement, a splash and the carp was gone, engulfed. I was at first surprised but then I was filled with repugnance for I realized that, due to its handicap the creature had become that most odious of creatures, a cannibal, an aberration.

The carp only whet the creature’s appetite. I watched as a mallard hen and seven little ducklings swam down the stream to travel the same dark route.

I hope you will forgive me but now, where once I had felt pity, that emotion was replaced by a sense of repugnance and deepest revulsion.

As time passed I noted a marked scarcity of small game in the immediate area where at one time there had been an abundance of rabbits and raccoons and the like it was now rare that I saw anything where the beast hunted. It was obvious that he had a voracious appetite.

I also noticed that the beast no longer splashed and floundered in the river but now he made his way quite nicely, venturing into the forests and woodlands of our region.

Strange as it might seem his fins were no longer so much like fins as they were crude but efficient hands and legs. Yes, unbelievable you might very well say but what I am telling you is that the creature was evolving and evolving into a formidable hunter.

Several times I had noticed that Darwin, yes, that is what I called him; Darwin, was watching me and in that gaze was something calculating, almost sinister; something that sent chills up my spine.

Almost a year passed and one day as I made my way down a familiar forest trail that I had used many times before I stepped over a vine and something, I know not what caused me to look closer and it is well that I did for I was terrified by what I saw.

That vine, so natural and yet somehow out of place was part of a well laid trap, a trigger device designed to? Yes, designed to do what? I glanced around and there, almost over my head, delicately poised to fall was a heavy log, a log large enough to kill a deer, or, and with the thought I carefully backed away, a man.

Darwin, that poor fish that I had studied with pity, was a killer of a high order with a mind that could conceive a trap which could crush a man’s skull so that he could, and I tremble at the thought, be eaten.

Then one day my faithful old dog, my companion of many years, old Poop, dissappeared. At first I thought that old Poop had wandered off but days passed and he didn’t return.

It was about a week later that I was deep in the forest when I saw Darwin again. I was shocked, overwhelmed, and if you do not mind my saying so, I was terrified by the change that had taken place in the creature.

What I saw skulking through that shaded woodland was like nothing I had ever seen before. Stooped in form with heavy brows he moved with great stealth as a hunter moves. His eyes were constantly roving and no longer did he flounder his way clumsily along but now he moved with a lithe animal stealth. In one large rough hand he carried a heavy club but the thing that took my breath away was the skin that covered his shoulders. Now I knew what happened to my dog, my faithful old dog, Poop.

Time comes and is gone.

Events fill our days.

Life goes one.

There were rumors about a strange beast that roamed the woodland and streams. It was seen and as swiftly, gone. Hunters told of shooting at some shadowy thing but no one knew for sure.

Ten years passed and there were rumors also of hunters and fishermen vanishing without a trace.

Another ten years passed. I was no longer a young man but I still enjoyed a nice mess of bass occasionally and thus it was that I found myself back in that place where I had first seen him.

I had learned by living in close proximity to a creature that would kill me and eat me if he could. Yes I had learned to be very observant and thus it was that I saw him.

He was lying in the shallows in perhaps two feet of water.

He was old, very old.

On the shore nearby lay that stout club and a pile of skins that he had covered himself with. Obviously he had been in the process of bathing, really a very civilized thing to do when you consider it, and he had fallen.

Unable to rise again he had drowned.

Quietly, almost reverently, I approached the still form and with some effort I gathered him into my arms and carried him into the forest and there I buried him deep.

He is there still, my old friend, Darwin.

DREAM LIONS

2008-11-21T21:05:00.002-05:00

I was again in the jaws of the big cat only this time I couldn't escape.

I screamed and struggled, kicked and screamed some more as I sought release, but there was no escaping those terrible, tearing jaws.

The lion tore and ripped at my tortured body.

The telephone jolted me awake and it was with some relief that I woke from the dream that seemed so real.

I wiped my hand across my wet face and was somewhat surprised when I looked at my hand to see sweat and not blood. Shaking with fear and relief, knowing that it had been that same recurring dream, I was chilled with the message on the phone.

One of my assistants at the small zoo I directed exclaimed in a voice full of tension and concern, "Mr. Towne, come quick, the lions are loose!"

As I laid the telephone back into its cradle I was trembling violently.

If there was one emergency that I was not prepared to face this was it.

I don't mind telling you that at that moment I was frightened almost to the point of immobility but I was the only one with suitable experience to handle the big cats.

"What could cause me to react with such apprehension?" You might very well ask, so I will tell you.

Three weeks previously I had been mauled by an African lion so I believe I had every cause to feel like running away.

It was an act of will that enabled me to drive the short distance from my home to the zoo and I must say I was prepared for the worst.

When I stepped from my car I was carrying a double barreled, ten gauge shotgun at the ready. The gun was loaded with a solid slug in the left barrel and a load of double ought buckshot in the right. This is a dose of medicine that will stop almost any thin skinned animal at close quarters.

As I stood there alongside my car I half expected to hear screams and see people running in fear but all was quiet.

As I hurried toward the office my fear and apprehension was slowly replaced by anger as the thought came uninvited, "What if this was someone's sick idea of a practical joke?"

As I approached my office, Phil, the man who had called me came running to me with an expression of fear on his face. Immediately I knew this was no joke.

Hesitantly he explained that he had shut the African lions in their outside enclosure and then he had entered the inside cages to clean them.

When finished cleaning he had opened the door separating the big cats from their indoor cages and then he had left the building not realizing that the lock on the door separating the lions from the main portion of the building had not latched.

Now we had two full grown African lions prowling the corridor that ran the full length of the building that housed an assortment of leopards, tigers and other animals.

Tentatively I unlocked the door and opened it a crack and found myself eyeball to eyeball with the large male lion.

As our eyes met he snarled and slapped at the door with a huge paw.

I slammed that door a lot faster than it takes to tell about it.

We tried to coax the lions to their outside cages with some nice fresh horsemeat but they weren't having any of it, they liked their new quarters.

My problems could be compounded swiftly for opening into that corridor were other cages, one of which contained a very friendly chimpanzee.

I could just see Junior the chimp reaching through the bars of his cage to grab one of those lions by the tail as he did with my lion cub. The difference was that the cub would play whereas the adult lions would rip his arm off.

The other problem was that the zoo was old, antiquated.

The building had been built many years before with no thought about such a thing happening as now presented itself.

(The reluctance of the city fathers to spend funds on a refurbishing program for the zoo eventually led to my resignation.)

At the rear of the building, where that corridor that gave us access to all of the cages and where now roamed those two lions were a number of windows.

Those windows were all that separated the cats from the total freedom of the park and I could just envision two African lions prowling down main street, U.S.A.

Years before when the building had been built no bars had been put over those windows and the glass was nothing more than single strength glass.

If one of the lions were to lean against one of the windows it would likely break and my worst nightmare would be realized.

The city had hired an architectural firm to do a feasibility study and the firm came up with a beautiful plan which called for the relocation of the zoo to another location in the park.

The people paid ten thousand dollars for the plans and voted to build the new zoo but small city politics won out over common sense and the board of commissioners decided to continue to use the old facility which was rapidly falling into a state of disrepair.

My problem was now, "how am I going to get those lions back into their cages?"

Then I had a ridiculous idea. I didn't know if it would work but I had to do something.

Cats might be inquisitive but all animals fear the strange, the unexpected, so why not chase the lions back into their cages with the insect fogger?

Like I said, the idea was ridiculous but faint heart never won fair lady or herded a pair of lions!

Working swiftly we plugged the exhaust vents to the building and then I had it to do.

I took that insect fogger in hand, flipped the switch and waited for it to heat up. After a few moments I pressed the trigger and the machine started to roar and spew forth a thick white cloud of insecticide.

I just hoped it would work as well on lions as it did on flies and mosquitoes.

Like I said, I had it to do so I turned the fogger on and the machine roared as that cloud billowed out I stepped to one of the windows and with aluminum end of the fogger I smashed the glass and thrust the nozzle through the opening into the room.

I have already alluded to the fact that it was with some reluctance that I approached the task. My reluctance was due to the fact that three weeks previously I had been mauled by a lion while transporting the animal from Chicago, Illinois to the zoo in Iowa that I had been directing for the previous two years. and it was not something I would like to repeat any time soon.

The lions had fled from the loud noise and thick fog of the insect fogger to the outer cages but I knew they could discover the fact that the fog was just that and nothing more and re-enter the building at any moment.

I opened the door and stepped into the corridor, closing the door securely behind me.

The fogger was still pouring forth its white cloud and roaring like a banshee in the close quarters.

Moving as quietly as possible but with all speed I moved to the door of the lion's cage and slammed it shut. Only then did I give a sigh of relief.

I am sure this was the only time in history that two African lions were herded by someone wielding a mosquito fogger.

There was one beneficial side affect of my experience for never again did I have a nightmare where I was being mauled by a dream lion.

THE SAGA OF THE "ONE TON BOULDER"

2008-11-15T09:35:00.001-05:00

"Hey you, get outta here before we give you a good thumpin'"

Well, seeing as it wasn't a "good thumpin'" I was lookin' for I got outta there.

I was seven years old that year and I had been wading in the river above the highway bridge turning over rocks collecting soft shelled crabs to sell to fishermen when I found myself at the mouth of the Waubonsee creek where it empties into the river.

Much to my delight I discovered the redhorse suckers were spawning. Man, those fish were so thick they were stumbling over each other!

It was about the time I discovered the spawning redhorse that the two big kids, I bet they were all of twelve or thirteen, discovered me.

They were gigging redhorse and obviously had laid claim to the creek as their own fishing grounds.

Not ready to leave well enough alone I soon found myself back near the Adams street bridge where it crosses the creek.

Standing on the bridge I had a grand view of the creek and sure enough there they were, redhorse, big ones and little ones and medium sized ones, all swimming lazily in the gentle current of the creek.

And then I saw him. The grand daddy of all redhorse. He was huge! At least three feet long and laying there in about a foot of water right under the edge of the bridge thumbing his nose at me.

"Wow, if I could drop a big boulder off the bridge on him I would get him for sure!"

It would take a big boulder to get a big fish like that. The boulder would have to weigh about a ton!

So I set out to find a one ton boulder that I could drop off the bridge on top of that four foot long fish.

It is interesting but probably due to rock molecules a one ton boulder is not nearly as big as you might think.

The first one ton boulder I found was slightly taller than my head. I pushed and tugged and soon decided I should find a one ton boulder a tad smaller.

After checking on several other boulders I found one that I could move.

On the way to the bridge I took my one ton boulder big game hunting. I rolled it over a big green catterpiller, a grasshopper that was already dead and an anthill.

Then I took my one ton boulder on a meandering route through a field trying to roll it over a leopard frog but that leopard frog hopped a lot faster than I could roll my one ton boulder.

It was while chasing the leopard frog that I happened to look up and there was Mrs. Schultz, parked on the street watching me.

When I began looking for the frog again I couldn't find him.

When I looked to see what Mrs. Schultz was doing she was shaking her head as she drove away. Adults are sort of peculiar, don't you think?

About that time I remembered that big grand daddy redhorse and resumed rolling my one ton rock to the bridge and its date with destiny.

I decided the boulder would make a bigger splash if it fell from the bridge's railing so with much grunting and grumbling I rolled my missile up the sloping railing until it was poised over that monster, five foot long fish.

It was about the time I was ready to shove that boulder off the railing that I heard voices.

Jumping down from the railing I hid and watched as the two big kids came towards the bridge.

Then it was that realization struck. Those guys were going to see my fish!

Sure enough, they saw my fish.

They had promised to give me a thumpin' but I didn't care anymore, they weren't going to get my fish.

They were right under me pointing at my gigantic fish when I got an idea. Quietly I climbed back up onto the bridges railing.

The bullies were right under me ready to spear my humungous, six foot long fish.

Without another thought I shoved my one ton boulder off the railing.

The boulder sort of hung there in mid air for a moment, wondering what was happening I suppose, and then it must have realized that not all was well. With a silent, boulderish scream the water rushed up to meet it and I, intently hoping that the rock would squash the two big guys, slipped, lost my balance and followed the boulder.

Splash went the spear.

My boulder went, SPLASH!

Then I went, SPLASH!

One thing I learned from this was that a seven year old boy makes a much bigger splash than a one ton boulder.

Another thing I learned was that when those guys told me they were going to give me a thumpin' they weren't lyin', they gave me a thumpin'.

But it all turned out o.k. cause all they speared was a piddlin' little redhorse about a foot long.

JUST ANOTHER HOUSE CALL

2008-11-12T07:29:00.000-05:00

The old doctor woke with a start.

He had not had one of the dreams for some time. In fact he couldn’t remember the last one but then that didn’t really mean much, there were a lot of things he was forgetting these days.

He did not want to get out of bed. The bed was warm and he knew that the fire had died. Perhaps there were still a few hot coals from which he could coax a fire.

Reluctantly he rolled over and forced himself into a sitting position, pulling the blankets around his frail shoulders as he did so.

He sat there hunched, shivering in the cold,

“Cold, damnably cold!” he said aloud, his voice surprising him.

It didn’t sound like his voice but he knew it was his.

“Doddering old fool, now you have began to talk to yourself! Couldn’t you get someone else to do it, someone younger? This he thought for he didn’t dare say the words aloud even though he and God had carried on some pretty spirited conversations in the past.

One of those was when his wife had died several years before. Oh yes he had told the Almighty what he thought about that one. “I need her! Bring her back, damn it. It isn’t fair. We planned to grow old together.” Yes, he and God had carried out some really frustrating conversations over that one. Frustrating because they were usually one sided.

But, he did get answers. They weren’t always answers that he wanted but they did bring him peace. Once in a dream he saw his wife. That is not to say that he didn’t see her at other times, in other dreams, only that dream was different.

That was the dream that he clung to like a mental talisman for in that dream God showed him what he had to look forward to. In that dream his wife did not come to him. He was taken to her and he was allowed to see just enough.

In his dream he had seen his wife as she had been when they first met. She was a vibrant, youthful woman of great beauty, truly one of the glories of creation.
In that dream, if it was a dream, she had looked at him and had held her hands out to him as though inviting him to join her.

“Oh, I wish I could my darling, but this is a dream and when I awake you will be gone. Oh my dearest, I would much rather be with you.”

As the dream faded she had smiled at him and the smile excited him as nothing had in a long time. That smile was special because it was the way that she had smiled whenever she had a beautiful surprise, like when she told him that she was pregnant that first time. Or when she told him that he had a son! That smile always told him that something wonderful was going to happen.

After that dream he knew that whatever he had to endure in this life was small price to pay for what awaited him because he knew that she would be there, waiting for him.

“Oh, this is not good.” He exclaimed when he saw that the fire would have to be rekindled from scratch. “Couldn’t you kindle just a small fire for me! I have to walk an awful long distance and it is a task that you have called me to do.” Grumbling and grousing this way he began kindling the fire. Thus he began to prepare for the journey ahead.

It seems that within some people there is a spark that if nurtured and fed becomes a flower of flame, inspiring and warming the hearts of all humankind. The boy, now twelve years old, was one of those special, preordained ones. It almost seemed as though, while yet in his mother’s womb, he had been kissed by an angel.

He had fallen sick with a fever the week before, and now his parents were fearful that this thing that threatened to consume their son would indeed take his life. The boy’s father, concerned for his son’s life had ridden to summon the local doctor. He had ridden through the blizzard, fighting gale force winds the entire way to the closest town some dozen miles distant to no avail. He had arrived in the town to discover that the only doctor had been called to another homestead some twenty miles farther away to attend to a difficult birthing. Not only that, but due to the bad weather he was not expected back for at least another day. Thus it was that the boy’s father returned, alone and forlorn, with little hope.

But mysterious forces were already at work.

Now if the players were only willing. It always, invariably comes down to that, the players must be willing.

The old doctor some thirty miles away had dreamed of the boy, and In that dream was revealed the lad’s destiny. He was told of the boy’s illness, but more than that he was shown that the knowledge to heal the lad was his and his alone.

As he began preparing for what was ahead he was well aware that it would be a long and difficult journey. He was also aware of the danger, but that did not matter, for you see, he was accustomed to obeying, to following the author of his dreams.

The previous summer the old doctor had given his horse to a neighbor in great need. It seemed that that was the way of it, always someone in greater need then he. As a result of this generosity he possessed little more than the clothes on his back but then, he needed little more.

Thus it was that he began walking those thirty miles to where the boy lay dying.

The cold was like a living thing when the old man set out on that overcast winter day. But he was driven with a dogged determination, and the knowledge that he alone could help the boy.

The hours passed slowly. Although he was dressed warmly the cold gnawed and chewed with the persistence of a dog worrying a bone.

Within two hours of leaving his fireside it had began to snow.

The snow fell in hard flurries, obliterating the trail.

“Look, I am out here because you have told me to go but now I am confused. I have lost the trail so you are going to have to lead me.”

From that point on the old man did only one thing, he continually placed one foot in front of the other knowing that his God would guide him through the storm.
After several hours of slogging through the wet snow he knew that his toes were frostbitten but he continued on, for the boy was destined for greatness and the old man knew that he was an instrument in God’s hands.

It took the old doctor nearly two days to walk those thirty, cold, miserable miles, tramping through knee deep snow most of the way.

He was in his eighties and agility as well as youth had abandoned him long before therefore the task was almost beyond him.

Three times his path had forced him to cross shallow, ice glutted streams, once soaking himself to the waist in the near freezing water.

He continued on, forcing himself to put one foot woodenly in front of the other. Sometimes he sang softly to himself, always keeping the bag dry. Carefully wrapped within the bag were the healing potions needed to cure the boy, to enable him to fulfill his destiny.

Finally, miraculously, there in front of him was the place where the boy lay dying. A golden glow from a coal oil lamp lit up the windows of the little cabin. It would be warm in there. He anticipated that, the warmth. It seemed that he had been cold for an awfully long time.

He was chilled to the bone, numb with the cold. He also anticipated the pain for he knew that he would at the very least lose some of his toes to the frostbite, but first he must tend to the boy.

Staggering as he stepped up onto the porch, he fell to his knees due to the fact that he no longer had feeling in his feet. Rising, he knocked on the door. Nothing. He knocked again, harder than before.

There were heavy footsteps on the other side of the door and it was pulled open.

Golden Light washed over the old doctor from the lamp inside the room. He could see a fire burning brightly in the fireplace on the far wall. It looked so inviting.

The boy’s father stared at the slight, snow covered figure in front of him. Then the expression of surprise on his face at having a visitor call so late at night changed to one of anger.

“Get away from here, damn you, get away I say!” He reached to the wall inside the room and pulled forth a shotgun, waving it threateningly.
The old doctor was so cold. He spoke but he was shivering uncontrollably and the boy’s father did not understand his words.

“What’s wrong with you, are you drunk? Go on with you, get away from here!” He shouted angrily, gesturing with the shotgun as he did so.

Summoning strength from an inner reserve the old man spoke calmly and slowly, trying to make the boy’s father understand that he was there to help. He had to make the man understand. Thus it was that he opened the bag that he carried and reached inside to remove some of the herbs. If the boy’s father saw the medicines certainly he would then understand.

Watching closely, the boy’s father was alarmed when he saw what he perceived as the beginning of a threatening move on the part of the stranger. Expecting the hand to come forth from the bag grasping some sort of weapon he deliberately pointed the shotgun and pulled the trigger.

The old man was surprised, but really, why should he be?

He lay in the deep snow on his back looking up at the man who had shot him. He felt no pain and no longer did he feel the terrible cold, only a great sadness.

“I am sorry you misunderstood, my friend. The Great Spirit sent me to heal your son. It is too bad.” With that he closed his eyes, and died.

As his spirit passed he was surrounded by a bright light.

It was so peaceful, he had never felt such peace, and so very beautiful!

And then he saw her.

She was standing with her arms outstretched toward him, welcoming him. That glorious smile was upon her face.

As he began running toward her he felt like a young man again, no, he WAS a young man again!

As they joined and held each other they were each joyfully laughing. Suddenly, she stopped laughing, though that wonderful ‘surprise’ smile was yet upon her face.

She was looking at something behind him. Puzzled, he turned. It had been many years since the white man's disease known as smallpox had taken their son and daughter. Oh how painful that had been. But now it was made right for walking toward them were the two of them, their son and their daughter. They were a family again, and the sound of their laughter was the most beautiful music he had ever heard.

“What is it Caleb?” The boy’s mother called anxiously from the back of the house. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing’s wrong now honey. It was an Indian, nothing but a damned thieving Indian. But I reckon his thieving days are over!”

“Oh Caleb, I am so glad you are here to protect us. What would have happened if you had been gone?” She put her arms around her husband and she felt safe.

And what of the boy? What good could he have done? For you see that was his destiny, to be a leader, to help people, all people.

Within hours of that fateful, fatal shotgun blast that knelled the old medicine man’s passing the boy also died. As surely as if you were to snuff out two candles, the flames of two great men guttered and died.

Because of ignorance they died.

THE SHACK

2008-11-08T18:58:00.002-05:00

"Be it ever so humble there's no shack like home."

According to Webster a shack is: "A small, crude building. A shanty."

Also according to Mr. Webster: "A shanty: A roughly built, often ramshackle structure."

I like that word, ramshackle. I think that if by some strange chance I should ever have another son I will call him Ramshackle.

I can hear it now, his mother calls him to dinner, "O.K. ramshackle, come in and wash up, its time to eat."

I am sorry but I must refer to Webster again for his definition of "ramshackle": "Apt to fall apart due to shoddy construction or upkeep.

Rickety is also a good word to use when it comes to describing a good shack. "Rickety: liable to break or fall apart."

When I was a boy I was raised in a shack that epitomized all of the best that the word means. "Be it ever so humble…" Yah, our shack was humble let me tell you.

The front of the house was constructed of old, used, creosote soaked railroad ties laid one on top of the other in the manner of a log cabin.

The rest of our shack was thrown together in a haphazard manner of found lumber, much of it old orange crates, lollipop sticks and discarded remnants of balsa wood model airplane kits.

Tar paper held the shack together as did a lot of laughter mixed with tears and prayer.

Mice detected our shack very early and desiring to improve their lot they proceeded to chew and gnaw holes in the walls and the floor in order to gain access.

As the mouse holes were discovered a tin can was opened up and flattened and the resulting rectangle of tin was nailed over aforementioned hole.

When the mouse discovered that he had been outwitted by the humans he took very precise measurements, moved over a tad and chewed a fresh hole precisely at the edge of the tin can patch. Upon discovery the new hole was covered with yet another flattened tin can until, eventually, the floor was covered with old flattened tin cans.

Eventually the mice gave up on chewing holes in the floor and started scurrying through the space under the door.

My father, being the fine craftsman that he was, had wisely left about a one inch space under the door to allow for fresh air in the summer time and for the cold to escape in the winter so the mice found this quite convenient to their purpose.

The mice didn't like our shack in the winter time though, too cold.

A strange mouse would sense a human habitation and rush in from the winter cold expecting a wave of warmth to wash over him but he would look around and come to a screeching halt.

The house was so cold the walls were covered with frost. The mouse would glance at us huddled three deep and shivering around the old wood burning stove.

Finally, in desperation, its little teeth chattering from the chill, the mouse fled back into the warmth of the winter blizzard.

Those were the days before insulated windows and it was nothing to see a half inch of frost rime accumulate on the inside of the windows.

So now you are beginning to get an idea what a real shack is.

I can remember snow blowing through the chinks in the walls until papa got the idea of insulating our shack.

"Wow! We are going to have real insulation!"

"What's insulation papa?"

The following week papa came home with several bundles of used newspaper and I was to learn that what with all of the wonderful uses of old newspapers, insulation it is not.

Old newspapers have the insulating quality of saran wrap.

With the entire family working hard, using flour and watr paste, we soon had the walls covered.

Herein reposes the challenge. To arrange the newspaper pages on the walls so items of interest were easy to read.

Nobody cared for the sports page so that was turned in against the wall.

The comics, or what were then called the, "funny pages", were everybody's favorite so these were carefully arranged to render convenience of readability.

Captain Marvel, Terry and the pirates, Mutt and Jeff, as well as The KatzanJammer kids and of coarse there was Dick Tracy and Alley Oop, yep, they were all over our walls and they actually did work real well for teaching kids how to read.

There were those times that mama would hear one of us kids laughing and giggling in the other room and she would shout, "O.K., what are you kids up to now?" And one of us would call back, "Nothing mama, just reading the wall."

Now that was a real shack!

More, TRAIL TALK

2008-11-02T08:43:00.002-05:00

As a boy growing up on the Fox River in Illinois my father taught me that all one needed to survive in the wild existed in plenty if one knew where to look.

There were mulberries, strawberries and raspberries, walnuts and butternuts. Wild asparagus was Growing there as was watercress, gooseberries and wild grapes.

Pheasant, duck and goose thrived aplenty as did rabbits and squirrels, turtles and of coarse frogs for that delicacy, frog legs.

Fish? I should say there were fish. Catfish, bass, bluegills and bullheads, as well as pike, carp and redhorse for fish patties. Oh yes, and we ate crawdad tails, it takes a lot of crawdad tails to make a meal but it was worth the labor because they were just like little fresh water lobsters.

And oh yes, there was wild honey for the taking.

One of the things we always enjoyed in the spring of the year were the morels, the most delicious mushroom in all the world.

The morel is, of all mushrooms, the easiest to identify due to its sponge like appearance.

Mama would fry up a big batch of morel mushrooms for supper along with some fried smallmouth bass crisped to a golden brown with a salad of wild greens spiced with watercress. That would be followed by a big wedge of whatever pie was in season, perhaps rhubarb with a honey glazed crust.

Now I want you to know, that was a meal to remember.

I told you all of that so I could tell you about the time I was gathering morels on one of the many small islands near our island home on the Fox River.

I was walking along through tall grass when I stepped over a log and landed right smack dab on a big old snake.

For a moment there I couldn't breathe but that didn't keep me from moving plenty fast. I should say I jumped backwards to the top of that log a lot faster than it takes to tell about it.

Snakes have never bothered me but coming on that big fellow the way I did and considering his size and all I must admit to some surprise and perhaps just a tad of fright 'cause that snake was heart stopping big.

After a few minutes when my breathing and my heart settled down I realized that the snake was a harmless bull snake but it was big, even for a bull snake and I guessed it to be all of ten feet long at the time.

Two things surprised me about that snake. One was that bull snakes were rarely seen on the islands preferring the high lands on the mainland and the other thing was that it hadn't moved? Even with my rudely stepping on it the way I had the snake just lay there, not any movement other than a nervous little twitching of the tip of it's tail.

And then I realized that the snake was dead.

But what had killed it?

What had happened in that quiet spot on that little island?

I could see that the snake had bled from several slight wounds, none serious enough to kill such a formidable adversary but then I looked closer at its head and there I saw the cause of its death.

Something had bitten through the snakes head, probably piercing the brain.

I carefully glanced over the battle ground. That a battle had taken place was evident by the crushed grass and there, in a small spot of black earth, just as sure as if the animal had signed its name was a single, small footprint. It was then that I noticed something else, a pungent musky odor, unmistakable to anyone who has smelled it once, mink!

From what I could see the mink had approached the log from the small end. It had leaped to the log and loped its length as it had probably done many times in the past for mink are creatures of habit, routinely retracing their tracks every few days.

That day a surprise awaited the mink for when it leaped off the log it probably landed on top of that old bull snake just as I had, surprising the both of them.

Reading the sign it was obvious the snake had thrown three coils of its powerful body around the mink but the mink, desperate, fighting for its life, had lunged, carrying the two of them rolling across a large anthill which had been crushed in the struggle.

Hundreds of carpenter ants were frantically working to repair the damage but there, still quite obvious and easy to read were the three grooves made by the snake's body.

This was an unequal struggle, sure to end in the mink serving as a meal except for one thing, the mink was a scrapper and not about to say quit.

Lunging, fighting for its life, the mink had obviously, with waning strength, bitten the snake's head, piercing the reptile's brain.

Dead snake, live mink, such is the way of nature.

I laid the snake alongside the log and made a mark where its tail and its head were so that I could return and have an accurate measurement as to the snake's size.
When I returned the next day the snake was gone, probably dragged off by a scavenging possum but I was surprised when I measured the distance between those two marks on the log. Eight feet nine inches, more than twice as long as I was tall at eleven years of age.

The crushed anthill was entirely repaired, all that was left were my memories, I have them still.

TRAIL TALK

2008-10-27T11:22:00.000-04:00

On this particular day I am late getting started. As the new day dawns, animals, large and small, usually seek lay ups where they can rest in anticipation of their evening feed.

I tell myself that it is unlikely that I will see much but you never know, and after all, I need the walk.

As I enter the state forest on a little used jeep trail two whitetail does cross the road and effortlessly hop over a four and a half foot tall woven wire fence.

Oh to be able to move like that, almost floating, as if giving the lie to that whole gravity thing.

A movement at my left periphery causes me to glance in that direction. There, approaching the does is an eight point buck, all of his attention on the lovely ladies.

The girls are having none of it.

Coquettes, teases, they waggle their tails at him as if to say, "in your dreams big boy!" As they move away. The buck follows the does into thick cover, giving new meaning to the old saying, "hope springs eternal."

As I continue my walk down the narrow track three hen turkeys strut across the road not far from me prospecting for any tasty tit bit that might present itself. They will eat almost anything, insects, seeds, acorns, the occasional snake, they hunt and peck.

A mob of toadlings hop in the road. They are intent on going everywhere. Some go this way, some that, while some just sit. Chaos reigns.

Perhaps they are like humans in this lack of direction or perhaps humans are like toads?

A movement at my feet and I stop to watch a cobalt blue wasp waggle her way down a hole she has excavated for the purpose. She was carrying something, an insect or some hapless spider.

What is the spider thinking?

That it is alive is sure for it is to serve as fodder for the wasp's voracious larva after they hatch. Does the spider know? Does it feel?

I lift my eyes and am surprised to see a bear. Lush black coat glistening, he, for it is obviously a male, about two hundred and fifty pounds, stands sideways, watching me, one front leg lifted, ready to flee or charge in an instant.

Clever creatures bears, processing all of that information.

At the distance it is difficult to see his brown, red flecked eyes but I know what is there, an incredible intelligence, calculating, interpreting, all as his senses drink in sight, smell, sound.

One moment he is there and then he is a memory.

I stand there in the trail awash in a hormonal stew of endorphins. I am afire with an intense sense of life and joy.

I walk.

I praise God.

Then I see her, or perhaps I should say I sense her. A gray fox. Her tracks are there in the trail. Delicate, almost catlike, she strolls along intent only on moving to… where? How do I know she is a she and not a he? Well, she squats to pee. Not always a sure sign but I am sure that this is a vixen.

Further along I come to a demure, ladylike assortment of fox scat. Some tiny grayish feathers in the blood black scat indicate that just perhaps she has dined on a quail. Lucky fox, unlucky quail.

As I approach the blacktop road that will lead me home I hear the cluck of turkeys. I slow my approach. There in the road are six hen turkeys. They see me but are not alarmed. They strut like sweet little dinosaurs, velociraptors, they move ahead of me, always maintaining that safe distance. Smart birds.

Imagine turkeys being five or six feet tall, the darned things would eat you!

Turkeys behind me I come across another mob of baby toads. My goodness they are all over the road. As before there is no direction. Some sit immobile in the road like little fat toad Buddha's. They sit among the remnants and grease spots of other little toads that have gone wherever it is that deceased toads go.

I try to shoo the toads off the road but they defy my efforts and shout little toad obscenities at me. Herding toads is just like directing some people, fruitless and a waste of time and effort

A car is coming.

I stop shooing toads and try to assume a somewhat normal, if not dignified posture so that I will not be mistaken for a stooped over, arm waving lunatic cavorting and dancing in the road.

Too late, I was seen before I heard the car.

As the car moves slowly past the driver hurriedly rolls his window up and stares at me with an expression mixed with curiosity, concern and fear.

Split, splat, splut, cute little toads are transformed into cute little bufotenine laced grease spots under the tires of the automobile.

Idiot toads be darned!

A six inch long juvenile pygmy rattlesnake has met the same end as the stupid toads. This section of blacktop is not conducive to long life for the local wildlife.

A caravan of fire ants excavate the snake's body, mining it for any and all nutrients.

I use a twig to lift the deceased snake to the side of the road and lay it on the trail of ants. Four or five ants sting me for my troubles and as their way of saying thanks.

I will check back tomorrow and there will be nothing left but the little snaky skeleton.

Hey, What a day!

This then is trail talk.

YIKES!!!

2008-10-23T21:59:00.002-04:00

Dave, a buddy of mine and I had been fishing on one of the many lakes in central Florida.
The fishing was incredible. We had been using big shiners and it seemed that those largemouth bass were almost eager to be caught.
We had caught several fish in the eight pound category, releasing them no worse for the wear.
It seems that each time we cast one of those big shiners toward shore and allowed that shiner to run into the lily pads there was a strike.
At days end we motored back to the dock and tied up with the intent of returning early the following day.
The bait well still contained a good number of big shiners and we were hoping to have a repeat performance of that days fishing.
We were back on the lake the next morning and were ready to start fishing when Dave lifted the lid on the bait well.
That is when I learned that Dave didn't really like snakes.
"SNAKE, SNAKE, SNAKE!!!" He shouted, just as a big fat "cottonmouth water moccasin" about four feet long came boiling out of that bait well.
Now I can't prove this but what with Dave's contortions and his screaming and shouting "SNAKE!" like he was doing that snake was probably more scared than Dave.
That snake was all over the bottom of the boat.
More to keep out of Dave's way than the snake's I took up a precarious position of relative safety on top of the fifty horsepower Evinrude and it was with some difficulty and with the help of a convenient oar that I was finally able to convince Dave that two of us could not possibly stand on the engine at the same time so it was probably understandable that he endeavored to knock me into the lake.
Finally, after dodging Dave's # 11 shoes for awhile the poor snake slithered over the side of the boat and swam away muttering little snaky curses over his shoulder. (I bet you didn't know that snakes got shoulders.)
We were never able to figure how that snake got into that bait well. Probably a mad practical joker put it there.
Dave never could tell the difference between a cottonmouth water moccasin and a brown water snake.
That practical joke backfired though 'cause when the mad practical joker dumped that snake into the bait well he didn't figure the snake would eat all of the shiners so our fishing was over but I can still see Dave, that beautiful expression of horror on his face when he lifted the lid to the bait well and that snake almost ended up in his lap.

Another, SURPRISE OF THE BEAR KIND

2008-10-19T11:07:00.002-04:00

Don, a fire spotter for the U.S. Forest service was hiking down a little used trail in an area seldom visited by man in one of those vast wilderness areas of Montana.

As he came around a bend in the trail he spotted a young black bear moving in his direction on the same trail.

The bear, a two year old otherwise known as a long yearling was completely unaware of Don's presence as the man stood in the trail with his hands on his hips wondering what the bear would do when it discovered that it was not alone.

Huckleberry season was at its height and the bear was obviously sated with the delicious fruit and was probably headed for another berry patch.

Yard by yard the distance shortened between bear and man.

Don was now almost overwhelmed with curiosity wondering just how close his fellow traveler would come before it learned of his presence.

Mr. Bear just kept on picking them up and putting them down, drawing closer by the minute with never a care in the world.

Altogether too soon less than ten feet separated them and blackie still had not looked up.

"Up 'til then I hadn't worried much," Don later exclaimed, "At a distance that bear just didn't look all that big, certainly not big enough to do me any harm but from about ten feet on I began to worry a little.

At that distance he seemed to grow some!

At a distance of three feet I decided I better do something or that bear was going to walk between my legs and riding a bear was not something that I wanted to experience right then.

I looked down and yelled, 'Where the hell do you think your going?'

It is hard to conceive of a situation where a bear could be more completely surprised."

As Don told this tale he laughed so hard at the memory that tears ran down his cheeks.

"You know, that bear must have fair been scared out of his wits. One moment he was heading my way and the next he was headed in the other direction. His feet were a blur as he seemed to hang there in mid air trying to get some traction and when his feet did finally hit the ground he let out a loud 'Oooff' that could have been heard for a mile.

That bear stuck to the trail for half a mile, it was by far the best footing for fast and his tracks were a good ten feet apart the full distance but the funniest thing was that while that bear was still in mid air, swapping ends like he had been jerked wrong side out, the scare was just too much for him.

At a distance of about thirty inches he came uncorked and let loose about a gallon of huckleberries.

Why shucks, I was plastered blue from my waist to my ankles with used huckleberries!"

LEOPARD ATTACK

2008-10-17T11:37:00.003-04:00

Years pass, memories fade, old news clippings turn yellow and hair either turns white or falls out, such is life.

It has been many years ago but it is permanently etched into my memory.

I was preparing to transport an African spotted leopard to another location when quite suddenly I found myself flat on my back with an angry leopard on top of me.
Leopards are efficient killers.

They bite their victim's neck and skull and at the same time those powerful hind legs are working like pistons, raking deadly hooked claws into vitals in an endeavor to eviscerate their prey.

Only a blink in time, a single moment, a tick of the metronome of my mind, and I shouted, "Kill him!"

My partner blew the leopard off me with a ten gauge, double barreled shotgun.

Sounds sort of dull doesn't it?

That was a captive leopard. He was not accustomed to the kill.

A wild leopard is quite another thing.

For his size the leopard has been long considered one of the world's deadliest predators. Silent, stealthy to the extreme, powerful, efficient, he is quite capable of killing a man twice his weight and carrying his victim into the top of a thorny acassia tree and lodging it there in a fork to ripen in the hot African sun and then, over the following few days, visiting the site until the remains are rendered down to scattered bones and a few piles of blood blackened piles of scat in the long grass.

Gives new meaning to the term, "going to waste." Doesn't it?

This then is the African spotted leopard.

Koyei Leselies is a friend and a brother. A chief of the Maasai people and head ranger of the Maasai Mara game preserve in Kenya, Koyei earned his kudos when as a young man in traditional fashion he went forth and killed an African lion that had been predating the tribe's cattle.

Armed with nothing but their traditional weapons, spear, short sword and a cowhide shield, they pursued Simba Kali, The savage lion.

It is ingrained into the Maasai as youngsters that it is better to die than to run away. So they faced the big cat and killed him and sang their victory songs.

Koyei was mauled but carries the scars proudly. His friend was gutted and died when they were carrying him back to their village.

I just received the following e-mail from Koyei.

Greetings my friend Charles,
Two weeks ago a leopard attack our sheep at night. When my brother and I tried to kill him we are both injured. We are in need of financial help to get treatment at hospital. Can you help us?
Joseph Koyei
P.O. box 590
Kiserian, Kenya

I immediately sent an e-mail back to him concerning the extent of his wounds and whether or not they had killed the leopard.

(You must understand that the Maasai are masters of the understatement which might be obvious by his answer.)

Dear friend Charles,
I have slight fractures and some claws went to inside my head and hands and they suspect I have some internal bleeding that needs medical care.
Yes sir, we killed the leopard. We are doing.
Your friend, Joseph Koyei

If you are interested in helping Koyei and his brother you can send an email to me at charlestowne111@juno.com
Even the smallest donation will be appreciated.
God bless you and yours,
Chaz

THE HUNTER

2008-10-13T22:49:00.001-04:00

Soft fluffy snow mantled the ground like a comforter 'prized of innumerable downy feathers to a depth of two inches. Thick, dark clouds scudded across the sky, at times obscuring the moon and dipping the woodscape into an inkwell of abysmal darkness.

My father had not told me where we were going but I follow this silent man expectantly with a sense of wonder.

We move silently.

Some snow, in fact most snow, makes for noisy walking. Sometimes it crunches under foot, other times it squeaks, but it is seldom silent. That night one of those rare silences pervaded all.

Later, as the temperature dropped there would form on top of the snow a thin crust of ice, then, no more stillness, each step would herald our passing.

All I can see is my father's dark sillouette, black against the blacker forest around us.

Suddenly he stops and lifts his right hand, in that almost universal signal for, "stop!"

I stop.

He motions to me with his hand again, open hand held extended, palm down, parallel with the ground. He raises the hand, lowers it and repeats the gesture indicating that he wants me to hunker down where I am, to become still with the night.

I hunker down and become still.

Silently he moves away.

I peer into the darkness and I watch through slitted eyes as he approaches a small clump of scrub oak.

He stops and is still.

He drops to the ground on hands and knees.

If I didn't know what I was seeing he could have passed for some silent predator, which for the moment he had become.

All was still.

The air was electric with shimmering tension so obvious it could almost be seen.

Minutes passed, minutes that seemed like hours.

Movement.

He was returning and I stared in wonderment for he carried two cock pheasants to feed his growing family.

As we stood there in the darkness something dripped to the snow turning the surface black.

Blood.

Never since have I witnessed a more primal hunt than such as I witnessed on that long ago winter night along the Illinois Fox River of my youth.

The pheasants had gone to roost, secure in the knowledge they were safe from a prowling fox but, poor pheasants, they had failed to reckon on the greater predator, my father.

In the somewhat myopic vision of the mind I can see him yet, silent, still, standing there in the darkness. Yes, I see him in shadow form; that was my father.

SURPRISE ENCOUNTERS OF THE BEAR KIND

2008-10-08T23:35:00.002-04:00

Once while paddling a canoe on the Wekiva River in central Florida I drifted around a bend and surprised a daydreaming bear as he sat drowsily on the riverbank with his eyes closed.

The bear was totally oblivious of my presence and there we were, no more than ten or fifteen feet apart when he opened his eyes and saw me.

That bear had an expression on his face that was priceless, and what a time to be without a camera,

And just in case you are wondering, when surprised a bear can move extremely fast.
This bear was extremely surprised.

He swapped ends and made a mad dash for the woods moving so fast it seemed that his feet weren't touching the ground and as he was moving he was getting lighter with each bound due to the stuffing being scared out of him, if you know what I mean.

He had another surprise in store for him.

As he fled he glanced over his shoulder at me and ran full tilt into a small longleaf pine tree about six inches in diameter.

That tree shook with the impact and the bear was knocked backward onto his broad bear bottom.

He shook his head and sat there somewhat befuddled for a moment staring at the tree and then wandered off without another glance in my direction. It was very obvious that his tree encounter had made him forget all about me.

MID DAY, SUNLIGHT, GENTLE BREEZE

2008-10-05T19:49:00.001-04:00

I am drawn back to that rocky shore on Rosseau lake in Canada. I sat there, relaxed yearning for something, perhaps to hear the voice of God?

God, how much I wanted to hear your voice, to feel your presence, but… there was nothing, only silence.

Oh yes, there was the sun on my face, and shimmering, glistening, sparkling on the waves that bathed the shore at my feet.

I glanced at the toe of my left shoe and there, sitting demurely, was a crimson damsel fly and you do know; she was beautiful.

Yes, crimson, a deep brilliant, living, deep, deep red, she sat there.

You might ask how I know she was a she but she must be a she, otherwise why would she be called a "damsel" fly?

She sat there, multifaceted eyes sparkling in the sunlight, her lacy, delicate, gossamer wings still for that moment.

I sat, waiting. What was I waiting for? You might ask. Well, I hesitate to say it lest you think me mad, but I was waiting to hear the voice of God.

Nothing.

Silence.

God, I was waiting, where were you?

I glanced at the damsel fly. She, it, he, honestly I don't know, but it sat there, beautiful, gemlike, glorious, magnificent, and yet very much a damsel fly.

God, I am waiting.

The damsel fly turned and silently lifted its wings and flew to my knee and sat there staring at me.

Darned damsel fly distracted me from my quest. How was I supposed to know when God made His appearance if I am watching a damsel fly?

Suddenly I was at peace. For some strange reason, I don't know why, a sense of calm swept over me.

The damsel fly lifted into the air and hovered in front of my face and then, swiftly, it darted away.

I walked away, disappointed that God had not spoken, but then I thought, that damsel fly, beautiful creature that she was, could God possibly speak through her?

After all, when you think of it, all of nature testifies of God's glory, even a little jewel-like damsel fly.

THE ACORN

2008-10-01T14:37:00.001-04:00

A little acorn fell to the ground one day and lay there. Oh how it bemoaned its fate. It could go no lower. It had reached the very depths of despair.
A squirrel, scavenging for food, found the little acorn and picked it up and the acorn thought to itself, “WHOOPEE, I am saved; no longer must I lay here in the dirt and dust all covered by leaves; now I shall be restored to the top of the tree where I belong.”
But, ’the best laid plans of mice, men and little acorns oft times go awry', for the squirrel began digging.
The hole that the squirrel dug was not really much of a hole as holes go, no grand canyonesque hole, huh uh, nope. It was actually quite an insignificant hole, a 'little tiny baby hole, a hole just right for burying acorns', sort of hole.
The squirrel dropped the acorn into the hole and with no fanfare, unceremoniously began filling in the hole.
The little acorn,( I don’t know what its name was, or even if acorns have names,) gave a little cry of terror. (It should be noted that you have to listen very carefully to hear an acorn say anything and this was a very tiny acorn and not even the squirrel heard it.)
And now the acorn knew for sure that it had fallen as far as an acorn could possibly fall.
The acorn lay there under the ground and wondered if it would ever again be able to be a healthy acorn and hang high in the air and feel the rain and the wind.
Time passed.
If the little acorn could have wished itself free of its earthy prison it would have been back up there on its branch many times but no, it was not to be for the little acorn was where it was meant to be.
One day, after the little acorn had accepted its fate and had ‘adjusted’ to its station in life it felt something strange, a stirring within, a bursting forth, an exploding!
“What is happening to me?” it shouted in its little, tiny acorn voice.
The acorn felt itself expanding and it realized that its beautiful shell was splitting.
“Oh, I am destroyed, I am to be no more!” And it wondered if this was what it was like to die.
And more time passed.
.And one day the little acorn woke to realize that it was no longer under the ground!
Something wonderful had happened; something the little acorn couldn’t explain.
The little acorn was no longer a little acorn.
And eventually, after much time had passed, the little acorn became a mighty oak tree with lots and lots of little acorns of its own and some of those little acorns grew up to be oak trees.
Hmmm, people are sorta’ like little acorns, don’t you think?
If you want to know how to be what you were intended to be, learn from the little acorn. It didn't run to and fro, back and forth, multitasking; trying to please every other Tom, Dick and Acorn in the forest and it really didn't matter what you said about it nor what you thought. It was, after all, an acorn and did best what acorns do. It eventually broke its skin and became a tree. It stood tall and proud being what it was meant to be.

THE WRITER AS A SEXTON

2008-09-16T00:44:00.002-04:00

"Listen, did you hear that? I am sure I heard a bell. Yes, a tinkling bell!"
And so a search might began, a frenzied search to discover the source of that lonely sound.

Many years ago In a bygone era before the embalming process was practiced it was the customary to dig up the remains of the dead after a period of time and the bones would be gathered and placed in a container and another body would be buried in the same ground.

(This is still practiced in some countries today.)

It was as a result of this practice that it was discovered that there were those rare instances that people had in fact been buried alive. Naturally the remains could not tell the story of horror but the evidence was to be found in the broken fingernails and the torn lining of the coffin. A tale of horror, of the frantic efforts of the awakened dead to escape the inescapable.

What an unimaginable death awaited the pathetic and tragic human who found himself in this predicament.

There have been times when an individual went into a comatose state unrecognizable from death itself, only to awaken later to resume a normal and healthy life but to awaken to find yourself buried alive? There could hardly be a more horrible experience imagined than this.

This occasion happened often enough to give rise to the sexton's bell.

One of the jobs of the sexton, other than that of burying the dead and caring for the church property was to listen for the tinkling of what was known as, "the dead bell."

A cord was tied around the wrist of the unfortunate and on the other end of that cord, above ground, was a bell. Upon hearing the frantic ringing of the bell the sexton dug up the recently awakened.

Writers are not unlike those sextons of old in the sense that we are always listening for the bell of inspiration to alert us to a story that needs to be unearthed and given life.

As a writer you must know in your heart of hearts that you possess the gift of life. Some call this gift, 'talent', others refer to it as creativity, whatever it is called everyone has it to a lesser or greater degree. Know that you are unique and that you have something important to say.

Our job as writers is to listen for the bells of inspiration and by the light of the lantern of the imagination we will take up our shovel of research and craft and liberate the buried story.

Listen, did you hear it? A tinkling bell in the darkness of the night!

HIGH VOLTAGE SHOCK TREATMENT FOR SNAKE BITE

2008-09-10T20:18:00.007-04:00

It must be remembered that the following described technique is still under a lot of attack but there are many cases where the efficiency of the technique has been tested on snakebite vicims especially in third world countries with positive results.

If you research the treatment you will find many articles, pro and con. It must be left up to the individual to decide for himself for and or against using the technique.

Due to my allergy to equine antivenin I opted to go with the shock technique. As a zoo director and a naturalist I have been bitten twice before the incident described when I was bitten by the diamond back rattlesnake and I definitely know what a hot bite is, wherein venom is injected. (Localized swelling accompanied by intense burning pain as well as the wounds where the fangs penetrated the skin is a pretty good indication.)

Over the years I have been bitten many times by an assortment of non-venomous species of snakes. Those bites only needed cleansing and I was always sure to keep current with my tetnus shots.

C. Towne

The following is a reprint of an article in the July 26, 1986 copy of The Lancet.

The mainstay of treatment of a person bitten by a venomous insect or reptile is to give anti-venom as soon as possible. However, the serum needed may not be available in remote areas of the world. In Ecuador high voltage, low current electric shocks have proved very successful. In the eastern Amazon jungles of Ecuador 4% of deaths are caused by snake bites. 45% of the Waoroni tribe have been bitten by a snake and 50% of adult males will be bitten more than once. Most of the bites in Ecuador are from snakes identified by Dr Giovanni Onores (Catholic University, Quito) as Bothrops atrax, B bileneatus, B nasutus, B schlegelei, B castelnaudi, and Lachesis muta.

The idea of using an electrical current for treating venomous bites arose from a report in a local paper in Illinois, USA, of a farmer who was hyperallergic to bee stings and who found that applying a high voltage, low amperage, direct current shock to the site of his bee stings prevented his usual severe reactions.

For snake bites a 20-25 kV,unit, popularly known as a "stun gun", with a 9 V battery to deliver a direct pulsating current of around 25 kV and less than 1 mA. One probe acts as the ground while the other applies the current to the bite. Such currents do not stimulate myocardial muscle.2

The biological basis of this treatment is unknown. There may be a local effect on the host tissues or there may be a direct effect on the activity of the venom itself. Venom has a short half-life and a shut-down of local vessels by electrospasm may confine the venom locally long enough for it to become inactive. Whatever the mechanism, this technique is a practicable and potentially Life saving procedure.

Hospital Vozandes Quito Ecuador RONALD H. GUDERIAN Wolfson Tropical Pathology Unit London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine. London WC1E 7HTCHARLES D. MACKFNZIE Department of Microbiology Michigan State UniversityMichigan, USAJEFFREY F. Williams

Disclaimer: Again, the reader must be forewarned! Reasearch yet needs to be performed to bear out the findings but as for me, I would opt for the shock treatment. I don't know why it works but that it does work is good enough for me.

Sincerely, Charles Towne

A SHOCKING EXPERIENCE!

2008-09-07T12:58:00.002-04:00

I was following a wilderness trail back on the state land near my home searching for bear sign.

As a naturalist and a wildlife photographer I have spent countless hours observing bears and I have concluded that of all creatures bears really are such interesting folks.

The similarities between bears and humans are quite remarkable.

Think of it, bears search for food, just like people. They spend time eating, just like people. They play, just like people. They have romances, just like people. They raise families, just like people and they are unpredictable, just like people, yes; they really are like human folks.

As you will remember in the last post, "WITHOUT WARNING!" I had inadvertently disturbed a large Eastern diamondback rattlesnake and as a consequence I had suffered a bite to my right index finger.

Heavy bodied and about four and a half feet in length, the snake was coiled and ready for a repeat performance if I pressed the issue.

A genuine "big" snake, old buzztail has been known to exceed eight feet in length though the largest specimen that I ever personally caught was six and a half + feet in length and I caught him alive for the Miami serpentarium many years ago.

As soon as he nailed me I realized why he had not buzzed a warning for He had lost his rattles. As they crawl along, the dry, brittle rattles sometimes break away but it is really not all that common.

On the day in question it had led to my being bitten.

I knew that the strike was hot, meaning I had been envenomated. The deep burning sensation at the site of the bite was similar in intensity to a bald faced hornet's sting but I was close to a hospital, they would certainly know what to do?

Upon arrival at the hospital I was immediately admitted to the emergency ward where a nurse and a doctor began questioning me.

With no preamble I told them that I was allergic to equine serum therefore they could not give me antivenin and they would have to use some alternative medical treatment such as lots and lots of fluids.

The nurse came in and hooked me up to an I.V. which I figured was liquids.

It was only minutes after starting the drip I.V. when I began to realize that not all was well for I could feel a quivering sensation in my eye lids and my lips which told me that I was going into anaphylactic shock. Oh, oh, this shouldn't be happening!

I told my wife to get the nurse and when they returned I asked the nurse if the Doctor had ordered antivenin for me. She affirmed that he had and I told her to disconnect the I.V. immediately which she did though somewhat reluctantly.

At this point my right index finger was huge, three times its normal size and the swelling was proceeding up my arm.

The doctor entered at this point and he was quite indignant. "Who was I to tell them what to do?"

Then he informed me that they were going to administer two units of antivenin and send me to another, larger hospital where they would be able to handle any complications.

Well now, this aint going to happen!

I told the doctor that I was going to check myself out and go home and treat the snakebite myself which was what I did.

Now I am not advocating this folks. You should always accept the help that is offered!

I have done a lot of research on my own into an unorthodox treatment for snakebite that is customarily used in third world countries.

Africa, India, as well as South and Central America, due to the fact that in most of the outback places they have no refrigeration to preserve antivenin, have been using the following technique successfully for several years and I personally had previously treated bee and wasp stings as well as scorpion stings so I was not really working in the blind here.

As a zoo director in years past I had suffered two previous snake bites so I had been tested for horse, or equine serum thus learning of my intolerance.

I called a friend of mine and he met us at our home and I told him what I proposed to do and asked him to video tape the procedure.

Now I must at this point make a disclaimer. The A.M.A. has basically stopped all research in this technique. Personally I believe this is due to the fact that they are more than cozy bed partners with the pharmaceutical companies that produce the antivenin but I could be wrong and the moon just might be made of green cheese.

Have you ever had the wonderful experience of being shocked by an electric fence? Fun isn’t it? That's the treatment folks, electric shock.

Using a modified stun gun, I shocked the hand in the area of the bite and also the arm up to the shoulder and back to the hand approximately twenty times.

My friend filmed the results over the next three hours.

At the end of an hour the swelling was considerably reduced and at the end of three hours the finger was almost back to normal and there was no noticeable swelling in the rest of the hand.

There was no tissue loss and no subsequent scarring.

In the July 26th. 1986 issue of the medical journal "The Lancet" there is an article entitled, "High Voltage Shock Treatment for Snake Bite"

Part of the article reads as follows, "We have records on 34 cases of bites on limbs where there was evidence of penetration of the skin. The current was applied within 30 minutes and 10 to 15 minutes later all pain had gone and the usual sequelae of an untreated bite,(swelling, serosanguinous bullae, bleeding, shock and renal failure) did not develop. No patient died. After an hour the patient was usually able to go home. At follow-up there was no necrosis of tissue around the bite due either to the bite or the treatment. 7 people who refused the treatment experienced the classic complications and two needed life saving amputations."

Look up Dr. Guderian in Quito Ecuador on the internet. The Good Doctor and his colleagues have treated many very hot cases of snakebite successfully with this technique.

WARNING (As far as I know this technique has not been tried in snake bite cases where the snake in question was a coral snake or a cobra therefore it might not work with nuerotoxic venom.)

Remember, as in so many dangerous situations, be it bear attack;
falling off a mountain, or snake bite, the best prevention is always avoidance. This doesn't mean that it won't happen it simply means that the chance of an incident occurring is reduced exponentially.

If there is enough interest in the subject I will print the entire article in a future blog.

WITHOUT WARNING

2008-09-01T11:53:00.002-04:00

The large snake was warm and for the moment that was all that was important.

Lying in the grass as he was he was well hidden though there were not many that would dare to intrude upon the reptiles solitude.

In six years of life he had never been threatened by another predator except that time when about a year old and eighteen inches in length that the red shouldered hawk had thought to dine on him. The only thing that saved him that day was the fact that the grass was deep, thus impeding the hungry hawks plunging attack.

Everything in his life was governed by instinct. When he was hungry he went in search of food. This food questing was always a result of instinct as were those times that he had met and mated with another of his kind.

When forest fire threatened it that same instinct that drove him down a nearby gopher tortoise burrow and when the chill of winter embraced the land he sought the warmth of that same burrow, driven by that same primitive life force, instinct.

Now four and a half feet long and heavy bodied he had few if any natural enemies and in another day, or two at the most and he would be able to see again.

The most vulnerable time in a snake's life is when it is preparing to cast off its old skin. During this shedding time the snake loses its usual glossy sheen and becomes pale and dull but its vulnerability comes from being almost blind at the time of shedding.

All snakes shed periodically and as the old skin becomes loose the entire outer layer, including the old eye coverings or lenses, separate and at this time they become opaque, rendering the snake almost blind until that time when he sheds and his eyesight is restored once again.

As in the case of our friend he may shed as many as six, even seven times in the course of a year, all dependent upon the abundance of food for as he eats he grows and as he grows he has to shed for his skin does not grow with him.

Each time that he sheds he adds a new segment to his rattles thus it is impossible to tell a rattlesnake's age by the number of sections in his rattle.

As he lays there he senses a nearby movement. His black forked tongue extrudes out and again, by instinct, is instantly withdrawn. Faster than thought, faster than a snakes strike, the forked tip is inserted into the twin orifices of the Jacobsen's organ in the roof of his mouth. From this unconscious act he is informed by a combination of taste and smell that whatever is drawing near is warm blooded and much too large for him to eat.

He prepares to defend himself. He attempts to warn the intruder but for some reason it does not heed this warning.

Though almost blind he can still see movement as a dull blur and again, by deadly unerring instinct, mouth agape, he strikes.

I had no clue that the diamondback rattlesnake was there until he hit me.
The shock of the strike was almost like being struck with a fist and then almost instantly there was that telltale burning sensation indicating deep envenimation and a bad bite.

Not that there is ever such a thing as a good bite from a poisonous snake.

A large diamondback rattlesnake such as the one that struck me would have fangs three quarters of an inch in length and he could dump a pretty dose of venom in your system so I knew that I was in trouble the moment I was struck.

Why had I not heard his rattle? Rarely do rattlers fail to warn an intruder but I had heard nothing, why?

There he was, coiled in that typical defensive position, ready for another strike. It was then that I understood why I had failed to hear him.

The end of his tail was up and shaking with great vigor but it wasn't making a sound? This diamondback rattlesnake was completely devoid of his rattles. No early warning system! Obviously, as sometimes happens, his rattles had become dry and brittle and had broken away, leaving him as I found him, less his rattles.

The diamondback was where he belonged, in the deep woods. I was the intruder.
The cause for my being bitten was some hiker had thoughtlessly thrown away a piece of trash and as I bent to pick it up my hand was placed within the snake's striking range.

I walked away and ended up in the hospital which is another story. Hopefully Mr. Diamondback is still there but with a new set of rattles.

Next time I will relate the treatment that followed the snake bite.

FRIEND OR FOE

2008-08-24T21:44:00.002-04:00

Running for her life, endeavoring to escape the terror that was fast approaching the doe was already fatigued.

Her ragged breath and rolling eyes indicated her primordial fear for she instinctively understood the inevitable outcome of the contest if she was to so much as falter.

The snow hampered her progress, dragging at her, holding her back in this desperate race for life itself. With each bound she broke through the icy crust that covered the snow, but she continued to struggle forward in her terror-stricken flight.

For over two hours they had been pursuing her and now even if she were to miraculously escape the blood lust of the pack at her heels it was unlikely that she would survive for long.

This race had caused her to breathe the frosty air in great gasps, searing and damaging her lungs and generally weakening her constitution, lessening her chances for survival through the rest of the winter.

The race had already resulted in the probable death of her unborn fawn, for even if she survived she would likely abort the fetus.

Her pursuers, relentless in their purpose, being much lighter were able to run across the surface of the snow, drawing nearer with every bound in the unequal contest.

Suddenly, as if her plight was not desperate enough, another obstacle loomed in her path. The five strand barbed wire fence had been there for several years. Indeed she had easily leaped the fence many times in the past, but now, exhausted, winded, fighting the deep snow, terrified by the relentless demons at her heels, the man made obstacle proved to be her undoing.

She gathered herself and leaped, the snow dragging at her. It was close. She almost cleared the top strand, but it was not to be. One of her hind feet hit the fence and she fell, bleating in terror, into a three foot deep snowdrift. She fought to regain her footing, she was up but it was too late, again she bleated in terror as she went down under the pack.

The imagination may paint a picture of a pack of wolves efficiently cutting down an aged or sickly deer. But not so!

What I have described was the relentless pursuit and destruction of a healthy white tail doe by a pack of four dogs. The dogs were all well fed house pets belonging to residents of a nearby resort community.

When I was drawn to the scene by the excited yapping of the dogs the doe was still alive though she would soon have died from the wounds inflicted by the pack of dogs.

She was terribly mangled, her flanks and muzzle torn. Disemboweled, she still struggled weakly for the will to live is strong.

After driving the dogs away and ending the doe’s suffering I called the local game warden. The dogs were identified, the owners promising to confine their pets but the scene was repeated within a week. Eventually the dogs were destroyed, but I wonder…?

It has become all too common to read in the headlines or see on the six o’clock news that another child has been mauled by someone’s so called ‘pet’.

We have all been horrified by similar accounts so when is it going to be enough?

In Michigan a seven year old boy was playing in the yard with the neighbor’s dogs as he had for the previous year when they turned on him. Another neighbor looked out a window and was puzzled when she saw the three German shepherds playing in the snow with what appeared to be a large rag doll. She was horrified when she realized that what the dogs were playing with was her neighbor’s son, Peter! Seizing a rifle she chased the dogs from the body of the unconscious boy.

Peter was hospitalized and very nearly died. Where can the doctors possibly put fifteen hundred stitches on a seven year old child’s body? Peter survived, enduring repeated episodes of cosmetic surgery well into fifties now, relives the nightmare even to this day.

Some children are not even this fortunate.

Back in 1927 my father claimed squatter’s rights on the two large islands located on the Fox River just below Oswego Illinois. There he built a cabin and proved up on the land. He married, raised a family and lived on that land for the next thirty one years, moving to Wisconsin in 1958. To a great extent we lived off the land, trapping, hunting and fishing as well as farming that rich, river bottom soil. I continued to live there with my new bride and our first two children until 1960 and it was there during the winter of 1958 that I had an encounter which I will never forget.

One evening I parked the car at the landing and began walking down the river on the ice toward our cabin. Looking ahead I was puzzled for I could see the sled on which my wife pulled our infant son, Chuck Jr. abandoned on the ice.

Many evenings when the weather would permit my wife would meet me at our landing and we would walk home together but that evening was different.

As I approached the sled I began to get an uneasy feeling for the snow was packed down with many dog tracks.

My concern continued to grow for there were my wife’s tracks in the snow and by the distance between each track it was evident to me that she had been running.

She told me that she had sighted the pack of seven dogs on the river ice while they were probably a mile distant. At sight of the pack something, perhaps intuition, warned her.

Seizing our infant son she abandoned the sled and began running toward our cabin and the security it offered.

She told me that as she was approaching the cabin she glanced back once and saw that the pack was rushing straight at her, snarling viciously as they came.

With not a moment to spare she slammed the door shut behind her and the dogs so close that one of them actually slammed into the door.

That the dogs wanted blood I have no doubt due to the fact that the threshold was chewed and the door badly clawed in their efforts to get at my family. This did nothing to placate my anger and I knew what I was going to do.

The old Winchester 12 gauge pump had belonged to my father before me. How many ducks and geese, pheasants and rabbits had it put in the pot I could not even begin to imagine but now I was calling on it to perform another task. Wanting all the firepower I could get I removed the limiting plug from the shotgun enabling it to hold five shells instead of three, actually six if one was carried in the chamber.

Thus altered the shotgun was illegal even back then. It was claimed that the six shots gave the hunter unfair advantage. Right about then I was looking for all the advantage I could get, unfair or otherwise.

About noon that day I decided to take a walk down the river. I was returning when I saw them, seven dogs, running in my direction.

I did not want to destroy any dogs unless it was absolutely necessary so I decided on an experiment. I waved my hands and shouted. The dogs were about fifty yards away when they stopped and began milling about, watching me.

Then I turned my back on the pack and began running away. I figured that this was fair for the experiment, after all, most children would run.

As I ran the pack gave chase and a chill went up my spine. The only way that you can really appreciate the situation at that moment would to have been there. That pack of dogs was coming at me as if I were a prey animal, barking and baying as they came.

The pack was closer now but I stopped again and turned. They stopped, whining eagerly as they watched me.

Again I retreated and they came on. Now there was no doubt in my mind about what that pack would do if its prey was a child.

The next time that I turned the shotgun took on a deadly personality all of its own.

The pack was no more than fifteen or twenty yards away when the shotgun spoke four times. Three dogs were down, no longer a threat to man or beast. Before that day was done two more followed the first three.

The next day I borrowed a Redbone bitch that was in heat from a friend of mine who trained coon hounds. I chained her out near our cabin, finishing that pack when they were lured in by her scent.

I have never felt remorse for my act. I know that if that pack had caught my little family on the river ice that day they would have attacked them, horribly injuring them, or worse.

Those were not feral or wild dogs on that long ago day. Five of them wore collars and two had current dog tags, and that was back when few people tagged their dogs.

Thousands of dogs are still allowed to run at large, roaming where they will. Until dog owners are held responsible, children are going to be victimized, mauled, and young lives horribly ended for no other reason then ignorance and asinine indifference.

I found it to be very interesting that not one of the dogs in this account was a hunting dog. They were just your lovable, every day, "wouldn’t harm a mouse," house pets.

Why is it that hunters usually prove to be the most responsible dog owners? A hunter, owning a well trained bird dog or any other hunting breed would never allow his dogs to roam at large, for there would be no better way to ruin a good dog! It is primarily the owners of the so called "vanity" or "macho" dogs, such as Pit Bulls, Rottweilers, and the other tenacious breeds that are causing the problems.

Legislation is on the books, now let it be enforced, demand that it be enforced! Responsibility should be demanded when so called "pets" go haywire.

Go back to the beginning of this article and imagine that the victim is not a deer but your own child and then tell me what you would do.

THE OLD DOG AND THE PUP

2008-08-20T20:20:00.002-04:00

The pup had reached the end of the trail. With no idea what he had been following he had come face to face with his quarry. Yes, he had reached the end of the trail and it could very well be his last, for the formidable creature that he faced could kill, horribly. The young dog still did not realize the danger it faced.

The pup had been following the old dog, eagerly watching as the veteran worked a covey of quail. The covey had been hunted only a short time before, and now, each time the old dog thought he had brought the birds to a stand the quail would break, running along the ground to the next bit of cover.

Disgusted, the old dog quit following the fidgety birds and began casting about. Near a stand of scrub oak he discovered another covey. He began a circling movement to bring the quail to a stand.

Following the old dog’s lead the pup was also trailing a fresh scent. Unlike the old dog the pup did not know what it was he trailed. This was an unfamiliar scent and his curiosity drove him on.

Whatever it was it had passed through a large stand of scrub palmetto. It had then passed alongside the full length of an old burned out pine log to finally circle a small clearing. Totally immersed in the trail the pup was using his nose to vacuum any vagrant wisps of scent from the ground.

This was not quail that the pup followed, oh no. Nor was it rabbit. He had been cured of trailing rabbit. If a rabbit were to leap from cover right under his nose he would ignore it. He knew that his man didn’t want him to chase rabbits, nor did the old dog, and he wanted to please them both.

The scent that he followed was very faint. A strange musky smell, so vague as to be almost undetectable. He was sure the old dog would be proud of him. He continued on the trail. Hmmm, whatever it was had entered a big gopher tortoise burrow! The pup forced his head and shoulders into the burrow and snuffed deeply several times. All he could detect was the turtle’s earthy scent. Backing out he immediately picked up the trail again.

He was approaching a small stand of scrub oak and was in the process of circling an old, fire blackened pine stump when he came face to face with his quarry.

A peculiar, dry buzzing sound stopped him in his tracks.

His excitement was obvious as his tail wagged his entire hind end. The pup had worked the trail to perfection and he was proud.

The only problem was that his first trailing experience could very well be his last. Only a few feet in front of his nose was a very large and a very angry eastern diamondback rattlesnake. The deadly reptile was loosely coiled, its head slightly raised, that black tongue slowly flicking out, tasting the air. The snake was telling the dog in no uncertain terms that it was ready to defend itself.

Over seven feet in length and larger then a man’s arm, the powerful reptile turned away from the pup and began to crawl toward a large clump of scrub oak and palmetto growth. It was very much aware of what the dog was doing. As the snake moved so did the pup, taking two steps forward.

This movement on the dog’s part was more than the snake could tolerate. It immediately stopped and assumed its full defensive position. Coiled, head raised a foot above the ground, the air filled with the castanet sound of its rattles, the diamondback waited.

The large venomous reptile knew that it couldn’t eat the dog and it didn’t want a confrontation, but what had to be would be.

The previous year a German Shepherd had confronted the snake. The diamondback had defended itself in the only way it knew. Struck full in the face the dog had received a massive dose of venom in the cheek. It was highly unlikely that anyone could have helped the dog even if that had been an option. Abandoned, the big dog died a terrible death, alone, there in the forest.

The pup, excited that it had been able to bring this noisy creature to bay was imitating the old dog in a beautiful point. Tail straight out behind, one forepaw lifted in the process of taking another slow step forward.

He had watched his teacher move in on a covey of quail with such stealth that he would come to a final point only inches from one of the birds. Then he would hold that point until his master arrived to kick up the covey.

The pup’s movements were beautiful to behold as he slowly lowered his foot and then leaning forward he once again assumed that statuesque pose. His intention was to approach as close to his subject as the old dog had been to the quail. Another small step and less then three feet remained separating the youngster from an ugly death. But he had no way of knowing this.

Usually dogs will stay away from rattlesnakes. Sadly, every year there are those few that do get struck and this youngster’s curiosity was getting the best of him.

The diamondback, eyes shining brightly, drew its head back in preparation as it measured the distance.

If snakes thought in words as humans do its thoughts would have been, "Come closer foolish one. Just one more step and I will teach you a most unpleasant lesson, one you will not soon forget."

The pup, as if answering the snake’s unspoken suggestion, began to raise his right foreleg, his body already moving forward. When he stopped he would be within striking distance of those deadly fangs.

Then it happened! There was a blur of movement and the pup was struck with such force he was knocked rolling, yipping in surprise and confusion.

The old dog had followed the pup. Taking in the situation at a glance he had acted. Charging from the side he had struck the pup with his shoulder, instantly knocking the young dog out of range of the diamondback’s strike.

The snake struck!

Its mouth agape, fangs erect, it struck hard and fast, passing through empty space beneath the old dog’s body.

The old dog, rumbling a warning to the pup, led him away from the place as the grandfather diamondback crawled away in the opposite direction.

Soon the two dogs were back with their human. The man was pleased with the two dogs as they ran toward him. He thought, ‘that pup’s going to be as good a hunter as his old man!’

The hunt had been a success. There were quail in the bag and more importantly, the dogs had worked like the champions they were.

Oh yes, and unbeknownst to their human, thanks to the old dog the pup would be there to hunt another day.

Meanwhile, back in the small thicket of scrub oak, laying loosely coiled at the mouth of a gopher tortoise burrow is the grandfather diamondback. After its encounter with the dogs it confronted a cottontail rabbit. The rabbit was less fortunate then the pup. The reptile lay relaxed, its stomach full. I wonder what it was thinking about?

HURRAH FOR GOD!

2008-08-17T13:45:00.002-04:00

"Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you saying: ‘This is the way, walk ye in it.’ “ (Isaiah 30: 21)

We were fighting forest fire in Northern Michigan. For three days we dug fire breaks only to have the fire sweep around us. We would have to retreat only to begin all over again.
It seemed that our lungs would burst from breathing the super heated air.
We worked endlessly with bandanas covering our noses and mouths and at times the smoke would swirl around us and we would be forced to run for our lives, choking and gasping, tears streaming from smoke reddened eyes.

There was never enough water and when we were relieved we slept like dead men.
On the evening of the fourth day the fire was stopped, but not by us.

It rained, and it rained and it rained. That fire didn’t have a chance and without the rain, neither did we.

I walked over the area which had been lush forest only days before, nothing green remained, nothing but a blackened, fire blighted land lay around me.

I heard something whimpering and discovered a black bear cub, horribly burned. Its suffering was ended with a bullet from the rangers gun.

A while later I crossed a trout stream and found it to be choked with the debris and ash from the fire. Dozens of trout floated belly up in the stream that only days before had been a fly fisherman’s dream.

Over the years I was to fight forest fires several more times but never again did I see the devastation that I witnessed that first time.

October 8th. 1871 was a date that was literally burned into history when the fourth largest city in the nation was, for all practical purposes, destroyed by fire. At that time Chicago had a population of 350,000 citizens and was growing rapidly.

On October 8th. A fire started.

There were those that believed the fire was caused by Mrs. O’Leary’s much maligned cow. And by the way, Mrs. O’Leary objected to the defamation of her cow's character and blamed the fire on, "communist incendiaries." Surely and in fact no one will ever know the cause, but the affect has been well documented.

The city burned for two days and was finally extinguished by torrential rain showers. More than a third of the city’s population was left homeless; between 18,000 and 19,000 buildings were destroyed and 200 people were either dead or missing.

Over 50,000 people left the city believing that Chicago would never be rebuilt. By some estimates the city suffered $200,000,000 in property loss. But who can judge the human spirit?

Those who left were wrong, for within a year a new Chicago rose from the ashes of the old and within three years not a trace remained of the disaster.

Yes, everyone has heard of the great Chicago fire, after all, it is part of our nations history. But how many have heard of Peshtigo?

On the same night that a third of Chicago was destroyed, another fire swept through the thriving village of Peshtigo, Wisconsin and resulted in what some have considered, in terms of loss of human life, the greatest natural disaster our country had ever suffered up to that time.

Due to drought conditions which had persisted for some time, the forest was tinder dry in the Green Bay area of Wisconsin. Fires at times sprang up, it seems, from spontaneous combustion. People became accustomed to wild fires and these raging fires were allowed to burn themselves out. After all, little could be done. On October 7th. 1871 the night was lit by an orange glow which seemed to reach into the very heavens over Peshtigo.

Peshtigo was a thriving lumbering community with a population of 2000 and home of the largest woodenware factory in the United States. On Oct. eighth the fire struck Peshtigo and as Chicago had burned so did the small Wisconsin community only with some notable differences. The entire village of Peshtigo was destroyed. Only one house was left standing. But the fire’s greatest claim to fame, or infamy if you will, was the loss of life. By some estimates as many as 1200 people perished in the flames as Peshtigo was consumed.

There were countless stories of heroism as well as cowardice. Virtually not a family was untouched by the fire, and in fact entire families perished . There is no way to ascertain how many people actually died.

Out of this tragedy, I would like to share three stories of humanity, of deliverance, and hope where there was no hope.

Some distance from Peshtigo, a mill owner rallied his two brothers to save their sawmill from the fire storm rushing toward them. Our hero, the sawmills owner, a rough and tumble giant of a man who was just as apt to kick a door down as open it, was known for his blasphemous ways.

He and his brothers climbed to the roof of the mill and proceeded to beat out the fires that caught in the dry shingles. At last, realizing the futility of their efforts, the mill owner stopped fighting the fire and glared defiantly into the heavens. Shaking his fist at God whom he had denied existed, he shouted, “Well, take the place if you want it so bad!”

As he realized his helplessness, as he stood there gazing into the fire brightened heavens, something wet touched his cheek and suddenly it began to rain! His mill was saved! The big, coarse, lumberjack fell to his knees there on the roof of his sawmill and he tried to pray, but he didn’t know how, so he did the next best thing. He jumped to his feet and waving his hat in the air he shouted at the top of his lungs, “HURRAH FOR GOD!, HURRAH FOR GOD!"

A mother, fleeing the flames was overtaken by several others possessed of the same inspiration. A man, realizing the futility of their flight, encouraged the group to lie down in a shallow ditch at the side of the road and take advantage of what scant protection it provided. Some carried blankets which they spread over their backs to protect them from the hail of sparks and wind blown, burning embers.

Suddenly there was a scream from the mother; “Oh my God, my baby, where is my baby?” For you see, the bundle she carried was nothing more than a bundle of blankets. In her flight the baby had slipped from her grasp.

A man looked around hoping to see the infant and what he saw caused him to shout out in consternation causing the others to look. The air was filled with smoke and ash, the flames were all around them; the very sky appeared to be on fire. As they watched huge trees seemed to ignite before the fire even touched them, but the thing that caused them to weep with frustration was that the baby, the tiny helpless infant, lay in the center of the narrow road, completely exposed to the fire. To go to the infant was certain death.

The flames seemed to meet in a fiery arch over the tiny form. And now, those in the ditch were forced to restrain the grief stricken mother as well they might as they concentrated on their own survival.

When the fire passed the survivors went with the mother to recover the infant's body, and what did they find, a dead child? No, the baby was alive! Those who had taken refuge in the ditch and covered themselves with blankets had all suffered some burns, but the baby had suffered no injury. Quite miraculously not a hair on the infant's head was singed.

A group of men digging a firebreak beyond the village found themselves cut off and surrounded by flames. Some, frightened beyond reason were beyond themselves with fear. They rushed around the clearing frantically searching for an escape but there was none. Some were cursing God for not helping them. Chaos reigned over the scene. Soon, as the flames drew close, one by one the men dropped to their knees in prayer. Suddenly a voice was heard above the roar of the fire: “Come this way, Hurry, THERE IS YET TIME TO ESCAPE! Come, Hurry!”

With great hope the men rushed in the direction of the voice and as they approached what appeared to be a solid wall of flames the fire seemed to diminish and they passed through to a large clearing and all were saved. They looked and searched for their rescuer but there was no one there.

Father God, the pursuer of our souls was there. God doesn’t save just to save our hides, He saves to save our souls. Out of the fire that threatens to consume us He calls and He becomes our Holy guide. He will take us safely beyond the fire. HURRAH FOR GOD!, HURRAH FOR GOD!

THE GOOD LORD TAKES CARE OF CHILDREN, FOOLS AND WILDLIFE PHOTOGRAPHERS

2008-08-13T21:34:00.002-04:00

As soon as I glimpsed the small group of whitetail deer approaching the river I beached the canoe and quietly stepped into the shallow water. I was wearing cutoffs and an old pair of sneakers as well as my well-used camouflage gear.

The water was cool as I moved quietly to the downstream side of a large deadfall tree and positioned my camera securely on its tripod.

I am always a tad uncomfortable as my imaginer paints pretty little pictures of things with teeth that just might be lurking under the surface of that murky, coffee colored water, due to the fact that alligators, large and small, populate the area in abundance.

Now, standing in the dark water that reached to perhaps eight or ten inches below my armpits I was prepared to photograph the deer.

Ten minutes passed, then half an hour.

The deer were nearing the river’s edge. I was ready. My camera was set up on the tripod mere inches above the calm surface of the water to enable me to photograph the deer from a very low angle as they swam the watery obstacle.

Now and then I could see the twitch of an ear or the swish of a tail but for the most part they were still as they stood concealed behind a dense curtain of undergrowth.

It was just at that moment that I was startled as something unexpectedly nudged me in the small of the back.

My first thought was that a raft of water hyacinth drifting on the river's surface had collided with me but I changed my mind rather quickly. Generally speaking water hyacinth does not move of its own volition.

Judging from the subtle motion at my back I was sure that I knew what it was.
Here in Florida’s wetlands one of our most common denizens is the brown water snake, or, Nerodia taxispilota.

The brown is not exactly a snake that will ever be nominated to be a contestant in a reptilian beauty pageant. Drab, dirty brown in coloration, with darker brown patches on its body and a blunt, mean looking, practically deformed head; the brown just keeps getting uglier and meaner with age. (Makes me think of some folks I know.) A heavy bodied snake, it has been known to attain lengths nearing six feet but that is by far the exception. The largest one I have ever captured exceeded four feet by only an inch or two.

If you feel an irrisistable urge to grab brownie he will be more then willing to bite the everlasting, goobery snot out of you and as much as I dislike getting bit by this lovely chap I find his nasty habit of spraying almost more to be avoided than his bite.

When grabbed the brown is as likely as not to spray an evil smelling, liquid, musky mess from his anus that seems invariably to be aimed at the face. Not exactly the most pleasant experience I might add.

The brown water snake, even though it is as mean tempered as a rabid rat and always ready to bite, is in fact quite harmless but If you do have the somewhat dubious honor of being bitten, the series of puncture wounds should be examined for the needle-like re-curved teeth that would likely have broken off in the wound at the time of the bite. This examination should be followed by a tetanus shot within a day or two if you have not had one recently to ward off the likelihood of infection or the unlikelier chance of lockjaw.

Although I could feel the snake nosing about at my back I knew that I had little to worry about. I would have moved away from my visitor but I was hoping to film the deer and did not want to spook them with my movements.

The whitetail deer were still up on the riverbank and I was doing my best to ignore the efforts of my 'harmless' reptilian visitor and focus on the job at hand when the snakes tail was washed down alongside my right leg and I could feel it as the reptile tried to push against my leg to give it purchase in order to gain access to its desired perch which was obviously my head and shoulders.

O.K., enough already!

The snake had carried our friendship about as far as I was willing to tolerate. I was about ready to reach back and gently take hold of the snake to guide it on its way when I glanced down just in time to see the end of its tail break the water's surface under my right elbow.

Suddenly I forgot all about reaching back to take hold of Mr. Snake and I forgot all about filming the deer, and I also forgot all about my camera as well as everything else.

The snake now had my undivided attention.

That tail was not the typical dirty brown of a brown water snake, it was black, and I realized that my visitor was a large specimen of agkistrodon piscivorus, a pit viper whose venomous bite though usually not fatal can be bad enough to cause crippling damage. Commonly known as the cottonmouth water moccasin, this guy could just possibly ruin my day!

As I said my photographic endeavors were abruptly shoved aside as I was faced with this somewhat uncomfortable and prickly situation.

The cottonmouth was still nosing about in the small of my back. Somewhat sluggish from the cool water it was languidly rearing up in its efforts to gain access to my shoulders. Even in the cool water of the river the snake could move extremely fast.

Several years ago I had the opportunity to watch a cottonmouth as it fished.

The snake lay very still in the foot deep water as a hand-sized bluegill cruised nearby. When the fish was within range, perhaps at a distance of twelve inches, the snake struck. For some reason I expected the strike to be slower than it was, perhaps assuming that the water would somehow impede the creatures movement or, just perhaps I did not know what to expect.

That snake flashed through the water in a lightening blur of motion faster than the eye could follow, so incredibly fast and hard that tiny scales were blown off the fish on impact. It was the same effect I would expect from a bullet. That fish never had a chance.

In the name of Aunt Maggie’s dead cat that snake was fast!

(It is a common belief among many people that snakes and snapping turtles cannot strike under water. I have known this assumption to be incorrect for many years, after all, how else could they catch fish.)

Standing there in the dark water of the Wekiva River, as the cottonmouth persisted in its endeavors I could feel its nose gently probing, exploring for some purchase to enable it to crawl onto this weird, uncooperative stump.

As the snake persevered mightily in its endeavors my anxiety and concern grew to quite interesting proportions. I have always been thankful that I had not positioned myself closer to the deadfall that was behind me where the snake could possibly have gained access from that convenience. Wouldn’t it be interesting to feel a gentle tap on your shoulder and turning, you are looking into Mr. Cottonmouth’s cute little vertical pupils?

So that you might better appreciate the gravity of my situation please let me enlighten you.
In size the cottonmouth is second only to the grand daddy of North American pit vipers, the eastern diamondback rattlesnake.

The largest eastern diamondback that I have had the privilege of becoming intimately acquainted with was a lovely chap a tad over six and a half feet long.

Now it should be understood that there are a lot of stories of very large diamondbacks out there, tales of snakes ten, twelve even fifteen feet long. And heaven forbid, I would never call anyone a liar, but it is a long standing and well known fact that there are a lot of otherwise honest folks out there who, when exposed to a snake, especially one that is known to be poisonous, are suddenly afflicted with a near lethal case of pernicious flatulence of the imagination, or, P.F.I.

P.F.I. can be a very serious malady, not affecting the storyteller so much as the subject of the story. This affliction has been known to strike snakes, as well as fish, causing them to swell to unbelievable proportions due to some mysterious gas. Ultimately the subject of the story explodes, leaving not the least trace as evidence to prove its immense size or even its existence. And as long as we are on the subject of size my late friend, Ross Allen, world famous naturalist and founder of Silver Springs Reptile Institute could tell the truth on that matter.

For over thirty years back in the fifties, sixties and seventies, Mr. Allen had an open offer of five hundred dollars for anyone that could produce an eastern diamondback rattlesnake, dead or alive, of eight feet or more in length. And the snake, if dead had to be intact.

Over a period of at least those three decades, Hundreds, possibly thousands of diamondbacks were delivered to the reptile institute and upon Ross’ death he had yet to see that eight-foot long diamondback and the five hundred dollar reward was never claimed. Keep in mind that back then $500 was the equivalent of at least two weeks pay to the average man and Florida was not nearly as developed as it is today, therefore the chance of finding a truly large diamondback was much better than it is today.

According to my way of thinking it is highly possible that the eastern diamondback has in the past reached eight feet in length and possibly more, but today in this age of urban sprawl, when choice habitat is increasingly being destroyed in the name of the great god "progress" it would be an extreme rarity.

Snakes don’t usually bother me but when a large cottonmouth is endeavoring to crawl up my back and over my shoulder to gain access to my head he is taking the friendship a bit too far.
I stood there very still with the cool, tannin darkened water washing past my bare legs wishing that I were somewhere, anywhere, else.

Again the snake’s heavy body moved in the current, pressing against the small of my back as its tail brushed against my leg. I did not want to move but I could not repress an involuntary shudder.

The snake stopped moving as though it sensed my movement and then it swam around to my front, and in that little eddy caused by my body as it obstructed the river’s downstream flow the snake drifted against my tripod and laid there, floating on the water’s surface mere inches from my chest.

The snake was larger than I had guessed, fat and perhaps in excess of four and a half feet in length.

I stood there sweating in spite of the cool water as those mean little eyes seemed to examine first the camera and then me. I watched its tongue slowly extrude from between its lips, through the little indent made for the purpose, that shiny black tongue sinuously flicking out, the ends dipping and then withdrawing, oh so casually.

I was well aware of the fact that a cottonmouth this size would likely have fangs three quarters of an inch in length. If disturbed, its bite and subsequent envenomation could very well be something that I could live quite happily without.

Some experts, Ross Allan among them, considered the bite of the Cottonmouth water moccasin as the worst that could be inflicted by North America’s poisonous snakes. The cause for this reasoning is the composition of the venom, a veritable witch's brew of digestive enzymes as well as both hemotoxic and neurotoxic venoms. As If this were not bad enough in and of itself, bacteria from the snake's mouth is introduced into the wound. This increase in the infectious bacteria drastically increases the risk of wet gangrene and subsequent tissue loss.

The snake explored the area of my stomach and lower chest, probing; lazily and half heartedly rearing up to gain access to its goal, but as it did this the upward movement forced its body under water, so I was thankful it was a no win situation. The snake then turned its attention to my camera, crawling up until it was draped quite prettily, with the front half of its body moving around in the air in front of my face.

It might be said that the situation was rapidly going from bad to horrible.

Then, much to my relief, instead of trying to reach me, Brownie slowly lowered his head and launched himself into the stream. I stood there as the snake slowly swam away. I noted its broad, dark head, made even darker by the fact that it was wet. The white chin and those two distinct diagonal facial stripes cutting through the eyes as on so many of its kind were obvious.

The snake swam across the stream, floating high, its head held two or three inches above the water’s surface, as is the manner of the cottonmouth. I stood still and watched as it swam into some dense waterweeds along the shore and disappeared.

With a prayer of thanksgiving I picked up my camera and tripod and made my way back to the canoe. It wasn’t until I was seated in the canoe that I began breathing normally again.

How alive I felt! I would have another day to photograph the deer but just then I wanted to shout, ‘thank you God!’ But Instead I whispered a silent but very enthusiastic, ‘Praise you Father’.

FELINE MIND CONTROL

2008-08-10T20:07:00.002-04:00

I don't want to alarm you by what I am going to say but I want you consider the implications carefully. Civilization as we know it might be, probably is, definitely is, nearing an end.

I have never considered myself a conspiracy theory nut, or, contrary to popular opinion, any sort of nut. Just because I have papered my walls with tinfoil to break the transmission of messages from outer space from reaching the radios hidden in my teeth is really not all that strange is it?

Now lest you think me somewhat strange, a tad weird, a bit batty, mad, or a raving lunatic you must hear me out. Then, if you are still convinced that I am a candidate for the funny farm please ignore this brief missive and fall victim to the menace that is about to descend upon mankind in all of its feline fury.

(Seriously now, as a side note and to show that I have probably given this subject way too much thought, have you ever considered the word CATastrophe? You have I am sure, noticed that it is not dogastrophe, or bearastrophe, or, cute-little-mouse-astrophe, no, it is CATastrophe for a very good reason which I am working on and will let you know as soon as I arrive at a plausible answer.)

Have you ever been doing something around the house, perhaps cleaning the refrigerator, washing the laundry or repairing the lawnmower on the dining room table, when suddenly and quite inexplicably you find yourself cleaning the cat's litter box?

Or perhaps you found yourself opening a can of cat food when you knew very well that you don't like that brand of cat food?

I bet you thought that was your idea didn't you? Well, you were wrong. It was the cat, or cats, whichever the case may be, working a sinister form of cat mind meld, or, feline mind control.

You think I have gone around the bend don't you? Go ahead, admit it, you think I'm bonkers, but think about it, when was the last time your cat squirmed into your lap and went to sleep and you didn't dare make him move? Yep, Feline mind control!

When was the last time you felt the desire to rub his highness between the ears, to dangle a toy so he could play? That wasn't your idea, oh no! He was controlling you through a form of tabby telepathy.

Just last evening as I was sitting comfortably in my easy chair Vociferous, the boss cat in the house jumped into my lap and began chewing on my book. Then he pushed it aside with his chin and placed a paw on it. All the time this was taking place I was hearing this very low, soft purring voice saying, "You are sleepy, sleepy, sleeeepy… You will not move. You are a soft, warm pillow."

About an hour later I awoke with this very strange feeling that I had been licking the cat. Now we all know this is improbable to the point of the ridiculous but to be honest with you I still haven't been able to figure out how my tongue got all covered with cat hair? Strange, very strange.

Pardon me, he is demanding some of my sliced, gourmet turkey breast. Yes master, I am coming master.

Please, humans arise; do something, it is too late for me but you must save yourselves before it is too late!

Yes master, I will clean the litter box, yes master, right away master.

THE DARKER SIDE # 2

2008-08-07T18:42:00.000-04:00

Another episode in: THE FINER ART OF HOUSE KEEPING FOR DISCRIMINATING GUYS

As is usual with things of this magnitude it all started quite innocently enough. I decided to clean the refrigerator. Why I felt that this was necessary I can't imagine, after all, when a thing has gone ten years without being cleaned there can't really be any sense of immediate urgency.

Most guys would do well to adapt the ten year law. It is simple and direct. The way the ten year law works is thusly, If you miss the ten year mark you can wait another ten years before tackling that particular project.

One of the first things you will notice when cleaning the refrigerator is that refrigerators, for some strange reason, grow stuff.

Not only do they grow stuff but they mysteriously transport objects. What this means is this, if you were to place a container full of delicious leftovers on the top shelf and in front of the sour milk (We will call this point "A") The next time you go to the frig, that container of delicious broccoli and cauliflower will have migrated to the rear of the bottom shelf and is hiding behind a pot of baked beans, or something that might have been baked beans, (This we will call point "b") that was placed there sometime in the far distant past.

On the back of the shelves in the refrigerator I began discovering items that were unrecognizable. Bottles and jars had been there so long the labels had yellowed, fallen away and turned to millennial dust.

Sunshine has an affect on plastic that causes it to age, become brittle and crumble at the lightest touch. I found plastic containers in the refrigerator that had never seen sunshine that did the same thing. Strange, very strange. (And they tell us that it takes thousands of years for plastic to break down.) Not in my refrigerator!

And something else, wire racks are not good. When a container bursts from pent up gas the contents have a tendency to gush out and dribble and drool onto and into the containers below which can transform delicious leftovers into mystery food at the blink of an eye.

On the rear of the bottom shelf reclines a fish fillet, dried out and blackened, not by Cajun spices but by age. I tentatively taste it and decide it is not fit to eat. Hmmm, a jar of some indescribable stuff, sans lid, a new life form disguised as yellowish green mold gropes and gestures threateningly at me with cute little tentacles. It whimpers pathetically as it follows the other unknowns into the garbage can.

A dish of mystery food? Either they are bones or blackened carrot sticks? Under the carrot sticks/bones are two ancient blackened bananas. They have been pressed through the wire shelf and hang there doing whatever deceased bananas do.

A few more containers and the garbage can moans and groans in disgust.

Shelf after shelf and the containers are removed to the garbage can. The appliance is scrubbed and by the time I am finished it is gleaming. It is so clean I go to the front door and check the house number to be sure it is my house. Hey, I'm a nice guy but clean someone else's refrigerator? Never happen.

One task remains. The freezer.

Oh goody!

I open the freezer door.

I immediately close the freezer door.

I don't want to do this.

I reopen the freezer door.

Packages, containers, freezer bags. The packages of frozen veggies, once opened and never resealed have suffered, not freezer burn but terminal freezer cremation. I wisely decide they should go into the garbage can.

Ahhh, a mystery package. I open the package and stare. Hey, I wondered what happened to them! Snake heads. Yep, really, snake heads. A maniacal neighbor who works at the park gave them to me to save for him. What with him being maniacal I dared not say no. (So, I have some strange neighbors) The snake heads stare at me through cute, unseeing little squinched up snaky eyes. Into the garbage can.

Four hours later the job is finished, so am I.

The garbage can is dragged outside to wait the garbage man. That night the word is out, the raccoons avoid my garbage can like the plague. There are some things that even raccoons draw the line at eating. Smart animals them raccoons.

I finally heave a sigh of relief.

Finished.

Never again.

Chapter # 3, "KILLER" THE 'COON HOUND

2008-08-03T21:20:00.003-04:00

I feel somewhat remiss for excluding this little tale about "Killer" my double pedigreed, Walker/ Plott 'coon hound so you will please forgive my remissiveness.

We mustn't dismiss "Killer" without regaling and beguiling you with one more of our misadventures with my faithful 'coon hound, "Killer" otherwise, A.K.A. "Ol' Pisser."

Dootsie Bobo, A.K.A. Alvin and I were wasting our time following Killer through the woods one dark night pursuing some phantom 'coon shortly before I foisted him off on a poor, deluded, moonstruck, half inebriated 'coon hunter we found wandering in the woods one moonlit night.

On that particular night killer had devised an entertaining game called, "let the clever dog see just how many electric fences, immense thorny black raspberry patches, dead falls, swampy areas, farm ponds and other obstacles he can lead his idiot human through before said human places his boot gently and with great zeal on a portion of said dog's tender anatomy!"

With that brief preamble let us get on with our tale.

Killer, true to form was lost. We had called, yelled, whistled, coerced, begged, beseeched, cussed , muttered, threatened, and prayed for killer's safe return so that we could send him to the great happy, wherever it is that worthless dogs go when they are afflicted with a slight case of lead poisoning, all to no avail.

We were standing there in a pouring rain that was aspiring to break Noah's flood record. Our comfort zones had flown away two hours before. No self respecting comfort zone would be caught dead out in such weather.

We had paused in the midst of a particularly vile bit of volatile and debasing slander to Killer's doubtful ancestry when far off in the distance we heard a very distinct and long, drawn out, very faint, "Awoooo!"

We both perked up. Killer was on a trail!

One thing that must be said in our favor, Dootsie Bobo and I were optimists.

Led on by an occasional "Awoooo!" We clawed our way through about ten miles of brambles, barbed wire fences, and the denser portions of the Amazon jungle until we could distinctly hear Killer.

Now and then a frantic yelp told us that killer could see his prey but then mysteriously his howls became quite faint. The only way this could be explained was that he had either chased the 'coon into a hollow tree or possibly a hole in the ground. That was the only thing that could possibly explain his muffled howls.

Hmmm, little did we know?
Suddenly bursting into a clearing where we expected to find our faithful Killer we were met by? Nothing!

We stood there listening intently. Zilch, Nada.

Our lights were doused to conserve the batteries. Dootsie Bobo, always one to sit when the opportunity offered itself walked over to what he thought was a large log and sat down and promptly vanished with a blood curdling scream.

The air was quite suddenly full of very sharp, flying expletives and invectives and if you have ever been struck by a sharp, flying expletive you can fully understand the danger I found myself in.

I turned on my flashlight to see a most strange sight. Dootsie Bobo's legs were waving in the air. His entire body was on the other side of the log which was not a log but a slightly deceased cow that had died of some mysterious bovine disease about a week before to judge by the smell which was now becoming quite obvious what with my faithful sidekick writhing around in a massive pile of putrid cow guts.

Suddenly, from the innards of said cow beast erupted Killer! He had pursued a pair of gourmet 'possums to their bovine smorgasbord and was inside the cow trying to evict them from their penthouse apartment when we had stumbled upon said moo cow.

That night and only that night Killer showed his affection by jumping on us repeatedly, insisting that we join the feast in the cow carcass.

I don't know who smelled worst that night, killer because he had been inside the cow or Dootsie Bobo because he had been rolling in rotten cow guts.

And now you understand why, a few nights later, we were so sad to say farewell to my double pedigreed, Plott/ Walker 'coon hound, Killer, A.K.A. 'Ol Pisser.

Chapter # 2, "KILLER" THE 'COON HOUND

2008-07-31T12:34:00.004-04:00

Well, last time we had about given up on ever finding "Killer." Dootsie Bobo and I agreed that some other hunter had stolen my new, "double pedigreed" 'coon hound and we were on the way home.

Dootsie Bobo’s trouser leg had almost dried so he was in a little better mood as we left the grave yard and began walking down the railroad tracks toward home.

We were just about at the point where we would go to our separate homes when we were both surprised to see Killer trotting toward us in the moonlight! Not only had Killer returned but he was carrying something in his jaws?

With great enthusiasm I exclaimed, “He’s such an incredible hunter, I bet he went and caught hisself a ‘coon an’ what’s more he’s fetched it to us. Good dog, what’cha got boy?” He growled something in answer but I couldn’t understand him because he still held his catch in his jaws and it was difficult to make out his words. What he said probably could have been roughly translated as, ”Mine, all mine!”

I reached for the thing. Killer dropped it and snapped at my hand. Great kidder that dog. I playfully kicked at Killer and missed. He snapped at me, darned near tearing off a trouser leg. What a dog!

Finally I was able to make out the object that he had been carrying. Thanksgiving was just past and Killer, my double pedigreed ‘champeen’, Plott/Walker ‘coon hound had found and retrieved the gnawed remains of a roast turkey breast from someone’s garbage can.

We stood there watching him gnaw on the turkey breast trying to think of a new name for my dog. Killer no longer seemed appropriate, and Instilling confidence in the animal was not very high on my list of priorities anymore either.

Some of the names we discarded as perhaps a little too harsh, after all we didn’t want to give him cause to have any worse attitude then he already possessed. By now I am sure you will agree that ‘possessed’ was a pretty good description of my dog.

Just then Dootsie Bobo exclaimed, “Ding nabbed, blankety blank, no good, furley blurb dog!” As he said this he kicked at the object of his affection. Killer snapped at Dootsie Bobo’s foot and leaped playfully aside, the kick going far wide. Killer laughed at this loving attention.

The cause of Dootsie Bobo’s peevishness was that Killer had just laid claim to his leg for the third time that evening!

We ended up renaming Killer that night after all. Dootsie Bobo cleverly observed that it was highly unlikely that killer’s ancestry was Walker or Plott. Pisshound was more like it. Thus it was that Dootsie Bobo felt that renaming the dog "Ol' Pisser"was most appropriate.

Eventually, after a few more memorable, (perhaps miserable would be a better word!) ‘coon hunting episodes with Ol’ Pisser I ended up trading him to another ‘coon hunter we met in the woods one moonlit night.

You know what they say about a full moon causin’ folks to do weird and foolish things? I bet if there hadn’t been a full moon that night the stranger wouldn’t have been nearly so foolish.

It pained me to see Ol’ Pisser go but Dootsie Bobo was just barely able to conceal his joy. He kept giggling all the time I was haggling with the stranger. I was afraid the fellow might get suspicious but the deal was finally consummated.

I traded Ol Pisser for a five dollar bill and a fine little vintage .22 rifle that was laying in some trash in the back of the fellow's pickup truck. The rifle's rusty barrel was bent at a nice ten degree angle for shooting around corners and there was a twenty two cartridge rust welded in the chamber.

When you consider everything trading the dog for a rifle that wouldn't shoot wasn’t really all that bad 'cause Ol’ Pisser, my double pedigreed, full blood, Plott/ Walker hound wouldn’t hunt.

The stock on that little .22 rifle had been repaired in a very fine field technique utilizing about four feet of barbed wire held in place with half a dozen fence staples. The ejector wouldn’t work, it was rusted shut and the barrel was mounted to the stock with about two rolls of electricians’ tape. (A nice touch, that electricians’ tape!)

Refusing to be bested in the trade, I insisted the stranger throw in a rusty horseshoe nail as boot to seal the deal. I could use that rusty nail to clean my fingernails of worm goop after a long day of fishing, or I could pry the cartridge out of the chamber of the real nice little .22 rifle that wouldn’t shoot.

As we were getting ready to leave, the stranger’s double pedigreed Plott/ Walker hound, a fine breed that I will always recognize, walked up and peed on his new owner’s leg. When Pisser did that it pleased Dootsie Bobo mightily for he knew the dog had truly transferred his affections to his new owner.

At this insult to his person the stranger jumped as if he had been scalded!

With an expression of shock on his face he exclaimed, “That darn dog pissed on me!”

“Sorry” , I said as Dootsie Bobo and I walked to the car, “a deal is a deal!”

Dootsie Bobo and I were about to drive away when the stranger called after us, “Hey fellas, what’s the dog’s name?”

We glanced at each other and grinned as we replied in unison, “Killer, you just call him Killer!”

I want you to know that I treasured that beautiful little bent barreled .22 rifle that wouldn’t shoot, handling it lovingly and with great reverence until we crossed a little ‘crick’ on the way home that night. There I stopped the car and with Dootsie Bobo at my side, by the light of the full moon, I tossed the rifle into the deep pool just below the bridge. But, being of a practical frame of mind I kept the rusty nail. I still have it to this day.

P.S. If anybody is interested I will sell that little rusty nail. It is handy for cleaning disgusting worm goop from under your fingernails, picking your teeth and a multitude of other uses. I had it chrome plated and a keychain attached. The price is a mere $9.95 including shipping and includes a certificate of authenticity. Also if you order now I will include a four inch length of the original barbed wire used to repair the fine little rifle that wouldn't shoot free of charge. Also included is a fine original hand scribbled copy of Killers story but you need to hurry because my copier is running out of ink.
What a deal!
Chaz

Chapter # 1, "KILLER" THE 'COON HOUND

2008-07-30T00:07:00.003-04:00

I was about fifteen years old when I bought my first hunting dog.

When dealing with a veteran horse trader or a dog dealer there are certain things that you should never forget, at least if you possess half the intelligence of a retarded Monkey.

I forgot that Old Ed was both a horse trader AND a dog dealer! I would really appreciate it if you would be so kind as to disregard the retarded monkey comment.

“This here hound is of champeen stock,” Old Ed commented. He paused as he spit and stuffed his cheek full of Crazyman chewing tobacco. “Yes sir’ree, this dog is a pure blood, Plott hound fer sure! Then he added, “Bred for huntin’ bars them Plotts is, ya know.”

"I don't want to hunt bars, daddy would whup my butt good if he caught me in a bar! I said.

Ed just looked at me with a gleam in his eye and tobacco juice running off his chin.

“I didn’t know that Plott hounds were black and white,” I ventured.

“Oh that, well now, that there dog is black and white fer a very good reason! It’s ‘cause his ma is sure enough a full blood, pedigreed, bar huntin’ Plott hound with jus’ a smidgin o’ Walker on her pa’s side. Helps t’ strengthen the blood line ya know!

“What’s that you say, if his mama is part Walker hound how can she be a genuine pedigreed Plott hound?” I was becoming confused.

“Well now" Ed spit as he said, "I’m surely glad you as’t that there question, shows that yore ah right clever young feller, an I’m goin’ t’ give ya’ an answer what will more then satisfy! That there Plott hound, it was pedigreed, we can agree on that can’t we?”

While saying this he was vigorously nodding his head up and down. Why, I just had to agree with him!

He continued, “An’ that there Walker hound now, it were pedigreed, right?” I nodded my head right along with him. “An’ if’n that Plott were pedigreed an’ the Walker were pedigreed that must mean that this here fine lookin’ dog are pedigreed, don’t it?”

How could I argue with that sort of reasoning?

I didn’t realize it at the time but Old Ed was nodding my head right into me buying a dog!

Anybody who has done much dog trading and understands the finer points of this precise science knows that you never come right out and ask the dog’s owner how much he wants. That would indicate that you were interested. You have to finesse your opponent by saying something like, “That dog can’t be worth much.” Then you follow that with something like, “He must be pretty old, can’t have many years left!” Or, “He’s just a pup, can’t be very well trained!” Understanding these finer points of dog trading I decided to use a shock tactic. I came right out and said, “Looks like a real nice dog! How much do you want for him?”

I ended up with a heck of a deal. I got myself a double pedigreed, black and white Plott hound with a tad of Walker on his mama’s side for $20.00! I almost felt sorry for Ed, taking advantage of him like that.

It was several days before I was able to stop nodding my head though.

A couple of nights later my faithful side kick Dootsie Bobo and I decided to take my new ‘champeen’ ‘coon hound out to see him do his stuff.

Back then if you really wanted to hunt raccoons one of the best places to go was the cemetery on the edge of towne! Those were big, bad ‘coon, tough enough to whip the average dog. They lived in the vicinity of the cemetery but would make foraging raids into town eating out of garbage cans, terrorizing those lazy town dogs, eating wimpy house cats and generally making a bad reputation for themselves. Those were what we called "grave yard" ‘coon.

I don’t suppose folks would tolerate ‘coon hunting in the cemetery today, what with everybody being so sensitive and all. We were careful so as not to step on any graves, I mean after all, we had folks buried there too.

Dootsie Bobo and I took Killer, that’s what we decided to call my new dog, Killer, down the railroad tracks below the graveyard and turned him loose.

When you take possession of a hunting dog it is essential that you name the animal appropriately. This instills confidence into the dog, assuring many years of faithful and loyal service.

Killer didn’t waste any time at all. I mean he got right down to business. First he went around to about a dozen trees marking them, laying claim to the area I suppose. When he marked Dootsie Bobo’s left leg I was somewhat puzzled as to his intent. Certainly he didn’t consider my hunting partner part of his territory? Attempting to commit suicide was more like it!

Dootsie Bobo didn’t really appreciate that last move on Killer's part.

Finally he sat down, Killer, not Dootsie Bobo, scratched behind his right ear, chewed the base of his tail for fleas, laid down, put his head on his paws, made some disgusting body sounds, and went to sleep.

We stood there quietly watching Killer sleep and very quickly decided to move upwind of him. I could see immediately that he would never be a house dog.

When we were finally able to breathe again I said in a very commanding voice, “Yo Killer, go get ‘em boy!”

He responded immediately by flopping over on his side and running in place, obviously chasing dream raccoons. Killer was not too impressed with my "very commanding" voice.

Dootsie Bobo walked over and toed Killer gently in the ribs, obviously checking to see if the dog was either dead or in a coma. That was a mistake! Killer obviously interpreted that toe in the ribs as a kick! He lifted his head, snarling a demonic snarl at Dootsie Bobo. Slowly the dog got to his feet and walking stiff legged, with all of his teeth showing confirmed his friendship with Dootsie Bobo by peeing on his leg the second time that evening.

Dootsie Bobo, never too quick in the reaction department, stood there with a pained expression of disbelief on his face. By the time he was able to react it was too late. It was highly unlikely that Killer would ever be nominated for the prestigious, ‘Man’s Best Friend’ award by Dootsie Bobo.

Having had the last word as to who was in charge my wonderful dog, "Killer" took off at a shambling run up the hill toward the cemetery, into ‘coon country!

The first thing killer did upon entering the graveyard was attack a vicious vase of yellow Mums decorating a grave. I could see immediately that my dog didn’t like flowers. There were mums everywhere! This was obviously an exercise run because Killer suddenly put his nose to the ground, sniffed deeply, and the next thing we heard was music. “Yowww! Yowww! Yowww!” Killer howled as he struck a trail. YES! My champeen ‘coon dog was finally ready to hunt!

“Go Killer, Get ‘em boy!” I encouraged enthusiastically.

“Yowww! Yowww! Yowww!’ He replied.

Each of Killer’s howls was long and drawn out, and about fifteen seconds apart. That sound would be beautiful music to any hunter’s ears! Even Dootsie Bobo was excited.

“Yowww! Yowww! Yowww!”

“Go-o-o killer!” I encouraged.

“Yowww!”

We listened, and we waited. Nothing. Then we waited some more. There were no more “Yowww’s” coming from Killer. The music had died. We waited, no Killer. Then it struck me. The average discerning and unscrupulous hunter would recognize Killer’s fine bloodlines at a glance. Maybe Killer has been stolen!

“Here Killer. Yo boy. Come on boy!”

We whistled and called, searched and pleaded for more than three hours with the same results, no Killer. I mean, that graveyard never heard such a ruckus what with all that hollerin’ and all. Finally we reluctantly decided to go home. We would resume the search the next day.'

Tune in next time for another chapter in the eventful life of, Killer the 'coon hound

THE DARKER SIDE

2008-07-27T10:42:00.002-04:00

I am sure that by now as we have become acquainted you have noticed that I am of a somewhat sensitive nature and that I avoid disgusting like the plague but I feel obligated to warn you lest you fall into the same trap I found myself in this last week.

It all began innocently enough. I decided to clean the house. From that experience I have decided to share my thoughts in what could be called, "A GUIDE TO HOUSEKEEPING FOR GUYS."

You ladies might not realize it but we guy's clean house differently than you do. When you see something that looks out of place, you set it right. A speck of dust must be eliminated immediadely. No grime goes un-attacked.

We guys on the other hand, being of a more practical frame, do nothing that is absolutely unnecessary.

Take bed making for example. Never should bed linens be changed more often that once every three weeks. Here we guys should always use the old crinkle test. If the sheets sort of "crinkle" when you climb into the bed that is an indication that they probably need to be washed. (Cracker and cookie crumbs as well as potato chips and anchovies can be shaken or swept onto the floor. They alone are not an indication of a dirty bed so you can see the need of the "crinkle" test.

Concerning the cleaning of floors. A true "Guy" always resorts to the "Crunch" test. The crunch test is similar to the crinkle test in that one is resorting to one's ears to determine necessity. How the crunch test works is this, if when walking across the floor your feet make sort of a crunching sound it is likely that the floor needs to be cleaned. There is no need to be alarmed at this point for the only portion of the floor that needs to be cleaned are the high "crunch" or, traffic areas.

A broom can be used at this point to sweep the potato chips, cracker and cookie crumbs and dried out anchovies from the 'high crunch" or traffic areas. Simply sweep this crunch to one side of the high crunch or traffic area until it constitutes a health hazard by collapsing onto the unwary cat or dog, at which time it can be removed with a shovel and spread in the driveway.

ON WASHING DISHES

I invariably laugh as I watch a woman wash the dishes. We guys being of a more practical mindset always laugh when we watch the ladies do the dishes due to the fact we know how to save time when driven to this menial task.

The following steps indicate how a woman washes the dishes. (1) She carefully rinses the dishes. (2) She carefully places them in the dishwasher. (3) She puts soap in the dishwasher. (4) She turns the dishwasher on. (5) Then, when the dishwasher is finished doing whatever it does, she carefully removes the dishes one at a time, (6) and dries them, (7) before carefully placing them into the cupboard.

Guys on the other hand eliminate steps 2-6. We rinse the dishes and throw them into the cupboard. Now isn't that simple?

(I personally like to carry practicality a step further and use tin pie plates and tin cans for dishware but you can use your own discretion here.)

I hope these tips have been helpful. Next time I will share with you my horrible experience as I entered another dimension, cleaning the refrigerator from hell.

OLD LUCKY

2008-07-23T20:04:00.001-04:00

As dogs go Lucky was most unique.

One of his traits was his gentle, laid back character, sort of a cross between a manic crocodile and a T-Rex on uppers.

Lucky would challenge all comers and fight at the drop of a hat but his sweet disposition, though endearing was not his most attractive characteristic.
What really set Lucky apart was his appearance.

He had one blind, white eye, his face was covered with scars from fighting with everything and anything, one of his long ears had been split down the middle and half of his tail was gone. On top of all that he had obviously been in some sort of accident because one of his hind legs had been broken and when it healed it ended up crooked. And oh yes, he had a bad case of doggy leprosy, or mange.

By now I am sure you have figured out why we called him Kucky.

When Lucky first arrived daddy explained to him that there were several things on the old home place that were off limits and there were seven specific rules that must never be violated. Daddy also explained to him that violation of these rules would reap a dire and terrible reward.

The rules, known as the ‘SHALT NOTS’ were as follows:

Rule # 1 Thou shalt not kill chickens.
Rule # 2 Thou shalt not suck eggs.
Rule # 3 Thou shalt not molest chickens. (Refer to Rule # 1)
Rule # 4 Thou shalt not chase chickens. (Refer to Rule # 3)
Rule # 5 Thou shalt not play with chickens. (Refer to rule # 1)
Rule # 6 Thou shalt not try to coax, lure or otherwise entice, chickens out of sight of the house under any circumstances.
Rule # 7 Thou shalt not trespass, break, ignore, neglect, reject, forget, or otherwise violate, intentionally, mistakenly or otherwise these seven rules which are indisputable and immutable.

Violation of these rules shall result in immediate punishment so terrible and disgusting that the miscreant shall carry the memory forever. AMEN!

These rules were explained to Lucky in very great and specific detail and a copy of them were nailed to the barn door but obviously he had either a very bad memory or a very good forgetter.

But sad to say, Lucky broke the first rule.

Yes, Lucky killed a chicken.

Lucky was guilty of breaking the great commandment of the seven rules. Lucky was guilty of an unforgivable crime and as such must be punished.

You might very well ask how daddy knew that Lucky was the guilty party.

Well now, that is a very good question and best answered by saying that when the dead chicken was discovered it was in Lucky's possession.
Not only that but good old Lucky was in the process of defoliating said bird.

When discovered, Lucky looked at daddy, wagged his stump of a tail and grinned as if to say, “Hey, I know the law and you can’t condemn a guy on circumstantial evidence.”

The problem was that when Lucky grinned his mouth was full of feathers and he had chicken on his breath.

Guilty, guilty, guilty!!!

Daddy grabbed Lucky by the scruff of the neck, (poor Lucky, I remember well the old "scruff of the neck” routine from personal experience.)

The dead chicken was tied securely around his neck with a piece of twine and Lucky was released.

Lucky, true to type, nonchalantly walked off a few paces and went berserk in his endeavors to rid himself of the offending burden of the freshly killed chicken carcass.

Three days passed and lucky was still possessed by his trophy. An exorcism was definitely in order.

Oh, I forgot to mention that it was July. It gets very warm in Illinois during the month of July.

The hot July sun beat down upon the land. It also beat down on Lucky and the dead chicken.

Lucky was not feeling very lucky anymore.

Three more days passed.

Lucky no longer walked around with a debonair air. In fact he gave new meaning to the expression, “hang dog.”

Everywhere he went lucky left a trail of feathers reminiscent of a fallen doggy angel.

And there was that piquant, delicate aroma of rotting chicken flesh that needs to be realized to really be appreciated!

It was sometime on the eighth day that our miserable, maggetty, malodorous mutt lost his nemesis. The chicken simply disintegrated and fell away.

From that day Lucky avoided chickens at all costs.

Break one of the seven commandments? You have got to be kidding!
A mild mannered hen would walk across the yard minding her own business, eating the chance choice bug and in passing her shadow would fall upon the sleeping Lucky. He would open his one good eye; see the hen, gag, yelp, and run and hide, trembling, under the porch.

Poor Lucky, he never did learn and his luck finally ran out.

Oh no, he never chased another chicken but he loved to nip at the horses hooves, until one day a well aimed hind hoof sent Lucky to doggy heaven.

I sure wouldn’t want any of my "mistakes" tied around my neck, I’d probably still be wearing the nasty things.

THE CATHEDRAL

2008-07-20T13:29:00.003-04:00

I stood and stared in awe.

I was just a little boy when my father took me to the cathedral that very first time and I stood there and looked up in great wonderment.

Over my head massive timbers reached out from the apex in all directions. The central pillar, a grand and ancient monolithic support to the whole and the whole made no less impressive by the fact that truly this was a temple, "made without hands" for the cathedral was no man made edifice but a living thing.

What I was looking at, what held my attention, my fascination was in fact an oak tree.

But what an oak it was.

At the very base, where the giant's feet were anchored to the earth it was fully ten feet thick. Its trunk soared unbroken by branch or twig for a good twenty feet into the air and there the branches began, gracefully reaching out, extending their fingers of branchettes in welcome to whatever birds may choose to build their nests therein.

Higher still the oak tree grew and lifting his head he exalted over his domain, spreading his arms in welcome to all.

Many years before my first visit, after having stood for how many hundreds of years, the magnificent oak was struck by lightening.

That fiery bolt of pure energy exploded the upper portion of the giant and that ruined portion plummeted to the forest floor.

What remained was a jagged snag, a remnant still rising above most of its neighbors and made perhaps even more impressive by the fact that the ancient one had not only survived that deadly stroke from Thor's hammer but thrived in the surviving.

The wind, the forest wind continued to sing its song among the oak's branches.

A pair of bald eagles built their nest in the forest giant's hair and they were lulled to sleep each night for years of nights by the whispered song of the wind in the tree's uppermost branches.

The passenger pigeons came each year and roosted by the thousands, at times completely enshrouding the tree in a feathery mantle, and then each sunrise that mantle would be lifted as the birds went out to forage.

Over the years the tree suffered a malignancy which ate away at the very core of its being. The resulting cavity served as home for a pair of raccoons and there the female gave birth to her first litter.

That first pair of eagles lived, grew old and died and another pair adopted the nest as their own.
The passenger pigeons came in numbers beyond numbering and generations of raccoon pups began their lives deep in the heart of the ancient monolith.

A red man, sensing that his time was near chose a spot beneath the oak to end his days. There, sitting with his back against the skin of the oak he sang his death song, he went to sleep, and there his bones moldered, chewed upon by rodents and scattered by the fox and the coyote until those whitened bones sank into the forest floor to contribute their minerals to the rich soil.

Other men came.

They did not contribute.

They came with guns and they slaughtered the innumerable passenger pigeons, those same birds that were beyond numbering were no more.

Men saw the eagles nest and with selfish design they drove spikes into the skin of the old oak and then, step by step they ascended where no man had been before.

Those men took the eagles fertile eggs and drained them and the useless, dead eggs were added to collections of other useless, dead eggs.

The eagles abandoned the desecrated nest.

The pigeons were no more.

The eagles nest was adopted by a pair of great horned owls.

More years passed.

I came on the first of my many pilgrimages.

I saw the remains of those spikes the first raiders had placed there, more a row of scar like weal's with only a few showing age rusted metal, the rest completely covered by the persistent growth of the old oak.

Then lightening struck once one more final, devastating blow and the tree was split asunder. That massive first branch, amputated, dropped to the forest floor with a roar that was heard only by the spirits that roam in that place.

The raccoon's den exposed; the tree ruined, "oh how the mighty have fallen."

Over the ensuing years a smattering of presumptuous upstarts have attempted to extend their shadows a bit more hoping they could stand in the patriarch's place but they were dismayed to find that they could not assume a stature even large enough to keep them safe from the first browsing deer that happened by.

I went back and there I was pleased and mightily encouraged, for out of the very center of the mound that is all that remains of the old oak tree is a perfect young oak tree approximately twenty feet tall. It is strong in trunk, perfect in symmetry, truly a prince among oaks.

Isaiah 61: 3. "For they will be called oaks of righteousness, a planting of the Lord for the display of His splendor."

ANOTHER RANT FROM THE REBORN RIVER RAT

2008-07-14T23:12:00.005-04:00

SHOOTING YOURSELF IN THE FOOT

"The country is going to hell in a hand basket!" And, "Have you seen the price of gas lately?" Or how about this one, "And the cost of food? Why, we aren't going to be able to afford to eat if this keeps up!"

The doomsayers, as they whimper and whine about the state of the economy seem to be practicin' limpin' in anticipation of shootin' themselves in the foot. They remind me of the young fella who was drivin' down a country road and ran out o' gas.

He started walkin' down that road, searchin' for a farm where he could purchase a couple gallons of gas. It wasn't long before he noticed a farmer plowin' in a field so he began walkin' across the freshly plowed ground.

It was a long walk across that field and the young man had a lot of time to think and his thinkin' ran somethin' like this, "I wonder what the farmers reaction is going to be when I show up askin' for gas?" This thought was followed by, "Boy, I bet he is going to gouge me, probably charge twice as much as the gas is worth!" And then, "I just know he is going to be upset and cuss me out, probably call me horrible names and everythin'!" As he drew near the farmer he was thinking, "my goodness, he is apt to pull a gun and shoot me!"

As the young fellow approached the farmer he was ready for anythin' except what he got.

The farmer stopped the tractor and sat there with a big friendly smile on his face as he said, "Well hello there young fellow, and what can I do for you on this beautiful day?"

That young man never missed a lick as he angrily exclaimed, "Are you crazy! Hell no you old grump, I ain't goin' to pay that price, and you don't have to cuss at me that way, and what's more, if you threaten me any more I'll take that gun away from you and make you eat it, and not only that but you can take your gas and shove it!"

Hey folks, I don't know what to do about the problem, I,m only a rat, but I do know this, grousin' and' grumblin' an' complainin' ain't goin' t' help none so stop yer whimperin' and whinin' and do somethin'!

Yes'sir. A lot of folks are shootin' theyselves in the foot just like that young man.

You have a nice day now ya hear, Ratty

another near fatal embarrassment

2008-07-10T21:40:00.001-04:00

Not only are most city people heartless but city animals are a lot nastier than country animals.

Let me illustrate.
Never have I had an evil bird encounter in the country.

As a naturalist I have been bat dived, crow cussed, hawk bit, owl clawed and otherwise tormented by all sorts of country birds while in the course of photographing them in their natural habitat.

But only in the city have the birds ever been so contemptuous as to use me as a walking bombing range.
Pigeons, pigeons everywhere! Some cities have more than their share of pigeons along with the accompanying pigeon problems.

And by the way, a large group of pigeons, up to a thousand in number I feel should be called a ‘poop’. Some cities it could be said, have by some estimates several hundred poops of pigeons.

The term used for a group of pigeons this large is no longer called a ‘poop’. I will leave that up to your imagination.

I was walking down the street in a southern city one day, minding my own business when out of the blue, I was suddenly assaulted!

On the day in question there were many pedestrians present and though a lot of them witnessed the incident in which my person was accosted not one of them stopped to render assistance.

In fact some of them laughed heartlessly while the less bold grinned maliciously, obviously thankful that I was the casualty and not themselves.
Admittedly, the most anyone could have done was offer me their handkerchief due to the fact that my assailant was a dive-bombing pigeon.

About two days later, on the same street it was my dubious privilege to be the recipient of another gift from on high. Yes, that is right, again I was ground zero! And your darned right I’m taking it personally. And no, I do not believe it is coincidence!

This has happened enough times in my life to lead me to believe that at birth my folks had this cute little bullseye tattooed on the top of my head.

With my reputation as a target for the feathered those of you who decide to accompany me to the city be forewarned, walk at least ten feet away from me at all times.

So now you know why I do not like cities. Give me the wild places anytime. You can always find a tree to hide behind and the animals are much more civilized and a ‘poop’ of pigeons won’t be flying over your head!

A NEAR FATAL EMBARRASSMENT

2008-07-06T14:41:00.002-04:00

I don't like the city. Cities are cold and heartless.

I have never been mugged in a city but I have been embarrassed. The next worst thing to being mugged is to be embarrassed.

In my full and eventful life I have had a couple of city embarrassments that came very close to being fatal. (Whoever originated the word ‘embarrass’ certainly was a good wordsmith. Break it down to its two root words and you will note that it refers to that common condition of being caught with your pants down.)

The following spine tingling embarrassment could never have happened in the country.

Late one night I was driving through a city. The name of the city does not matter. It was just one of those generic, gray cities that have been planted across this land of ours to arbitrarily break up the wilderness. This was done so that we outdoor types would not become used to too much beauty and suffer a terminal case of B.B.B. otherwise known among savvy outdoor persons as "Bountiful Beauty Breakdown."

Well, there I was, driving through a city late one dark night and suddenly was overwhelmed by a desperate and dire need to find a gas station and In case you're wondering: I had plenty of gas!

“Woe is me oh Lord for I am in great and dire need!”

But at that point I was not being heard for there was no gas station with its accompanying rest room providentially provided. Oh, there were gas stations all right, lots of them, but they mocked me for they were all closed!

As my need became more dire it also became obvious that in that neck of the woods the sidewalks were rolled up as soon as a needy traveler was sighted.

As I drove along my need escalated from dire to demanding, to desperate and then from desperate to darned near disastrous.

You can wipe that smirk off your face because I know you have been there!

Being quite observant I noticed an abundance of large oak trees lining the street and Understanding that the good Lord put trees here for just such emergencies I pulled to the curb intending to… what the heck?

A police cruiser pulled in behind me with flashing blue lights! The officer, obviously thinking I was some dangerous felon, bellowed over his loudspeaker, “O.K. You in the car! Put your hands on top of your head and exit the vehicle!”

Hey, that’s a good trick. Have you ever tried to open your car door with your knees? It can’t be done!

Due to all the ruckus with the flashing blue lights and the officer bellowing on that infernal loud speaker the sidewalk along that nice quiet street soon contained roughly two dozen night robed, pajama'd and very curious citizens.

The technical name for a group of people as I have just described is known as a "hostile."

It seems that this particular "hostile" had appeared out of nowhere! It was strange, all those people in their robes and ‘jammies, something out of "The Twilight Zone."

I mean, really, not that many men in the world wear pajamas!

I tried to quietly explain my emergency to the officer but he insisted that I “speak louder sir!” I did. Everybody heard me!

The officer declared, “Well, we can’t have folks peeing in the street, we have ordinances against that!” Everybody heard him! One of the members of the ‘hostile’ hissed “Pervert!”

I’m sorry, all I wanted to do was pee!

The officer informed me with a cruel and fiendish grin on his face that there was an all night bus station about ten miles down the road. “You can use the restroom there.”

He should have added, “If you can make it!”

As I was getting into my car that ominous, anonymous voice called out once more from the sidewalk, ”PERVERT!”

Yes, It was a very hostile ‘hostile’!

Now if you were in the same situation and you needed help I would like to think that I would be sympathetic and that I would open my home to you and say something like, “I understand exactly how you feel, you come right in and use our facilities, there is a good fellow.” (Or maybe not.) But at least I would be sympathetic!

That heartless, hostile horde of pathetically parsiminous, pajama wearing twits, knowing my discomfort went back to their homes, with their nice rest rooms without offering this traveler one drop of sympathy. I say a pox on them!

The police officer escorted me to the bus station and then went forth to harass some other tinkler in the night.

As swiftly as possible, taking little baby steps due to the severity of my condition, I walked into the bus station, not a person in sight.

There, way on the other side of the concourse beckoning to me were the promised rest rooms. Finally relief was in sight!

Oh, oh, No urinals! Only pay toilets, and me with no change!

I couldn’t wait, desperate situations call for desperate measures.

There happened to be a space of about eighteen inches under the door of each stall. The floor being relatively clean I dropped to my knees and began crawling under the door.

Halfway into the stall something stopped me. A screw on the bottom hinge assembly was loose and it had snagged my jacket preventing any further progress either forward or back. I was trapped!

I was crouching there, a most uncomfortable position if you are wondering, endeavoring to free myself from my predicament when suddenly the place was filled with sound! Voices, lots of voices! Footsteps, lots of footsteps! A bus had arrived.

The restroom door banged open. One minute I was all by my lonesome and the next thing I knew I was surrounded! They were all trying to figure out what I was doing down there.

Someone asked, “Is he dead?” Somebody else ventured, “Nah, just drunk,” while someone else hissed, “Pervert!”

They all had quarters!

I don’t know who the guy was that invented toilets that flush automatically but one thing I can tell you, he was one sick individual!

I was laying there in uncomfortable misry minding my own business when it seemed that every toilet in the place flushed. Thank goodness my toilet was not plugged up. But the next one was!

Someone called a cop to take care of the "drunk" and It turned out to be the same officer of my previous embarrassment.

He walked in, took one look, and burst out laughing.

He really wasn't a bad sort after all for he unhooked me and gave me a quarter.

Yes, he was after all a gentleman.

THE GREAT SPIDER HUNT

2008-07-02T21:49:00.006-04:00

Dootsie Bobo was my very best friend.

One day I stopped by his house to see what he was doing and when I opened the kitchen door I was immediately alarmed! There, on the table, in plain sight, was a great big plate of still warm, fresh baked, oatmeal cookies! The alarming thing was, THE COOKIES WERE UNGUARDED!

Taking it upon myself to rectify the situation I pulled out a chair and sat as close to those cookies as I could get. No wandering tramp, or stray dog was going to get those cookies with me around.

I knew better then to take a cookie without permission but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to admire them. I was deeply engrossed in guarding and admiring the cookies when Dootsie Bobo’s mother walked into the room. I suppose she was some shocked to see me there with my nose in her plate of fresh baked cookies. Being very observant she also noticed that I had worked up a serious drool guarding the cookies.

Taking pity upon me she gave me a glass of milk and two of the more obviously drooled on cookies. I ate the cookies and drank half the milk and continued to sit there. I was hoping that she would notice the remaining milk, and feeling compassion, give me a couple more cookies to sop it up with but it wasn’t to be. Wisely she had moved the plate to keep the drooling to a minimum.

Soggy oatmeal cookies for some reason are not all that popular, especially if they are soggy from someone else’s drooling and slobbering.

She stopped across the table from me and stood there with her arms folded looking at me in a very dangerous way. I was familiar with that look. It was the same look I received from my mother when she was trying to think up something for me to do.

You probably have noticed that mothers are good at that sort of thing, thinkin' up things for boys t' do. I have never been able to figure it out? Left to myself I was usually able to find something to do

“Did you like the cookies?” she asked.

“Uh, Huh!” I replied, nodding my head vigorously.

“Well now, Alvin is out behind the house working. If you go out and help him I will give you some more cookies.”

At first I didn’t know who it was she was talking about when she said, “Alvin” but then I remembered, that is what she called Dootsie Bobo. I always thought it was sort of sad, his own mother calling him, “Alvin” when he had a real neat name like Dootsie Bobo.

I thought to myself, ’Those cookies are some powerful good but are they worth working for?’
“What’s he doing’ out back?’ I asked. After all, a guy has a right to know what he’s selling his soul for!

“He’s killin’ spiders.” She replied.

“Killin’ spiders?” I asked. (My interest had increased considerably.) “Yah, I can do that!” I said with a little more excitement then I meant to show. (It is never wise to show enthusiasm for something that adults consider work.) I drank the rest of my cookieless milk knowing that she would give me some more when we returned from, “Killing spiders.”

I expected to see Dootsie Bobo poking around, looking under boards and things in his search for spiders but he was nowhere to be seen. I was about to leave when I heard a thumping sound coming from their privy. And then I heard Dootsie Bobo’s voice mumbling something about “Dad blamed, frazzle niffin, spiders!”

The door to their privy was propped open so I walked over and looked in. Dootsie Bobo was there all right, at least what I could see of him. He was sprawled across the toilet seat, his head and one arm stuck down through one of the toilet holes while he flailed away with a short handled broom. Boy oh boy, there wasn’t no cookie in the world worth me sticking my head down through one of those toilet seat holes!

Back in the forties a lot of folks, even some with indoor facilities, still had a little comfort station out behind their houses. Dootsie Bobo’s father had built an extra nice one, a two holer it was, and he had painted it white with blue trim inside and out. Right cozy I must say. He had even nailed a monkey wards catalog to the wall! That was something special ‘cause all we had in our privy for the purpose of necessity was a bucket of corncobs. I have to tell you, them corncobs surely are rough.

“Hey, Dootsie Bobo. What’cha doin’? Holy Smokes, you better be careful. You’re apt to fall in there and drown!”

At my voice he pulled his head out of the hole and grinned a real big grin. “I’m killin’ spiders! Ma don’t want no spider to bite her on her bum so she told me to come out here and kill the spiders and that’s what I’m doin’, killin’ spiders! She’s goin’ t’ give me some oatmeal cookies an’ milk when I’m finished.”

“There has to be a better way to clean out them spiders then stickin’ your head down there!” I said.

“Can’t think of any,” he replied. “I tried scaldin’ ‘em with hot water but all that does is make things stink real bad!”

“Too bad we couldn’t blow ‘em up!” I exclaimed.

Now that really got his attention.

“Blow ‘em up, How?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Dynamite?”

“Where the dickens we goin’ to get any dynamite?” He queried.

“Does your pa have any left over from blowin’ up them stumps in old man Shultz’s pasture?”

“Yah, in a box under their bed. But I don’t think he’s goin’ to give us any!”

“Let’s ask him!”

Optimistically we ran to their house and excitedly asked Dootsie Bobo’s father for two or three sticks of dynamite. So much for childish optimism.

“What you boys want dynamite fer?” He asked with a chuckle.

“To blow up spiders!” We both replied enthusiastically.

We never did get an answer. Dootsie Bobo’s father was laughing too hard I guess. We could still hear him hooting and guffawing as we made our way back to the privy. Grown ups sure can be hard to figure out sometimes.

We puzzled on it some and concluded that there was no way this side of a miracle that either of our fathers was about to give us any dynamite to play with. Frankly, I knew better then to ask mine.

“Just maybe cherry bombs would work!” I exclaimed.

Luckily I still had a bunch of cherry bombs left over from the 4th. of July that I was hoarding for a special occasion and blowing up spiders seemed like a pretty good special occasion to me.

Contrary to our custom we decided to start with caution. Maybe one cherry bomb would do the trick? I held it while he lit it. As the fuse started to sputter Dootsie Bobo jumped outside and I threw the cherry bomb down the toilet hole. Dootsie Bobo tried to hold the door closed so I couldn’t get out. Great kidder that Dootsie Bobo. Luckily, my desire to get out was greater then his desire to keep me in.

We stood leaning against the privy door gasping for breath from our exertion and the excitement of the moment. We were grinning like a couple of idiots when from the nether regions of that pretty little privy we heard a faint, “Whumph”

“That’s it? That wasn’t an explosion! We’re goin’ to have to use five or six cherry bombs!”

Up until then neither of us had ever heard of a dud cherry bomb.

We did some puzzling on the matter and decided that if we wrapped all six of the cherry bomb fuses together with a long piece of firecracker fuse we would have plenty of time to light that fuse and get outside before the explosion.

Everything went as planned, up to a point.

Dootsie Bobo lit the fuse and I dropped that cluster of cherry bombs down their toilet hole. We jumped outside and slammed the door, leaning against it expectantly. That is where things became a little confused and where they began to go just a tad wrong.

What we had not reckoned on was Dootsie Bobo’s father rushing down the path in an obvious state of dire physical distress and in need of immediate relief just as we slammed that privy door.

Dootsie Bobo wanted to warn his father in the worst way. He started to say something but his father grinned at us and said, “Not now boys, in a hurry.” Then he laughed as he said, “You didn’t blow up all them spiders did’ja?” Still laughing he yanked the door open, stepped in and slammed the door shut, latching it on the inside as he did so.

Dootsie Bobo’s father was still laughing as he exclaimed something about, ”Boys bein’ boys.”
For a few seconds there was silence. Then, from inside the privy a puzzled voice inquired, “Boys, what is that hissing sound I hear?”

We didn’t say anything. How do you tell a man that he is sitting on a bomb?

Dootsie Bobo and I stood there staring at each other hoping that it wouldn’t happen when it happened.

Five of the six cherry bombs exploded as expected with a terrific explosion. In fact It was much louder then we expected.

BOOM!

Then for about five long seconds all was very still.

I was afraid that we had blown up by best friend’s father! I was thinking that it would be a long time before Dootsie Bobo’s mother gave me any more oatmeal cookies and milk.

That sixth cherry bomb obviously had a real slow fuse. The second explosion was not nearly as loud as the first but it WAS a cherry bomb and Dootsie Bobo’s father was still sitting there, dazed and bewildered from the first explosion.

BOOM!

Thank goodness he was still alive. His exit was immediate and spectacular. He did not unlatch the door, he darned near tore it from its hinges! Blackpowder smoke billowed out in a big cloud, whisping around him. He stood there for a moment, unsteady, sort of staggering, dazed and confused, still trying to figure out what had happened. Then he began shuffling his way up the path toward the house with as much dignity as possible, which was not much considering that his pants were still down around his ankles and his bottom was painted brown.

As he went he was mumbling something about, “Kids, Dynamite? Got’ta get rid of that dynamite!”

Our idea worked to perfection. No more spiders, for a while at least.

I didn’t go to their kitchen for oatmeal cookies and milk that day.

It took us nearly a week to scrub and repaint the inside of the privy. It took a little longer then that for Dootsie Bobo’s father to regain his hearing.

It was about this time that his father developed a nervous twitch very similar to the one my father had.

I did eventually get my oatmeal cookies and milk. That was extra special. Dootsie Bobo and I sat there in their kitchen eating cookies and drinking milk while we made plans to build a giant slingshot big enough to throw an entire cow. (We eventually built the giant slingshot. It wouldn't throw the cow but that is another story.) As we ate cookies and drank milk and made plans Dootsie Bobo’s father sat across from us, staring at us intently, that worried expression on his face all the more entertaining due to the uncontrollable twitching.

Grown ups sure can be a lot of fun, dont'cha think?

CONFESSION IS GOOD FOR THE SOUL

2008-06-28T17:59:00.004-04:00

DEAD RATS AND TACKLE BOXES

By

Charles Towne

It is Monday morning and I decide to call my wife to find out how things are going on the home front. I am greeted with the news that we have suffered what can only be a death.

I listen sympathetically as my sweetie tells me that she thinks something has crawled into the house and died. "It smells terrible!" She continues. "I have checked every room in the house but I can't find anything."

"Did you check the boy's room?" I asked. "You never know what they might drag home!"

"Yes, I checked the boy's room and couldn't find anything out of the ordinary except a couple of dried toads under one of the beds."

"Well, there you are. It was probably the toads that smell bad."

"No dear, it wasn't the toads. They are all dried out. They are like cute little toad mummies, no odor at all."

I go home early for it is obvious by my wife's voice that this needs to be cleaned up, and I quite literally mean 'cleaned up' now, like in yesterday!

Oh well, we guys know how sensitive our wives can be don't we? I was thinking that It probably wasn't much of anything at all. I was sure she was exaggerating.

I was wrong. She wasn't exaggerating.

The last time I smelled anything like that was when I forgot several pairs of rotten socks in the bottom of my sleeping bag after a two week camping trip into Canada.

That time I had to burn the sleeping bag which was a mistake. Have you ever burned a down filled sleeping bag? No, of course you haven't. In case you are curious the odor of a burning, down filled sleeping bag on a scale of one to ten is astronomical.

I walked in through the kitchen and immediately decided that we were going to eat out. No way was the odor that assaulted my senses conducive to a nice comfortable dinner at home.

Wifey asked for the car keys as she and the kids headed for the driveway and began climbing into the car.

"Wait for me Sweetie," I exclaimed, "It will only take a few minutes for me to get cleaned up and we can go together!"

She replied in a voice that was so frigid it almost frostbit my ears, "The children and I are going out for dinner 'SWEETIE' and you are going to stay home and search for the dead, what ever it is!"

Discerning fellow that I am I could tell by the way she sort of hissed when she said 'SWEETIE' that I was in trouble.

As I watched my family drive down the street I was somewhat in a tiff. I mean how could she blame me for something stinking up the house?

Needing to keep my strength up I went to the kitchen and made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and poured myself a glass of milk.

While eating the sandwich I began opening all of the windows. It certainly wouldn't hurt to air the place out.

I prowled through the house searching for the abomination that had suddenly intruded upon my turf. I couldn't find anything.

Oh well, desperation begets desperate solutions and understanding that the rat, or whatever it was, had very obviously died inside one of the walls the only thing that I can do is start the delicate process of demolition.

Hammer in hand I methodically started knocking holes in the drywall.

That night, my wife; for some mysterious reason had taken a vow of silence.

The next day the smell was if anything worse than the day before. It taunted me, challenged me as I continued punching holes in the walls.

I read somewhere that the Japanese had invented a smell-locator and I was wishing that I had one.

I spent the next two days alone due to the fact that the family was living at the in-laws house.

It was on the fourth day that I found the dead rat. Yes, as much as I hate to admit it the wife was right, it was a rat; the biggest, nastiest rat I have ever seen.

I buried the rat in the back yard and called the drywall repair man. Being a discerning fellow he took a look at the destruction and said one word, "Rat?" and I nodded agreeably.

And now I can tell "THE REST OF THE STORY."

On the fourth day as I was preparing to demolish the walls in the utility room I was removing an accumulation of goodies to the garage when I discovered my fishing tackle box. Hmm, so that's where I put it.

I had gone fishing with a buddy of mine the previous Sunday and when I got home I set the tackle box next to the hot water heater and forgot it was there.

Now a little light bulb began to glimmer dimly as I remembered the two pint containers of night crawlers that I had put into the tackle box.

Have you ever smelled rotten worms? They smell an awful lot like a dead rat.

So, I buried the rotton "rat" in the back yard next to that big azalea bush and to appease my conscience I went out and bought myself a new tackle box along with a new collection of lures.

One day I might go back and dig that "rat" up. The lures probably don't really smell all that bad anymore.

ANOTHER RANT FROM THE REBORN RIVER RAT

2008-06-23T20:49:00.004-04:00

SUSPICIONS CONFIRMED

Hello fellow Ranters!

Don't you just love it when you are vindicated?

For a long time I knew in my heart that the common litterbug was a few bricks shy of a full load and now I have absolute proof!

Yes, I am talking about the common litterbug, otherwise known as litterbuggus disgustus, and in some areas identified as litterbuggus moronicus of the genus stupidus idioticus litterbuggus.

It seems that we would eventually get used to the depredations of the litterbug but not so
From my own yard I have removed cigarette wrappers, beer bottles and cans, soda cans, fast food wrappers, cups and containers, a discarded car tire, etc. etc. etc!

The other day I stepped out into my yard and there was a scrap of paper being gently wafted about by the evening breeze.

With a few uncomplimentary thoughts I walked over and picked up said wafting paper and was about to waft it into the trash can when I noticed that it was one of those scratch off lottery ticket, one of those twenty dollar scratch off lottery tickets that no one with half a brain would pay twenty dollars for.

And now is when vindication comes into play.

It was obvious to anyone with a glass eye that the ticket was a winner!

I took the winning littering lottery ticket to the corner store and traded it for a nice crisp twenty dollar bill.

The only thing I can figure is whoever threw it away couldn't read otherwise why would they throw it away, but then; why purchase it anyway?

Oh well, I always knew litterbugs were a few shy of a full deck and this proves it.

Thank you litterbug,

You have a nice day now ya hear, Ratty

LET'S GO FISHING!

2008-06-18T15:49:00.004-04:00

THINKING MEN, OR, THINKING MEN?
By
Charles Towne

“Men are incapable of rational thought and it is a well known fact that due to what is known among medical experts as the 'lard' gene, an amorphous and somewhat mushy blob located in the center of the brain cavity and taking up approximately eighteen square inches of space in the average man’s cerebrum, men, right from birth have the thinking ability of a ball of horse spit.”

(Note: that comment along with the following hypothesis was formulated by a lady while in severe labor pains with her ninth child; therefore little credence should be given to the horse spit conclusion. This same lady also stated, between garbled and incoherent, derogatory and extremely technical phrases directed at her husband, that the giant, Florida, slime eating cockroach has considerably more reasoning ability than the average homo sapiens male.)

I, not being average, resent being compared in any way with a cockroach and I happen to know very well that there are some things that men do think about quite often. Fishing is one of them. Let us not forget fishing! Men think about fishing quite well, and men also think about ‘preparing’ to go fishing.

(In our defense I must interject at this point that when men are not fishing or thinking about fishing we are thinking about sex but understanding that this is a family blog I will save that for another time and another blog.)

Billy Joe Bob is my neighbor. Billy Joe Bob could be called an avid fisherman. Billy Joe Bob, at last count owned forty-three fishing rods, each with its accompanying and appropriate reel.
(And let us not forget hunting. Deer hunting and turkey hunting also claim vast amounts of thinking calories and even vaster amounts of equipment. Shotguns and rifles, all terrain vehicles and archery equipment and the entire support equipage.)
But let's digress back to fishing.

Billy Joe Bob is a fisherman’s fisherman, an aficionado of the fine art of angling. He knows all there is to know about fishing. I mean, ask him what the best bait is to use on a particular lake and he will go into great detail boring the living daylights out of you. but ask him what his wife's name is and he will say, "you mean the old lady",

Every time I think of Billy Joe Bob I have this deep sense of foreboding for I feel that not all is well in paradise.

One of these days Billy Joe Bob is going to be driving toward home happily thinking about his next fishing trip when way off in the distance he is going to see this immense column of dirty gray smoke, the color of smoke from a fire that is being fed with large amounts of plastic, graphite, rubber and fiberglass.

As he turns the corner onto his street he is somewhat alarmed when he notices a couple of fire engines parked in front of his house.

Alas, the fire is on his front lawn!

The firemen will have to restrain him forcefully for the fire is consuming a huge pile of fishing tackle and hunting equipment. Nine zillion lures, arm loads of fishing rods, baskets full of expensive reels, a small fortune in guns and archery equipment, all heaped on top of his brand new thirty thousand dollar bass boat and latest model A.T.V. and all being turned to ashes in front of his very sorry eyes.

That tall column of smoke in reality will be a funeral pyre upon which the remains of a marriage are being cremated, and Billy Joe Bob, because he is a male of the species known as human and incapable of rational thought and not having the good sense of a ball of horse spit, cannot imagine what he did wrong.

"Why shucks folks, the old lady must have gone crazy!"

Below is a very simple test that will enable any fisherman to know exactly where he stands marriage wise.

Ask yourself the following questions.

In order to give the average man a chance all questions have multiple choice answers.

Question # one, What is your wife’s name? (A) Hey you! (B) The old lady. (C) What’s t’ eat?

Question # two, What was the last gift that you purchased for your wife? (A) Two dozen night crawlers? (B) A dozen golf balls? (C) A dozen red roses? (D) A new bass boat? (E) A subscription to her favorite fishing magazine?

Question # three, When was the last time that you offered to take your wife for a romantic getaway without the kids? (A) Never. (B) Last year. (But just at the last minute you invited a couple of your fishing buddies along. Also at the last minute your wife got real sick and locked herself in the bedroom and wouldn’t even come out to say goodbye.

Scoring this test: For question # One, If you do not remember your wife’s name give yourself a score of minus 100. Also for question # one, If you refer to your wife by any of the above give yourself another minus 100. For question # two, If the last gift that you gave your wife was anything other than a dozen roses give yourself another minus 100. By this time you have probably scored so poorly it is unlikely that you will ever score again.

By this time you certainly realize that you are an insensitive cretin and unfit to have a relationship with a decent woman, so what the heck, let’s go fishing!

ON LISTENING

2008-06-14T23:02:00.006-04:00

NIGHT SOUNDS
By
Charles Towne

Have you ever heard the lonely far off wail of a steam locomotive's whistle? You might expect that a train's whistle would sound the same, night or day, summer or winter but what you expect is not necessarily what you get.

Night, due to the cooler air has as much the ability to change sound as does snow on a cold winter's night when it muffles and even mutes what might otherwise be harsh and strident.

Have you heard the squabbling of raccoons in the night?

This is such a terrifying, banshee sound that it can set your hair on end and the imagination soaring in wonderment One of the strangest, most puzzling assaults one can experience on the auditory senses is that fantastical screaming and quarreling of several raccoons fighting.

The first two times that I heard this mad banshee expression of bedlam I had no clue what it was but I followed it through the woods for nearly a mile before it was broken up for whatever reason. Each of these times the demented screaming seemed to come more from up in the trees than on the ground but it was difficult to tell due to the fact that the sound was constantly moving.

The two times that I have actually witnessed the murderous mob attack of raccoons, water was involved and contrary to what one might imagine it was not to fight off some attacker, some creature alien to raccoon society but each time the attackers were focusing all of their fury upon one of their own kind and the wild caterwauling signaled a battle to the death.

Perhaps this was a territorial dispute, an intruder being forced out by the mob?
Whatever the reason, it was fast, noisy and final.

Or perhaps you have heard a bobcat scream in the deep, shadowy recesses of
the night.

One of my favorite night sounds that I enjoyed then and still do is the deep, bass Brumm, brumm, brumm of the bullfrog, or the higher pitched trill of amorous toads summoning a mate.

And then there is the lonely, raucous squawk of a great blue heron as he settles in for the night way up in the top of one of the large cottonwoods.

Or how about the haunting, ‘hoo, hoo-hoo, HOO HOO’ of the tiger of the air, the great horned owl, and the tremulous, descending wail of the screech owl.

These are just some of the night sounds.

Sometimes as a boy far in the distance of time and space I would hear the unforgettable wail of a hunters horn ‘Ahoooo’ing’, as he summoned his hounds. It is rare indeed if not impossible to hear that mysterious sound today for it is mostly a thing only remembered.

There is something mysterious about the sound of hounds working out a cold trail.
‘Ahwoo, ahwoo, ahwooo---. At first there is only the usual night sounds as you wait, anxiously wait for the inevitable. Time passes as you stare into the darkness and then you hear the strike dog calling the others to her as she informs them that she has found the trail.

Soon the other hounds join in and you follow them with your ears as you stare into the night. Soon the baying of the dogs becomes more frequent, five, even ten seconds between those melodious calls and then the frequency increases as the trail becomes warmer until soon there is a crescendo of excited almost frantic sound to indiicate that the quarry has taken to a tree.

Or how about that sweet music of crickets fiddling or the squeak and rustle of mice in the grass or perhaps a sleepy bird's low chirp.

These then are just some of the sounds in the night, can you think of any others?

A "MOON STRUCK" MOMENT

2008-06-11T18:40:00.002-04:00

DANCE BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON
By
Charles Towne

It was one of those special, other worldly, northern winter nights when nothing can surprise you and you just know that anything might happen.

A full moon made the snow shrouded woodland glow in a mysterious, almost magical iridescence.

It was one of those nights when all of nature held its breath, waiting, just waiting. One of those winter nights that foretells a change in the weather, when you know that in one night or three a cold spell will cause temperatures to plummet to an air snapping, ear freezing low when one would best stay inside for fear of frost bite. But, that night was there and so was I.

The air was almost warm, the velvet surface of the snow soft and my boots made no sound as I shadowed through the glistening woodland.

I looked up and there, silhouetted against the full moon was a large raccoon sitting in the fork of an old cottonwood tree.

For the moment all was at peace as though the raccoon was as mesmerized, or perhaps I should say, as moon struck, as I was.

This was a special place I visited often as a boy.

Suddenly, on the moon swept snow I saw movement and then there was another at the edge of the tiny forest glade.

A rabbit, a Molly cottontail was there, sitting up on her hindquarters as she silently surveyed the small clearing in front of her.

A movement indicated another rabbit and then yet another.

Quite suddenly one of the rabbits dashed across the clearing and stopped on the far side.

Another rabbit ventured out into the clearing and stomped its hind feet rapidly on the surface of the snow. There was a barely audible sound, a muffled, 'thump, thump'.

Soon the moon bright glade was full of rabbits, perhaps as many as a dozen, maybe more, all racing into the clearing, stomping that strange but wonderful dance, dashing here and there and out again in a whirlwind of small furry bodies.

At times two rabbits would approach each other and briefly touch noses, in greeting it seemed to me, then they would be off again about their wild, capricious dance.

The snow yielded and was soon packed down as those many little fairy, furry feet thumped and then thump, thumped again, until magically; all of the rabbits were dancing their mysterious dance. Oh, how I wanted to join them, to dance with them.

Can what I saw those many years ago be anything less than that, a wild dance?

The rabbits danced with boundless enthusiasm that night. What might have possessed them? I cannot explain it. Perhaps this is what it means to be "moon struck." All I know is that Twice in my life I have seen the rabbits dance.

I hope that you have been given just a glimpse of what I witnessed on that long ago, very special night

I would like to see it once more, wouldn't you?

NO FEAR!

2008-06-07T19:30:00.002-04:00

SOME THOUGHTS ON FEAR
By
Charles Towne

Bertrand Russell said, "Fear is the main source of superstition, and one of the main sources of cruelty. To conquer fear is the beginning of wisdom."

We see these "NO FEAR!" signs everywhere. What the heck is that other than a macho clothing line? You show me a man who says he has never known fear and I will show you a man who is either a fool, or a man who has never lived life.

Shucks, I have known fear. I have been on most intimate terms with fear many times and I have found that a good dose of fear can be very good for you. Besides causing your hair to stand on end and enabling you to run real fast it builds character.

Contrary to what you might believe what with me having been a lion tamer and having worked close up and personal with all sort of wild animals for years I have been in touch with my inner sissy for a very long time and one thing I have discovered is this, prayer molecules released in sufficient quantity can send fear running.

I can imagine several real neat applications to what I refer to as the idiots, "NO FEAR!" principle, ten of them are as follows:

(1) Oh, don't be afraid, so the horse threw you! Just get back up there and show him who is boss!"
(2) "Oh don't be afraid, just go out there and chase that pit bull out of the yard, he won't bite!"
(3) "Don't be afraid, they don't practice cannibalism any more!"
(4) "Don't be afraid, you can drive your truck across that bridge, it has been there for years!"
(5) "Don't be afraid, he just looks mean!"
(6) "Don't be afraid, bulls are color blind!"
(7) "Don't be afraid, that beam will support the entire house!"
(8) "Don't be afraid, it's a painless procedure!"
(9) "Don't be afraid, one lug nut will hold the wheel on
(10) And I especially like this one, "Don't be afraid, they are more afraid of you than you are of them!"

Fear can control a man until that is all he sees or a man can control his fear and live a happy life.

Chaz

(More on Phobias another time)

A RARE SIGHT

2008-06-06T15:16:00.000-04:00

A MAGNIFICENT SILENCE
By
Charles Towne

If we don't care for the land, if we don't care…?

Great blue herons are such magnificent creatures.

There are three herons feeding in the shallow waters at the lakes edge while another stands elegantly on a fallen log dozing. Or perhaps it is meditating.

Whatever it is doing it stirs and lifts one wing and grooms itself with that wonderful stiletto beak then it shakes and grooms the other wing with those same little jerky movements. A tiny breast feather falls to the water's surface and a vagrant breath of wind sends it scudding across the lake.

One of the other herons is fishing.

It suddenly stops and stands so very still. All of its attention is focused on something below the water's surface, something that only it can see.

It stands there almost stone like. The only thing that moves is a feather on the heron's head. This hunter is the very personification of patience.

The neck is slowly drawn back into an s curve as the bird takes aim.

Suddenly, like an arrow shot from a bow that terrible beak is thrust forward and almost immediately withdrawn, a six inch long bream, impaled, paralyzed, struggles feebly. The fish is flipped into the air and efficiently caught by the head even as it falls toward the water. It is swallowed.

Once several years ago I witnessed a most unusual encounter between two great blue herons. Come with me in my canoe and see what you think.

We are on the beautiful Wekiva River.

As we move downstream the only thing that breaks the silence is the tiny muted splash as our paddles pierce the water.

Oh, there are other sounds.

There is the rustle and breaking of twigs on the riverbank and the accompanying splash as a smallish alligator, perhaps six feet long, disturbed by our passing, retreats to the safety of the tannin darkened waters.

A little further along a yellow crowned night heron is concealed in the green of an overhanging bit of foliage. It watches us warily as our momentum carries us past without being disturbed into flight.

Look, just up ahead of us a great blue heron is fishing.

Abundant fish are in these waters and though it is fresh water, even stingrays can be seen here, gracefully flying their way up or down the stream in schools of ten, fifteen or more.

A broad variety of turtles and snakes and of coarse alligators, all call it home. There are bobcat here, and otter as well as raccoons, possums and the lowly armadillo. This is also home to abundant whitetail deer and my friend, the black bear.

The heron has been successful in his fishing and as he is in the process of swallowing his catch another heron suddenly appears.

On those great silent wings it glides around a small point of land and blindsides the fishing heron, knocking it down in a flurry of wings and splashing water. Swiftly, almost faster than the eye can follow, the attacker's beak flashes in a series of lethal strikes.

The victim emits a single hoarse, 'Sqwaak' as it desperately endeavors to regain its feet, it opens its beak as it snaps at its attacker, but all in vain. And then, almost as fast as it began it is over. The body lays unmoving in the shallow water.

What caused the attack? I don't have a clue. Perhaps it was a territorial thing, who knows. Usually the large wading birds are quite tolerant of their own kind but that day…?

SOME FOLKS DON'T HAVE THE GOOD SENSE GOD GAVE A GOOFY GOPHER

2008-06-04T12:58:00.004-04:00

HOW I GOT THIS WAY
By
Charles Towne

When I was knee high to a short toad I was always playing with sharp and pointy sticks. mama was always saying, “And don’t you play with any sharp and pointy sticks, if you do you are going to poke out both of your eyes and you will be blind for the rest of your life!”

Now I want you to know, dumb as I was I never would have thought of that on my own.

From this I have concluded that it is mothers that plant the idea in little boy's minds to play with sharp and pointy sticks to begin with and thus it was that I carried ‘OL’ EYE POKER,’ my eye poking stick everywhere I went just in the eventuality that I got this terrible urge to poke out an eye.

I must have been five or six when I took one of my frequent jaunts on the Fox River. I turned over rocks to catch crayfish and hellgrammites and I caught a big, old mean water snake and teased it for a while until it slithered into the water and, shouting little snake praises for deliverence, it made its escape.

I skipped stones and threw rocks at a big bald-faced hornets nest until the hornets became so angry they made me run away. Through all of this I carried my eye poking stick,
Then I discovered a most wonderful treasure. The thing captivated me, gripping my attention as nothing had since I had found the slightly deceased, maggot covered chicken out behind the barn.

There, washed high and dry at the river's edge by the last tide was a huge, de-activated and very dead pig that had surpassed its life expectancy some days before.

I reached out and thumped the sweet swine with ’Ol’ Eye Poker’ and wonder of wonders, a drum! ‘Whump, whump, whump. Dum, dum, dum,’ and the sound resonated out over the Fox River. But, as such things seem to happen I soon grew tired of this lovely musical interlude. (This by the way was the extent of my experience with a musical instrument.)

It was about this time that things took a dramatic change for the worse. What had began as a big, beautiful, dead bloated pig was now transforming itself into a fierce, fire-breathing dragon, and it was about to attack!

Swiftly, realizing the terrible danger I was in, ‘Ol’ Eye Poker’ became a spear. And I, with no thought for my own safety, charged the dragon!

little boys should not be allowed to play with sharp and pointy sticks.

’Ol’ Eye Poker’ struck the dragon a deadly blow and that darned pig exploded in my face.

Now, I imagine I have experienced worse things, I just don't recall when.

When was the last time you did something real stupid and lived to tell the tale? Share it with us, we won't tell.
Chaz

IT WAS AFTER ALL A GOVERNMENT MANUAL!

2008-06-03T09:52:00.003-04:00

HSSSSSSSS
By
Charles Towne

Of all government organizations the U.S. Peace Corps, by its very name denotes a benign, yes, even peaceful existence, after all it is called, "The Peace Corps."

One can only imagine the pains the organizers have gone to in order to make the time served as safe as possible for the volunteers but then one does tend to wonder, after all, accidents do have a way of happening don't they?

People get caught up in wars, catch horrible diseases, are swallowed by…? Well, we'll leave that to your hungry imaginer.

In the U.S. Government Peace Corps manual for those volunteers serving in the Amazon jungles in the nineteen eighties there was this wonderful bit of advice for surviving an anaconda attack. Keep in mind that the anaconda is the largest snake in the world. It is a constrictor achieving gargantuan lengths of thirty five feet and weighing as much as four hundred pounds.

Listed below are the instructions as they were itemized in the manual:

(1) If you are attacked by an anaconda do not run. The snake is faster than you are.

(2) Lie flat on the ground. Put your arms against your sides, your legs tight against one another.

(3) Tuck your chin in.

(4) The snake will come and begin to nudge and climb over your body.

(5) Do not panic. (That's easy for you to say!)

(6) After the snake has examined you, it will begin to swallow you from the feet and always from the end. Permit the snake to swallow your feet and your ankles. (At this point I believe another, "do not panic" is in order.

(7) The snake will now begin to suck your legs into its body. You must be perfectly still. This will take a long time. (O.K., now is as good a time as any to panic.)

(8) When the snake has reached your knees, slowly and with as little movement as possible; reach down, take your knife and very gently slide it into the side of the snake's mouth between the edge of its mouth and your leg, then suddenly rip upwards, severing the snakes head. (Who's panicking?)

(9) Be sure you have your knife.

(10) Be sure your knife is sharp.

That peace of misinformation must be taken at face value for it was, after all, a government manual.

I especially like the part where it says, "Do not panic."

Disclaimer: At this point I would like to apologize. I would like to apologize for using the 'S' word but really now, you must understand that it is not possible to talk about snakes without mentioning snakes.

SOME FOLKS NEVER DO GROW UP

2008-05-30T22:21:00.004-04:00

MAD MAUDE AND HER TOADSTOOL CASSAROLE
by
Charles Towne

“Hey you folks, I'm up here, on the roof!” We looked up and sure enough, there was Maude.

Maude was one of the most unique people I have ever met and that day when she called to us from the roof was one example of her rare spirit.

There she was, her snow white hair escaping from holes in an ancient straw hat that was probably older than she was, a beautiful smile on her face, so many laugh lines she was the epitome of a prune on steroids and with a nail apron around her somewhat corpulent waist.

She had a hammer in one hand and was in the process of shingling her roof!

In today’s society with the gals holding every kind of job imaginable it is not strange to see a member of the fair sex working as a roofer, but this happened to be back in the fifties and Maude was 87 years old at the time!

Maude, being the Jill of all trades that she happened to be was not only well versed in home repairs but quite capable in the culinary department as well.

As a young woman she had been a cook in a Canadian lumber camp.

On the back of the big wood burning cook stove Maude kept a huge pot of savory soup simmering so that any time one of the lumberjacks needed to be fueled up he could help himself.
Maude added all sorts of things to that soup such as beef stock, vegetables, venison, an occasional rabbit, the odd bird, etc.

One day she noticed the soup level was getting somewhat low and dipping a large ladle into the kettle she scraped the bottom. Hooking onto something quite heavy she raised the spoon and was surprised to see a well cooked snake about four feet long.

She looked at that snake for a moment trying to decide whether or not she should remove the reptile, but thrift won out and she dropped it back into the pot, added more stock, built up the fire and unbeknownst to the guys they ate savory snake soup that night.

She told us that she never did find out where the snake came from but she didn't eat soup for the next few days.

That was our friend Maude!

Shortly after we met Maude she invited us to have dinner with her. This was before we knew anything about her snake soup, otherwise we might have declined.

On the chosen day Maude served us a most delicious casserole and we were on seconds when I made a slight error in judgment and asked the pedigree of the dish. That was a lesson I learned well, eat, don't ask.

Maude never missed a lick, taking another bite, around chews she said, "Toadstools!”

I paused, my loaded fork in mid flight to my mouth.

“Toadstools?” I exclaimed.

It was about that time that I remembered that she had outlived four husbands and that bit of information was giving me some small amount of unease.

“Yep, toadstools." She exclaimed. "you know that old stump out in my backyard? I got’ta dig that thing out one of these days! Well, that stump is covered with these here big yellow toadstools. That’s what’cher eatin’: Toadstool casserole, pretty good, huh?”

We sat there staring at Maude, our mouths hanging open, our forks poised in midair as we wondered when the stomach pains would start. The casserole sat there mocking us, half-eaten, whispering, “poisonous toadstools!” in a sinister, poisonous toadstool voice.

I glanced at our firstborn son who was shoveling in "toadstool" casserole as if it was his last meal, which to my way of thinking at the time, it very well could be.

Maude, being of a somewhat observant mind, noting our apparent unease, threw back her gray head and laughed in delight.

“Oh you young folks, you needn’t worry yourselves none, I fed some to the cat and he ain’t croaked, yet!” She laughed heartily at her witticism.

The casserole did taste good and it was while eating my second helping that our friend, our sweet grandmotherly Maude, helped us to relax even more by exclaiming, “Come to think of it though, I ain’t seen that cat since he ate that there casserole, here kitty, kitty, kitty!”

After that we took to referring to Maude respectfully and with great affection as "Mad Maude" and to this day I can’t eat a mushroom without thinking of Mad Maude and her toadstool casserole.

I have her recipe if you are interested!

WILD MAASAI

2008-05-27T11:03:00.003-04:00

WILD MASAI
By
Charles Towne

For those of us that despise the taking of an animal's life for whatever reason we must understand that to the Maasai his wealth and stature is contained in his herds of cattle.
When wild animals make depredations on those cattle it is well understood that the warrior will defend his property as you or I would defend our home from robbers or our children from anything that might threaten their well being.
Try to understand, if not the act, the principle behind the act and thus you will be able to see my friends, the WILD MAASAI

An interview given to me by Koyei Lesiles, a Maasai warrior.

"As Masai at age of 15 after circumcision we go to the bush for two or three years to be trained in the use and the balance of the spear and the sword, the shield and the rungu, (the rungu is the traditional Masai head knocker.)

While in the bush we are also taught how to face Simba kali. (Simba kali is the savage lion.)

We left the village at 5 a.m. I woke my mum and she asked me, "Where are you going this early?" Instead of answering her question I replied, "Woman, give me a gourd of milk." She knew where I was going and she wept because I was a favorite son and she knew that she would perhaps not see me again if I am slain by Simba kali.

My mum wept but as a warrior I could care less.

While laying on the circumcision cow hide they tell us that we are being born again and that circumcision is likened to the cutting of the umbilical cord at birth. They say that all of the troubles of the home are over, now a man and a warrior is in this place.

While getting up from the circumcision cow hide they say, "Stand up, you are now a man."

Before I left our village my father called me aside and said to me, "My son, a man can never die twice. Never allow the sons of other men to look down upon you. Death is much better.

He handed me a spear and a sword and he said, "Do not bring them back unstained." What he meant was, do not bring them back unstained with blood and that meant I had to kill the lion to get blood on the spear and the sword.
Then my father uprooted some green grass and tucked it into my sandals and finally he said, "Off you go." He clicked his tongue and I clicked mine and I walked away and joined the waiting battalion of my colleagues.

(The pulling of grass from the ground and placing the grass into the sandals is to signify a safe return.)

As I left my father I told myself, 'I swear never to run away' and we told each other that we would never run away from Simba.

We trailed the lion for two days across the savannah, following his footprints. For two days we did this.

Finally we tracked Simba until we knew he was in a thick clump of oldupai thorn bushes next to the Oloorgaissalie pre-historic site where Dr. Leakie found the fossils.

We went in to him.

(That is the understatement of the year.)

I speared him and he immediately jumped on Simel, the warrior next to me biting, clawing and mauling him severely so that his intestines were visible protruding through a hole in his stomach.

I seized the lion's tail and wrestled with him and he gave me many scars on my shoulders and my legs. We finally managed to kill Simba Kali and skin him and we bought back his mane, claws and teeth.

We celebrated our victory from the scene of our victory all the way back to the waiting crowds in our village.

We used our red cloud shuka's (The red cloud shuka is the traditional warrior's robe) to carry our injured friend Simel and as he fought for his life all the warriors except me and one other were totally exhausted and those others left us.

It took several hours carrying him, resting in the shade of acacia trees until we finally approached our village. We were near our home, we could hear the people singing when Simel roared and I looked into his eyes and his eyes turned completely white and he died.

I wept like a child and I was ashamed of my tears but Simel was my close friend.

The warrior's tears are very uncommon.

When a warrior dies in this kind of war he will be honored by the warriors who were with him when he died for each will contribute a cow to his father in his memory.
The wounds that Simba inflicted to me were treated by chewing the leaves of the Olkilorito. This is one of the medicinal trees that grow on the savannah. This is mixed with the fat of the lion and it makes the wounds heal faster.

(Koyei will carry the scars that he received that day for the rest of his life but he carries them with great pride.)

We celebrated our victory with dancing and you could hear the blowing of the kudu horns miles away.

Masai means 'beauty', we are known for our beauty and our pride.

One of the songs goes this way:

"Great are the warriors that can break the spears of the enemy, who can touch the king of the jungle… our men never retreat from the enemy…they stand for their families and their communities…we have raided the homes of uncircumcised men and bought back our tokens…" and it goes on and on.

The people jump high and spin in circles and sing.

The kinship I have for Simba Kali is based on his availability for me to face him and kill him. This made me famous among my people.

I am Maasai."

(If you notice the above song is almost biblical in its intensity and meter.)

BLACK HEADED VULTURE

2008-05-26T20:28:00.004-04:00

To Ratty's readers,
Ratty, being of a somewhat shy and retiring nature, (you can understand why considering his name) has asked me to come to his readers with an apology.
The "vulture" hanging from the tower is in fact a fake. Yes, it is a scare buzzard, or a fright vulture, bogus bird, or whatever.
It did not get tangled in fish line.
The tower was a regular "Buzzards roost" and as the birds congregated each evening they were whitewashing the nearby homes, at no charge. Enters the state at stage right.
They hung the faux vulture way up there and guess what, it works, no more vultures.
Ratties suggestion is that we hang a few litter bugs, not necessarily in effigy, as a warning to others of their ilk along the highways of our fine state. Long live Ratty,
Chaz

2008-05-23T13:39:00.003-04:00

ANOTHER RANT FROM THE REBORN RIVER RAT
By
Charles Towne

When in my teens I found a very emaciated muskrat wandering near our home on the Fox River in Illinois. It was obvious the little fellow was starving, what wasn't so obvious was, Why?
The wee wildling didn't struggle as I gently begin to handle and examine it
Poking and prodding I searched for some obvious injury. Failing in this I gently opened its mouth and there finally discovered the problem.
My little friend had found a shiny, twenty-two cartridge case. Curious, perhaps playing with it, the thing had slipped over an incisor and had wedged there, rendering him incapable of eating.
I gently removed the cartridge case and took him home until three or four days later, well fed I was able to release him into his home territory.
He waddled away to vanish beneath the surface of the river, a happier and hopefully wiser young muskrat.
Years later while hiking I heard a strange noise in the woods. Looking around I discovered a striped skunk that had wedged its head inside an empty bean can. What I had heard was this little stinker blundering through the trees and underbrush, bumping into trees and generally having a difficult time of it.
I threw caution to the winds, grabbed the can and snatched it from skunky's head. I imagine I would get sprayed today being considerably older and somewhat slower.
I have found ducks entangled in plastic beverage can binders, always dead.
In the keys one time I discovered a pelican entangled in monofiliment fishing line. It died in my arms as I was removing the line and on Sanibel I found the rotting remains of a great blue heron that had met the same sad end as the pelican.
What I have recounted here is almost a litany to the carelessness of civilization.
The latest victim hangs from a microwave tower not far from my home. A black headed vulture became entangled in some sort of cord. It hangs there still, silent and dead, moving slightly in the wind way up there, a mute banner to man's gross indifference to nature.

Following are my, SEVEN, EIGHT DEADLY SELF LIES FOR LITTERING.

#1, "Shucks, it aint hurting anybody! (Littering is a victimless crime.)

#2, "I litter because I hate to have the trash in my car!"

#3, "The highway dept. will clean it up!"

#4, "Hey, it don't amount to nothing, it's only a tin can!"

#5, "Everybody else does it!"

#6, "It's biodegradable so it will rot away!"

#7, "Throwing trash alongside the road means job security for some poor slob so I am performing a public service!"

#8, "It's not really trash. I'm feeding the animals." (Contributed by Cherylp)

If you heard any other self lies for littering please pass them on in a comment,
You have a nice day now ya hear, The River Rat

2008-05-20T00:05:00.000-04:00

SHOTGUNS AND LIGHTNING BUGS DON'T MIX
By
Charles Towne

“All good things come to them that wait.” I waited.

Do you remember when we were kids and we would go out on a warm summer evening and catch lightning bugs?

A Mason jar full of lightning bugs could serve as a real neat makeshift lantern. Also, as I remember a forgotten jar of lightning bugs takes on about the same subtle aroma as the week‑old can of night crawlers my mother found under my bed.

It was a quiet Sunday afternoon. Mom and Dad were taking a walk while my good old Uncle George was sprawled on our sofa taking a nap. He looked so peaceful lying there, his mouth open, sort of slack jawed, as he snored his sputtering snore.

Seeing him like that made me realize that my moment had arrived. l looked from his open mouth to the jar of lightning bugs in my hand. I knew that I should not do what I was going to do but it was already too late. Temptation and opportunity were on a converging course and there was nothing I could do to avoid the collision.

You should understand that My Uncle George had precipitated what was about to happen because He considered himself a world class practical joker. Nothing could stand in the way of a good laugh, especially if it was at someone else’s expense.

The previous winter he had taken me rabbit hunting with him.

I was usually pretty safe when I went hunting with Uncle George. I did not have to carry much game because he was never able to shoot anything. This blessing was due to the fact that he insisted on loading his own shotgun shells and he considered using a powder measure beneath his dignity.
This resulted in a wide and diverse assortment of shot patterns with no way of knowing what your next shot was going to produce and some of those shells contained half a teaspoonful of black powder while others held a hefty heaping tablespoonful!

He explained to me that this disparity in the amount of powder lent an element of surprise to the hunt and he was right; you were surprised if he ever hit anything.

It is a well known fact that once the animals recognized that it was Uncle George hunting them, they would come out in the open and grin insulting grins while they slowly ran back and forth in front of his shotgun taunting him.

They knew when they were safe.

Uncle George did get one rabbit that I know of. The poor bunny was sitting there and Uncle shot about a box of shells at it. The rabbit laughed so hard it died of heart failure.

He got a pheasant the same way. It was laughing so hard it flew into a tree and broke its own neck. (At times even today I can still hear that hideous bunny laughter.)

So, as I said Uncle George invited me to go hunting with him. On the fateful day in question, after we had been hunting for a while and we were both tired of the mocking laughter from the rabbits that he missed he asked me if I would like to shoot his shotgun.

The beast in question was an ancient, 10 gauge, side by side hammer gun of questionable pedigree sporting Damascus barrels. It was not the shotgun he usually carried and I was soon to learn why.

I was only about eight or nine years old at the time, very trusting, dumb as a stump and a runt. If I had been a pup they would have drowned me. (They did try but I kept getting out of the bag.)

Uncle George handed the shotgun to me. It was all I could do to hold the cannon. Slowly I raised the muzzle and my dear, sweet, kind Uncle George reached over and helpfully pulled back BOTH of those big, mule ear hammers.

I knew enough to pull the stock into my shoulder real hard. (At this point ominous music such as that from the shark attack in the movie Jaws could be heard in the background and, yes, I could hear it even over the mocking laughter of the rabbits.)

Aiming at an old rotten tree stump I pulled the front trigger.

The next thing I knew I was sitting on the ground no longer holding the shotgun. It was laying somewhere in the snow behind me. My ears were ringing, I had a bloody nose, a badly bruised shoulder, my cheekbone was cut and before the day was over I would have a beautiful black eye. In case you are concerned, the tree stump was uninjured. (At this point there was more laughter from the bunnies but I couldn’t hear it do to the ringing in my ears.)

Uncle George thought it was all very funny, a regular knee slapper. He guffawed for about five minutes and snickered for the rest of the day. He knew darned well that both of those barrels would fire at the same time and he had loaded them to kick like the proverbial mule. Incidentally, I looked like that very same proverbial mule had kicked me in the face.

When Uncle George told my father about the incident dad didn’t say much, he grinned and remarked, “Well, you’ll eventually get yours and when you do don’t come complaining to me.”

Good old Uncle George and his practical jokes.

And now you understand why I had to do what I was about to do.

Ever so quietly I unscrewed the lid on the Mason jar. The lightning bugs were scrambling and crawling all over each other as they peered up at me with their cute little eyes expressing their desire to be set free. Poor little bugs.

Swiftly pushing those thoughts of remorse far behind me I dumped all those cute little flashing beauties into Uncle George's gaping mouth!

Warning! Dumping a zillion lightning bugs into somebody’s mouth while they are sleeping could be considered an act indicative of a deep and abiding death wish. In other words, not necessarily conducive to long life.

Uncle George did not like bugs. He hated bugs! If I had dropped a single lightning bug down his shirt front he would have had the screaming weemies for the next week. I dumped all those bugs into his open mouth.

Suddenly he stopped snoring. (I believe this is due to the fact that lightning bugs have an adverse effect on snoring molecules. There obviously needs to be more study in this area.)

For a moment he even stopped breathing! Quite spectacularly his body suddenly went rigid, his jaws slammed shut, and his eyes opened wide. The terror and confusion written there was a beautiful thing to behold.

His hands flew into the air, grasping as though he were trying to climb an invisible ladder as he gagged and choked, sputtered, coughed and spit. Yes, it is true; grown-ups really can be quite entertaining!

About that time I decided that perhaps it was a good idea to go fishing.

Later on I tasted a lightning bug and to be honest with you they taste sort of bitter, not something you would want to eat very often.

I was hoping to have the opportunity to perform the same experiment again only using a handful of night crawlers, a toad or perhaps something REALLY disgusting and gross from the chicken yard, but it was not to be.

It is a sad fact that I do not remember Uncle George ever taking a nap at our house again, though I can't imagine why? Who can figure? Chaz

ANOTHER, ON THE CRAFT OF WRITING

2008-05-15T14:20:00.001-04:00

THE REDLINE
By
Charles Towne

My desk is located exactly fifty feet above the ground next to an ancient cypress tree. It defies all logic and all natural laws as it floats there while I work.

As I sit at my desk I can look out over the surrounding swamp and up and down the river and now and then a large, long legged, purple, red, blue and green wading imagi-bird lands on one corner of my desk and gives me advice, such as under which rock the frilled Flop-N-Grizzle is hiding. (He doesn't charge for this advice.)

This same bird, my imagi-bird, is my staunchest editor; at times crapping on a particular piece of my writing as if to say 'O.K. Chuck, you can do better than that.'

I chose this particular spot fifty feet up here in the air because it opens the clogged sinus' of my creativity.

Did you know that fifty feet is known as "the, redline" to climbers? Yep, the, redline.
It is commonly held that if you were to fall fifty feet to the hard ground you will very likely die. Indeed, an adult can easily die after falling five or ten feet if he lands on his head.
A person who is dropping in free fall through space often turns upside down and falls headfirst. This happens because with most people the upper half of the body is heavier than the lower half, and so, gravity being the wonderful thing it is the person tips over and plunges head downward like one of those wonderful, long outlawed lawn darts of yesteryear that could in a moment render a lobotomy with no warning whatsoever.
Oh, I am sorry, back to the, redline.

In a headfirst landing after a fifty foot fall, the shock crushes the skull and breaks the neck, destroying the brain and shearing the spinal cord off at the base of the skull causing Instant death. Nice picture, what?

No matter which way the victim lands, the impact normally breaks the victims back, leaving him paralyzed (if he survives.)

If the person should happen to land feet first, a shockwave travels up the legs, breaking them in many places, shattering the lower spine, and cutting the spinal cord.

The lungs can collapse from the force of the impact or they can be punctured by broken ribs, and the flattened or torn lungs can fill up with blood.

Major internal organs, including the liver, the kidneys, the spleen, and the bladder, as well as the aorta, can burst during the impact. If they split apart they flood the body cavity with blood, catastrophic internal hemorrhage is the result.
O.K., so you are probably wondering why I painted that lovely picture for you, aren't you?

While I am floating up there at 'the redline' I am not apt to let anything distract me until I have reached that days quota.

As a writer that is so very important. Stay focused, avoid distractions and if it means that you have to perch fifty feet up in a tree to do so than by all means, PERCH!

I try not to take any little spur of the moment jaunts and when my quota is reached my desk gently floats down and I walk away to whatever is calling me until the next day when I again ascend up into my gallery up there at the redline with only my imagi-bird for company.

What with the previous blog and now this one some folks are apt to get the idea that I am obsessed with the tops of trees, which might be true but then again, it might not.

You have a nice day now ya hear, Chaz