Wednesday, September 16, 2015
We Are a Part
The truth is we're not separate from what's around us. We're part of everything. Even things we cannot touch or see. Our thoughts and actions affect changes that ripple out in larger concentric circles finally reaching the other side of the Universe. Your life isn't small. Your soul isn't contained. You're a far reaching life changing being. Take responsibility for that and be considerate. Thoughts are actions unseen. As best you can send forth good and try to do no harm.
Thursday, September 10, 2015
A Good Life
Live what speaks to your condition, as much as you can walk in the Light, try to hold all life as sacred (including your own), be gentle with yourself and treat everyone you meet with respect and kindness. This is the essence of a good life.
Monday, August 24, 2015
Social Media Insomnia
It used be that you could lie awake at night with stupid little things on your mind and no one would know and the room would feel small and the clock would tick by so slowly. And now when you lie awake at night with stupid little things on your mind all your Facebook friends who are lying awake at night with stupid little things on their minds are online and it creates this collective insomnial community where the next thing you know it's one or two o'clock in the morning and you wonder where the time went and you start getting nostalgic for those nights when the room would feel small and the clock would tick by so slowly.
Thursday, December 11, 2014
1/3 + 1/3 + 1/3
The first third of life is about awareness and discovery
The second third of life is about meaning and purpose
The third third of life is all about acceptance and reconciliation
The second third of life is about meaning and purpose
The third third of life is all about acceptance and reconciliation
The Way We See
Sometimes it's not things that need to change but the way we see them. When my twin sister (Kathie Whitesel) teaches art to children she'll have them hang upside down to do a drawing. The idea is you can't draw from memory when you're looking at something upside down. Things look totally different. In real life we tend to make assumptions. If we can take the time to challenge those assumptions and try to look at things differently we usually find ways to accept things we can't change. I heard the serenity prayer said like this once, "God grant me the serenity to accept the people I cannot change, courage to change the people I can, and the wisdom to know . . . it's me!" And you know what? There's a whole lot of wisdom in that.
Ah, Grand Youth
Ah, grand youth
when we were all knew
no other reference needed
to make it be so true
Then join the ranks of working dogs
and try to make our mark
in a sea of indistinct
we only play a part
If by chance you catch the eye
of mentor elder best
you may by chance become your dream
if you can pass the test
But don’t forget in later years
the gift that you were given
when then you see the same esprit
and you can pass the leaven
when we were all knew
no other reference needed
to make it be so true
Then join the ranks of working dogs
and try to make our mark
in a sea of indistinct
we only play a part
If by chance you catch the eye
of mentor elder best
you may by chance become your dream
if you can pass the test
But don’t forget in later years
the gift that you were given
when then you see the same esprit
and you can pass the leaven
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
The Story Behind the Story
I was in my car between Bolton and Hudson, MA, listening to NPR on the local radio station when I heard a storyteller tell a story about a Jewish man who dreamt one night he died and met God.
To put it in a nutshell, he was terrified by the prospect. God asked him, “What did you do with your life”? The man went down the typical list. He had been a respectful son, faithful husband, good father, honest businessman, trustworthy friend, and an ample provider to his family. He had apparently done everything he thought was expected of him, but God kept asking.
Finally God said, “You failed to do the one thing only you could do.”
“What was that?” the man trembled as he asked.
“To be yourself”, God replied.
This struck me so profoundly I had to pull off the road and catch my breath.
As it turns out the Storyteller, Judith Black, is a professional storyteller with a national following. Her radio appearance was to promote the upcoming Three Apples Storytelling Festival in Harvard, MA.
Nearly a year later I signed up for an after hours adult education class in writing at the local Voc Tech. I sent in the form and my check only to receive a notice that the class was full and I should chose another. It was then that I stumbled on a class in Storytelling. Linda Goodman, the instructor, was a professional Storyteller from Virginia and the synopsis sounded very interesting.
After the first session I felt like I had found my creative “home”. Linda gave instructional lectures, we all took turns telling stories, and we attended storytelling events together.
A few months later "Tellabration” came around. "Tellabration” is a night of storytelling celebrated world-wide on or about the Saturday before Thanksgiving. I decided to attend. Winter had come early to Massachusetts. The weather was horrendous. Just before the show Linda came over and explained that one of the Tellers couldn't make it because of the weather and asked if I would mind telling “The Bible Story” (see post "A Different Kind of Bible Story" from November 10th, 2009).
“Do you think I'm ready?” I asked.
“You're ready,” she said.
Eventually Linda asked me to put music and sound effects to her “Daughters of the Appalachians” program. This was pure fun for me since I had been playing guitar since I was 12 and loved performing. We traveled to various venues to perform including the Mid-Atlantic Storytelling Festival, which was held in Gettysburg that year. I'll never forget the experience.
When Linda moved from Massachusetts back to Virginia I missed her dearly.
Ten years would pass before Linda and I would hook up again, this time for a performance of “Daughters” in Culpepper, VA. Thanks to a video tape of one of Linda's solo performances and an old play-list I managed to find I reconstructed the music and sounds.
The day before we were to perform I drove up to Linda's house (I had only moved to Myrtle Beach, SC the year before). We ran through the performance several times and a couple more that next day. That evening we said a quick prayer and stepped “on stage”. Afterwards people in the audience came up and remarked about how incredibly in-sync we had been. They couldn't believe it had been 10 years!
Storytelling is magic and the people who dedicate their time and lives to it are some of the most positive and upbeat people I know. And here's why – Storytellers know something we don't know.
* That stories are powerful and life changing, and have been since the first woman told the first story to her children way back when.
* That storytelling is better than TV. When a Storyteller tells stories the images aren't fed to you on the screen, they're deep in your minds eye and drawn from all the images that have ever entered there.
* That everyone is connected by the common themes that run through our stories and that those stories are anything BUT common.
* That, when a story is told, we all become children in that listening moment.
* That when the story is over we walk away with something better than material goods. We have enlarged our hearts and minds by being challenged to think differently and care about the outcome.
* That the world would be a better place if there were more positive stories being told and more people listening to them.
So, the next time the opportunity comes go listen to a professional Storyteller. You'll discover this is a true art form that's worth supporting not only for what it gives, but for what you'll receive.
To put it in a nutshell, he was terrified by the prospect. God asked him, “What did you do with your life”? The man went down the typical list. He had been a respectful son, faithful husband, good father, honest businessman, trustworthy friend, and an ample provider to his family. He had apparently done everything he thought was expected of him, but God kept asking.
Finally God said, “You failed to do the one thing only you could do.”
“What was that?” the man trembled as he asked.
“To be yourself”, God replied.
This struck me so profoundly I had to pull off the road and catch my breath.
As it turns out the Storyteller, Judith Black, is a professional storyteller with a national following. Her radio appearance was to promote the upcoming Three Apples Storytelling Festival in Harvard, MA.
Nearly a year later I signed up for an after hours adult education class in writing at the local Voc Tech. I sent in the form and my check only to receive a notice that the class was full and I should chose another. It was then that I stumbled on a class in Storytelling. Linda Goodman, the instructor, was a professional Storyteller from Virginia and the synopsis sounded very interesting.
After the first session I felt like I had found my creative “home”. Linda gave instructional lectures, we all took turns telling stories, and we attended storytelling events together.
A few months later "Tellabration” came around. "Tellabration” is a night of storytelling celebrated world-wide on or about the Saturday before Thanksgiving. I decided to attend. Winter had come early to Massachusetts. The weather was horrendous. Just before the show Linda came over and explained that one of the Tellers couldn't make it because of the weather and asked if I would mind telling “The Bible Story” (see post "A Different Kind of Bible Story" from November 10th, 2009).
“Do you think I'm ready?” I asked.
“You're ready,” she said.
Eventually Linda asked me to put music and sound effects to her “Daughters of the Appalachians” program. This was pure fun for me since I had been playing guitar since I was 12 and loved performing. We traveled to various venues to perform including the Mid-Atlantic Storytelling Festival, which was held in Gettysburg that year. I'll never forget the experience.
When Linda moved from Massachusetts back to Virginia I missed her dearly.
Ten years would pass before Linda and I would hook up again, this time for a performance of “Daughters” in Culpepper, VA. Thanks to a video tape of one of Linda's solo performances and an old play-list I managed to find I reconstructed the music and sounds.
The day before we were to perform I drove up to Linda's house (I had only moved to Myrtle Beach, SC the year before). We ran through the performance several times and a couple more that next day. That evening we said a quick prayer and stepped “on stage”. Afterwards people in the audience came up and remarked about how incredibly in-sync we had been. They couldn't believe it had been 10 years!
Storytelling is magic and the people who dedicate their time and lives to it are some of the most positive and upbeat people I know. And here's why – Storytellers know something we don't know.
* That stories are powerful and life changing, and have been since the first woman told the first story to her children way back when.
* That storytelling is better than TV. When a Storyteller tells stories the images aren't fed to you on the screen, they're deep in your minds eye and drawn from all the images that have ever entered there.
* That everyone is connected by the common themes that run through our stories and that those stories are anything BUT common.
* That, when a story is told, we all become children in that listening moment.
* That when the story is over we walk away with something better than material goods. We have enlarged our hearts and minds by being challenged to think differently and care about the outcome.
* That the world would be a better place if there were more positive stories being told and more people listening to them.
So, the next time the opportunity comes go listen to a professional Storyteller. You'll discover this is a true art form that's worth supporting not only for what it gives, but for what you'll receive.
© 2010
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Joy, Hurt, and Dirt
Working at the TJX corporate office was the wrong place for me. The environment was very competitive. The emphasis was on fashion – I've never been a slave to fashion. Everyone came to work coiffed and dressed in the newest styles.
I grew up in rural Southern Indiana. I was a t-shirt and jeans kind of gal. I loved being outside. The Purchasing Department was on the 3rd floor of the TJX building - a beautiful building, but too sterile for my tastes. At the time I lived in a 3rd floor garret apartment too. Far removed from the ground on both parts, I was feeling quite disconnected.
When I feel this way I have the urge to stand outside barefoot and envision the Earth beneath my feet in a cut-a-way view where I can see the strata below me. I start down through my soles, to the grass, to the roots, to the dirt – down and down until I finally feel grounded. It’s always been my way of getting back to center.
On this particular morning I was desperately missing dirt; the smell, the feel, the texture. I was sitting in my cubicle when Ellie Feldman came by to say hello.
Ellie was a great person - full of fun and joy and laughter. She had a quick smile and sharp wit and beautiful red hair, which exemplified her personality perfectly.
“You know what I miss,” I said to her, “I miss dirt!”
She laughed.
“Funny you should say that,” she said. “This morning I went to my Grandmothers grave to plant some flowers. When I was done I noticed I had dirt under my fingernails. I was going to clean them, but I decided not to. I wanted to leave it as a reminder of what I did this morning.”
It was obvious Ellie loved her grandmother very much and deeply missed her.
Then she showed me her hands. A fine line of dirt traced beneath her nails. We smiled at each other in that knowing kind of way that says, “I understand exactly what you mean.”
And you know what? Whenever I’ve been working in the yard and I go to wash the dirt from under my fingernails, or I feel disconnected and I need to get to some dirt in a hurry . . . I think of Ellie Feldman and that moment we shared at TJX.
I grew up in rural Southern Indiana. I was a t-shirt and jeans kind of gal. I loved being outside. The Purchasing Department was on the 3rd floor of the TJX building - a beautiful building, but too sterile for my tastes. At the time I lived in a 3rd floor garret apartment too. Far removed from the ground on both parts, I was feeling quite disconnected.
When I feel this way I have the urge to stand outside barefoot and envision the Earth beneath my feet in a cut-a-way view where I can see the strata below me. I start down through my soles, to the grass, to the roots, to the dirt – down and down until I finally feel grounded. It’s always been my way of getting back to center.
On this particular morning I was desperately missing dirt; the smell, the feel, the texture. I was sitting in my cubicle when Ellie Feldman came by to say hello.
Ellie was a great person - full of fun and joy and laughter. She had a quick smile and sharp wit and beautiful red hair, which exemplified her personality perfectly.
“You know what I miss,” I said to her, “I miss dirt!”
She laughed.
“Funny you should say that,” she said. “This morning I went to my Grandmothers grave to plant some flowers. When I was done I noticed I had dirt under my fingernails. I was going to clean them, but I decided not to. I wanted to leave it as a reminder of what I did this morning.”
It was obvious Ellie loved her grandmother very much and deeply missed her.
Then she showed me her hands. A fine line of dirt traced beneath her nails. We smiled at each other in that knowing kind of way that says, “I understand exactly what you mean.”
And you know what? Whenever I’ve been working in the yard and I go to wash the dirt from under my fingernails, or I feel disconnected and I need to get to some dirt in a hurry . . . I think of Ellie Feldman and that moment we shared at TJX.
© 2010
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Technology
In the early sixties technology was something reserved for specific purposes; the science of exploration and national defense. The closest interaction I had with it was our black and white television set and WBIW (the AM radio station just up the road from our house).
The radio station building was constructed of cinder blocks covered with a veneer of limestone "bricks" that varied in length giving the structure a fractured look. It sat back in a grove of pine trees at the long wide turn just before our neighborhood on Highway 58. The U-shaped driveway had a one-way traffic arrow intended to manage the flow of visitors we never observed.
The radio station building was constructed of cinder blocks covered with a veneer of limestone "bricks" that varied in length giving the structure a fractured look. It sat back in a grove of pine trees at the long wide turn just before our neighborhood on Highway 58. The U-shaped driveway had a one-way traffic arrow intended to manage the flow of visitors we never observed.
The radio station tower sat out in a huge open field to the east of the building. It was higher than any of us could imagine climbing. Most of us had never seen mountains. My sister and I would vicariously “reach” the top by way of the wooden teeter-totter my father had built in the backyard for our enjoyment. It lined up perfectly with the radio tower. You could sit opposite your totter mate and push them to the top playing ring-the-bell with it’s flashing light using your weight. Bing!
Further behind the tower, against the old overgrown railroad bed that acted as an alley the length of our backyards, was the radio station dump. Burnt out fluorescent bulbs and old black 45’s and LP’s littered the ditch. Most of the records were broken. If you were lucky enough to find an unbroken one you could throw it just like a Frisbee, but it too would shatter against the crushed stone of the old rail bed. One wonders what treasures may have met their demise at our hands.
The programming of WBIW consisted of easy listening music (no rock and roll) interrupted by news, occasional sports (both local and professional), and informational call-in programs. My favorite was “Over the Back Fence”. It provided not only community news, but also recipes and “gossip”. The gossip consisted of items like; so-in-so had been promoted to supervisor, or just made his 6th degree at the Masonic Lodge, or made the honor role, or was the new pastor of the Baptist Church.
A few of us would venture into the station and watch the on-air DJ through the large glass window of his booth. There was no technician. The DJ did it all; station breaks, spinning music, running commercials, and answering the phone. Here was a talented fellow who wore a tie and suit coat and didn’t have to turn a screw or swing a hammer for a living. Teachers and business owners were the only other people I knew who could do that.
The AP Newswire Teletype chattered incessantly in the back hallway near the offices. Daisy wheeled copy spun off the carriage so fast I couldn't read it. Periodically the DJ would come out and tear off a big sheet to review for any important news. I knew that important news came over that Teletype and, although I never saw it myself, I knew President Kennedy’s assassination had printed on that very machine.
Most copy ended up in the wastebasket – good news for me! I brought those sheets home and pretended to read them to my imaginary listeners in my makeshift control room I erected over my twin bed using a blanket, two folding chairs, and a piece of rope. I would sit there for hours listening to my transistor radio, clicking my flash light on and off to signal when I was “on-air”, and read the old news copy pretending to be a DJ. The radio station employees seemed to like having us around as long as we behaved, which we did because we enjoyed the privilege.The WBIW radio tower was a unique landmark that extended above the horizon like the anchor of our neighborhood. It dominated the landscape.
Our neighborhood baseball diamond sat in the lower level of the Pace’s backyard with the batter facing the tower and the outfield extending up an incline to Bell’s backyard. From that angle the radio tower sat directly in the center of the horizon. You swung for the tower like you were going for the outfield wall to smash a homer.
Our backyard sported a cinder block barbeque pit that sat on a poured concrete slab. A chimney went straight up the back. There was a main grill in the center of the construction with two smaller limestone shelves on either side for utensils and platters. Under each shelf were open cubbyholes for firewood or whatever else you might want to store. This structure made a perfect NASA Ground Control Command Center. The WBIW tower was our distant launch pad where our rockets fired off with perfect precision. We put paper grocery bags over our heads and cut openings to simulate space helmets. We used our fathers work gloves and clomped around in our winter boots to complete our space suit ensembles. We cupped our hands over our mouths and made static noises when we talked to each other to replicate NASA chatter exactly the way we had heard on radio and TV broadcasts during actual lift-offs, and we drank TANG even though we didn’t really like the taste. After all, our very own homegrown astronaut had inspired us.
Virgil “Gus” Grissom was a hero. Born in Mitchell, Indiana (a mere 12 miles south of Bedford) he was among the seven original Mercury astronauts, and the second American to go into space! He helped design and build the Gemini spacecrafts. He had been awarded numerous medals and gained several promotions. We all wanted to be astronauts.
Having a local astronaut gave a new perspective to the night sky. Suddenly our science classes didn’t seem so unconnected from our real lives anymore. Any light moving in the night sky might be a spacecraft with people just like us inside. One evening, as I was on my way home from play, a meteor came tearing across the fading sunset. I could see the actual flame of its tail. The light it produced was like the sun. I was so excited I ran the rest of the way home to tell my family. All this from a pea sized piece of rock from distant comet. I could only imagine the intense heat and flames generated by a space capsule re-entering the atmosphere. Had I been born a thousand years before it would have been interpreted as some heavenly sign indicating either blessing or curse, but I was living in the space age and knew the cause and effect.
When the news came on January 27th, 1967 that “Gus” and two other astronauts had been killed in a fire during an Apollo mission flight simulation at Cape Kennedy. In an instant we learned how dangerous this effort really was. How close to catastrophe space exploration could be. Pictures of his generous smile were printed on the front page of the Bedford Daily Times Mail, the very paper he had delivered as a boy, and were shown on all the major TV channels. He was gone. Streets were renamed for him, memorials were built, and movies made.
Our backyard sported a cinder block barbeque pit that sat on a poured concrete slab. A chimney went straight up the back. There was a main grill in the center of the construction with two smaller limestone shelves on either side for utensils and platters. Under each shelf were open cubbyholes for firewood or whatever else you might want to store. This structure made a perfect NASA Ground Control Command Center. The WBIW tower was our distant launch pad where our rockets fired off with perfect precision. We put paper grocery bags over our heads and cut openings to simulate space helmets. We used our fathers work gloves and clomped around in our winter boots to complete our space suit ensembles. We cupped our hands over our mouths and made static noises when we talked to each other to replicate NASA chatter exactly the way we had heard on radio and TV broadcasts during actual lift-offs, and we drank TANG even though we didn’t really like the taste. After all, our very own homegrown astronaut had inspired us.
Virgil “Gus” Grissom was a hero. Born in Mitchell, Indiana (a mere 12 miles south of Bedford) he was among the seven original Mercury astronauts, and the second American to go into space! He helped design and build the Gemini spacecrafts. He had been awarded numerous medals and gained several promotions. We all wanted to be astronauts.
Having a local astronaut gave a new perspective to the night sky. Suddenly our science classes didn’t seem so unconnected from our real lives anymore. Any light moving in the night sky might be a spacecraft with people just like us inside. One evening, as I was on my way home from play, a meteor came tearing across the fading sunset. I could see the actual flame of its tail. The light it produced was like the sun. I was so excited I ran the rest of the way home to tell my family. All this from a pea sized piece of rock from distant comet. I could only imagine the intense heat and flames generated by a space capsule re-entering the atmosphere. Had I been born a thousand years before it would have been interpreted as some heavenly sign indicating either blessing or curse, but I was living in the space age and knew the cause and effect.
When the news came on January 27th, 1967 that “Gus” and two other astronauts had been killed in a fire during an Apollo mission flight simulation at Cape Kennedy. In an instant we learned how dangerous this effort really was. How close to catastrophe space exploration could be. Pictures of his generous smile were printed on the front page of the Bedford Daily Times Mail, the very paper he had delivered as a boy, and were shown on all the major TV channels. He was gone. Streets were renamed for him, memorials were built, and movies made.
To this day I'm still drawn to radio station towers.
© 2010
Sunday, February 14, 2010
When History Lives
I was a lousy history student as a child – mostly because I was a poor memorizer. Dates, events, and people may as well have been soup made of crazy combinations of refrigerator leftovers. Nothing made sense to me.
It wasn’t until I took an American History class to fulfill my college requirements that all this changed.
My Professor was a dry witted New Englander who would flash pictures of furniture on the screen and ask us not what historical period they came from, but what (by simply observing the style and construction of the furniture) we could tell him about the people who made it. That is when my life as a student of history changed.
Until then it had never occurred to me that history was about context. In the vast historical sea of humanity there are those who rise to the surface precisely because of their response to social, religious, and political realities of their time. They are people who made a difference because they understood the significance of the actions they took.
When you can literally reach back in time and place yourself in the shoes of those who lived before you – this rich history comes alive.
My final term paper for the class was a study of Lothrop Hill Cemetery in Barnstable, Massachusetts. It included not only the epitaphs of the people buried there, but the stone cutters who carefully carved the symbols and words.
To physically touch the stone markers containing dates as far back as 1683 moved me emotionally. I imagined those left behind doing the same. They were parents, spouses, and children – people who mattered, if only to a small circle of loved ones.
In fact written history is a very small sampling of the true human story. It has been estimated that the number of people who have ever lived on earth is in the neighborhood of 106,456,367,669 and of that number only 5% are currently alive. What these numbers don’t measure is the significance of each and every one of those people – how they lived and loved, the lives they touched, the challenges they met, the battles they fought, and the lives they saved.
The true history of humankind cannot be measured simply by the facts, but by the miracle of what it means to be truly human during the time we occupy. It’s about the historical decisions we make everyday – how we live and how we treat each other. It’s about the larger issues we face and how our actions will forever affect the future of those who come after us. It’s about the legacy we leave behind whether we believe it to be large or small.
The challenge is to live our lives well and with all the integrity we can muster, because we are in fact links in the larger chain, and how we live makes a difference.
It wasn’t until I took an American History class to fulfill my college requirements that all this changed.
My Professor was a dry witted New Englander who would flash pictures of furniture on the screen and ask us not what historical period they came from, but what (by simply observing the style and construction of the furniture) we could tell him about the people who made it. That is when my life as a student of history changed.
Until then it had never occurred to me that history was about context. In the vast historical sea of humanity there are those who rise to the surface precisely because of their response to social, religious, and political realities of their time. They are people who made a difference because they understood the significance of the actions they took.
When you can literally reach back in time and place yourself in the shoes of those who lived before you – this rich history comes alive.
My final term paper for the class was a study of Lothrop Hill Cemetery in Barnstable, Massachusetts. It included not only the epitaphs of the people buried there, but the stone cutters who carefully carved the symbols and words.
To physically touch the stone markers containing dates as far back as 1683 moved me emotionally. I imagined those left behind doing the same. They were parents, spouses, and children – people who mattered, if only to a small circle of loved ones.
In fact written history is a very small sampling of the true human story. It has been estimated that the number of people who have ever lived on earth is in the neighborhood of 106,456,367,669 and of that number only 5% are currently alive. What these numbers don’t measure is the significance of each and every one of those people – how they lived and loved, the lives they touched, the challenges they met, the battles they fought, and the lives they saved.
The true history of humankind cannot be measured simply by the facts, but by the miracle of what it means to be truly human during the time we occupy. It’s about the historical decisions we make everyday – how we live and how we treat each other. It’s about the larger issues we face and how our actions will forever affect the future of those who come after us. It’s about the legacy we leave behind whether we believe it to be large or small.
The challenge is to live our lives well and with all the integrity we can muster, because we are in fact links in the larger chain, and how we live makes a difference.
© 2010
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Squirrel Hunting
It was late fall 1968 when my father decided I was old enough to go on my first squirrel hunting expedition with him.
I was a spindly thirteen-year-old. All of 67 pounds and mostly knees and elbows. The rifle we carried was an old 12-gauge shotgun that had been handed down through the family. It had a crude hand carved "H" in the worn wooden stock, presumably for Hillenburg.
We drove over to Spine-Cob (an area also known as East Oolitic) and parked the truck at the top of the hill from Grandma's house where the railroad tracks crossed a narrow gravel road. There was an old wooden sign that read "Murdock", but no one seemed to know what it meant. I imagined it was the name of a long since abandoned railroad stop.
We took a right and walked down the tracks and around a bend. It was here my Grandfather and his friends threw coal from the trains they had jumped earlier so their families would have coal to heat their homes during the Depression. The spot still shimmered with fine black flakes of coal dust.
Just beyond the bend was a stretch where the barbed wire fence had a broken strand. Tapping his pipe out, Dad carefully pulled the remaining strands apart so I could squeeze through. Then he handed the rifle over to me and jumped the fence with ease.
Once we crossed the small meadow leading over to the hickory grove we surveyed the area. Nut "cuttings" littered the ground. This was a good sign.
We situated ourselves in front of a huge tree where we could both sit comfortably with our backs against it with a full view of the rest of the grove. There we sat silently waiting for a squirrel to appear.
It wasn't before long the motion of the leaves mesmerized me. Dreamily hypnotized, my mind began to wander.
Suddenly, I felt my father jerk in excitement. He slowly stretched out his arm and pointed toward the middle of a particularly bushy tree directly in front of us. I leaned my head against his shoulder and looked up his arm but, try as I might, I couldn't locate the squirrel among all the movement of the leaves.
Sensing his impatience, I finally told him I had seen the squirrel even though I had no clue where it was.
To my surprise, he handed me the rifle! It took all my strength to lift the gun in the general direction he had originally pointed. The longer I held it there, hoping the squirrel would move so I could see it, the more the gun began to waver. My father slid his finger under the barrel to steady it.
"Do you have him in you sights?" he whispered.
"Yep," I responded, still anxiously searching the tree.
"Now, don't pull the trigger...squeeze it gently." His finger still was supporting the barrel.
The moment of truth had arrived. Do I stop and tell him I don't see it and risk aggravating him or go ahead and shoot knowing that since it was my first time a miss would almost be expected?
I closed my left eye tightly and squeezed . . . KAPOW!
The rifle kicked against my shoulder, sailed completely over my head, and landed behind me. I fell flat on my back from the impact.
My father kept his eye on the tree and watched as the unsuspecting squirrel hit the ground with a thud!
Incredible! A perfect shot. No buckshot in the body. It was dead instantly he said. "Couldn't have done it better myself," he beamed.
It wasn't until my graduation from college, upon which my father presented me with my very own Marlin semi-automatic .22 caliber rifle as a graduation gift, that I finally told him the truth about that day.
I was a spindly thirteen-year-old. All of 67 pounds and mostly knees and elbows. The rifle we carried was an old 12-gauge shotgun that had been handed down through the family. It had a crude hand carved "H" in the worn wooden stock, presumably for Hillenburg.
We drove over to Spine-Cob (an area also known as East Oolitic) and parked the truck at the top of the hill from Grandma's house where the railroad tracks crossed a narrow gravel road. There was an old wooden sign that read "Murdock", but no one seemed to know what it meant. I imagined it was the name of a long since abandoned railroad stop.
We took a right and walked down the tracks and around a bend. It was here my Grandfather and his friends threw coal from the trains they had jumped earlier so their families would have coal to heat their homes during the Depression. The spot still shimmered with fine black flakes of coal dust.
Just beyond the bend was a stretch where the barbed wire fence had a broken strand. Tapping his pipe out, Dad carefully pulled the remaining strands apart so I could squeeze through. Then he handed the rifle over to me and jumped the fence with ease.
Once we crossed the small meadow leading over to the hickory grove we surveyed the area. Nut "cuttings" littered the ground. This was a good sign.
We situated ourselves in front of a huge tree where we could both sit comfortably with our backs against it with a full view of the rest of the grove. There we sat silently waiting for a squirrel to appear.
It wasn't before long the motion of the leaves mesmerized me. Dreamily hypnotized, my mind began to wander.
Suddenly, I felt my father jerk in excitement. He slowly stretched out his arm and pointed toward the middle of a particularly bushy tree directly in front of us. I leaned my head against his shoulder and looked up his arm but, try as I might, I couldn't locate the squirrel among all the movement of the leaves.
Sensing his impatience, I finally told him I had seen the squirrel even though I had no clue where it was.
To my surprise, he handed me the rifle! It took all my strength to lift the gun in the general direction he had originally pointed. The longer I held it there, hoping the squirrel would move so I could see it, the more the gun began to waver. My father slid his finger under the barrel to steady it.
"Do you have him in you sights?" he whispered.
"Yep," I responded, still anxiously searching the tree.
"Now, don't pull the trigger...squeeze it gently." His finger still was supporting the barrel.
The moment of truth had arrived. Do I stop and tell him I don't see it and risk aggravating him or go ahead and shoot knowing that since it was my first time a miss would almost be expected?
I closed my left eye tightly and squeezed . . . KAPOW!
The rifle kicked against my shoulder, sailed completely over my head, and landed behind me. I fell flat on my back from the impact.
My father kept his eye on the tree and watched as the unsuspecting squirrel hit the ground with a thud!
Incredible! A perfect shot. No buckshot in the body. It was dead instantly he said. "Couldn't have done it better myself," he beamed.
It wasn't until my graduation from college, upon which my father presented me with my very own Marlin semi-automatic .22 caliber rifle as a graduation gift, that I finally told him the truth about that day.
© 2010
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