Story from 1968

I thought I would dredge up something from my early writing days(1968). I posted this story before for those of you who are keepers of my blog information, but it's Fall and time for a man's hunting instincts to kick in. In the print above, a young Daniel Boone hunts to provide his family with food. I hope you enjoy reading this again (or perhaps for the first time). I will be on the road for an old man's walk about for a couple of days.

The Heart of a Man

The distant crowing of a rooster pierced the early morning silence. It was soon followed by similar, shrill, grating cry as another barnyard herald joined the fugue of the feathered symphony. Inside the front room of a weathered house, a pile of quilts in the middle of a big, old-fashioned, poster-bed began to unfold, and slowly assumed a more recognizable shape. A few short strands of matted red hair emerged from under the lumpy patchwork. Suddenly a freckled hand swept open the warm cotton nest exposing a sparsely clad body to the filtered chill of the room. Thirteen year old David Reins slowly raised himself into a sitting position, and turned so his legs slid off the edge of the bed, and dangled aimlessly as his mind focused on his surroundings. He glanced through the darkness and his eyes stopped as the luminous dial of the alarm clock came into view. The hands were spread to read five o’clock.

David knew his mother would object. Just in the last year she had become extremely overprotective. David eased his weight onto his bare feet. His hands kept steady pressure on the rusty bed springs until he was in a position to release them slowly and silently. Everything had been carefully placed so it could be found easily without the use of a light. His faded blue jeans, and his old checkered flannel shirt were carefully dropped on a short bench which stood in front of the dressing table with its three arched-topped mirrors. His worn leather boots were directly beneath the bench. From the top of each boot, a thick wool sock hung like a large worm about to escape a tin can. David was almost ready. All he had left to do was to pick up the canvas hunting coat, and the shotgun that stood by the dusty, old chifforobe next to the door. The coat and the shotgun had belonged to his father who died just the year before. The coat was stiff and heavy. The shell slots in each pocket were full, and the vinyl game pouch at the back of the coat still smelled of last year’s hunting successes. David’s arms hung inside the warmth of the sleeves which were several inches too long. He pushed them back in accordion fashion so his hand could grasp the cold, blued-steel barrel of the Winchester .12 gauge.

David opened the door and stepped outside. His eyes watered, his cheeks burned, and his nostrils ached as he followed the white puffs of his breath through the darkness. A November cold front was moving across the southern countryside. His boots crunched and grated on the gravel in his grandfather’s driveway as he moved toward the gap in the barbed wire fence that opened into the woods. David stopped at the gap. The roosters had stopped crowing. Everything was quiet. It was the silent time of dawn when everything pauses to await the crest of the sun. His heart began to beat faster as he gazed into the dark chasm formed by a large hickory-nut tree and some small pin-oaks whose branches arched over the narrow path that led deep into the swamp of the creek. Things were different; he missed his father’s presence on the trail beside him. David’s numb fingers fumbled in the pocket of his hunting coat as he pried three of the new magnum plastic shells from their slots. He pressed two shells into the magazine, then he moved the slide beneath the barrel all the way back, and with a quick, forward jerk it slid back into position, chambering on of the shells. Even with a loaded gun, David still had trouble getting his feet to move further down the dark pathway.

Soon he heard the gurgling of the creek that signaled his arrival at the prime squirrel hunting area. David moved himself into position beneath one of the decaying, hollow, hardwood trees that lined both sides of the creek. His listened patiently for the tell-tale chatter of the gray squirrel. The darkness faded with the rising of the sun, and David’s surroundings became clearly visible. Suddenly the silence of the swamp was broken by a bedlam of chatter. David’s keen brown eyes turned skyward as they caught a slight movement on a leafless limb of a nearby oak. The fluffy tail of the fat squirrel moved slowly back and forth in a motion similar to that of a metronome, as he barked indignantly at those who had invaded his private play ground during the night. David’s muscles tightened as he slowly raised himself and lifted the heavy shotgun to his shoulder. His thumb caught the exposed hammer and pulled it back into the cocked position with a slight click. He gripped the large gun as firmly as possible, and planted both feet firmly into the spongy soil. His arm extended full length down the dark oil stained stock, and his forefinger stretched to make a slight arch around the trigger. David moved the barrel so that the silver bead at the end was centered on the squirrel’s body. His heart began to pound furiously, his face took on a powdered appearance, and shiny beads of sweat appeared on his brow. His finger nervously began to pressure the trigger. The guttural roar of the shotgun ruptured the early morning serenity of the swamp. David struggled to retain his balance as the barrel spewed forth its contents and arched skyward. His ears rang, his shoulder throbbed, and his nostrils were filled with the strong sulphur smell of burning gun powder. Beneath the tree, David could see a writhing lump of gray fur. He moved quickly toward his prize, pushing aside the underbrush as he went. He stopped and gazed down at the suffering creature in sickening horror. The wounded squirrel’s teeth were bared in pain, and his eyes focused momentarily on the creature that loomed over him. His hind legs moved in quick staccato jerks, and dark red drops of blood oozed from the bristled fur that covered his body. David’s stomach retched, and twisted. He wanted to cry. The squirrel twisted again and stirred the dry, spongy leaves. David knew that the job must be finished. He had seen his father do it dozens of times. He knew the suffering had to be stopped, but not it seemed so brutal. He leaned his gun up against a tree, and extended his trembling hand down, and grasped the warm underside of the squirrel. He could feel the tiny thumping beat of the heart, and see the rise and fall of the miniature chest as it expanded against his fingers. He knew if he was going to do it he couldn’t wait any longer. Carefully he placed the small head on the exposed root of a nearby oak. David’s jaw tightened. There was no time for second thoughts as he raised his boot and slammed it forcefully down causing the oak to resound with a muffled thud. He glanced at the squirrel once more, sighed, put the squirrel in his pouch, shouldered his gun, and headed home.

There's Just Something About an Aqua Velva Man

My two year old grandson likes to put on a little manly cologne now and again. If he can talk Bebe into a small dab of mine, he runs into my office immediately with a big smile on his face and says, " 'mell me". Someone wrote something about after shave in a post the other day that got me thinking about those early days when the object of smelling good was to impress the young ladies. Early on in my awakening years, money was hard to come by and I had to borrow whatever dad was using at the time. Old Spice was a favorite of his, along with Mennen, Aqua Velva and occasionally Bay Rum. I know now it has more effect if you are actually old enough to shave. I remember going on a band trip out of town as an older teen just after the Beatles invaded, probably around 1964, and having one of the group tell us about a cologne that was sure to work, English Leather. Since none of us had much over two dollars in extra cash, we went as a group to find this sure fire elixir. We decided to pool our cash and buy one bottle for the whole gang. We rushed back to the hotel and splashed on a generous portion. Dressed in the latest fashion and sporting the hottest cologne on the market we set out for the evening. When we got on the elevator, it was almost impossible to breath because the fumes were so heavy. I don't recall getting anymore attention because of the expensive smell goody, unless it was giggles when bystanders were hit with the collective strength of the cologne emanating from a gaggle of hormonal teens. My grown daughters and my wife make sure I wear the latest in olfactory pleasing splashes these days.

We are all apt to believe what the world believes about us. - George Eliot

Heart of a Man - Part II

Part I - ending:
Even with a loaded gun, David still had trouble getting his feet to move further down the dark pathway.

Part II

Soon he heard the gurgling of the creek that signaled his arrival at the prime squirrel hunting area. David moved himself into position beneath one of the decaying, hollow, hardwood trees that lined both sides of the creek. His listened patiently for the tell-tale chatter of the gray squirrel. The darkness faded with the rising of the sun, and David’s surroundings became clearly visible. Suddenly the silence of the swamp was broken by a bedlam of chatter. David’s keen brown eyes turned skyward as they caught a slight movement on a leafless limb of a nearby oak. The fluffy tail of the fat squirrel moved slowly back and forth in a motion similar to that of a metronome, as he barked indignantly at those who had invaded his private play ground during the night. David’s muscles tightened as he slowly raised himself and lifted the heavy shotgun to his shoulder. His thumb caught the exposed hammer and pulled it back into the cocked position with a slight click. He gripped the large gun as firmly as possible, and planted both feet firmly into the spongy soil. His arm extended full length down the dark oil stained stock, and his forefinger stretched to make a slight arch around the trigger. David moved the barrel so that the silver bead at the end was centered on the squirrel’s body. His heart began to pound furiously, his face took on a powdered appearance, and shiny beads of sweat appeared on his brow. His finger nervously began to pressure the trigger. The guttural roar of the shotgun ruptured the early morning serenity of the swamp. David struggled to retain his balance as the barrel spewed forth its contents and arched skyward. His ears rang, his shoulder throbbed, and his nostrils were filled with the strong sulphur smell of burning gun powder. Beneath the tree, David could see a writhing lump of gray fur. He moved quickly toward his prize, pushing aside the underbrush as he went. He stopped and gazed down at the suffering creature in sickening horror. The wounded squirrel’s teeth were bared in pain, and his eyes focused momentarily on the creature that loomed over him. His hind legs moved in quick staccato jerks, and dark red drops of blood oozed from the bristled fur that covered his body. David’s stomach retched, and twisted. He wanted to cry. The squirrel twisted again and stirred the dry, spongy leaves. David knew that the job must be finished. He had seen his father do it dozens of times. He knew the suffering had to be stopped, but now it seemed so brutal. He leaned his gun up against a tree, and extended his trembling hand down, and grasped the warm underside of the squirrel. He could feel the tiny thumping beat of the heart, and see the rise and fall of the miniature chest as it expanded against his fingers. He knew if he was going to do it he couldn’t wait any longer. Carefully he placed the small head on the exposed root of a nearby oak. David’s jaw tightened. There was no time for second thoughts as he raised his boot and slammed it forcefully down causing the oak to resound with a muffled thud. He glanced at the squirrel once more, sighed, put the squirrel in his pouch, shouldered his gun, and headed home.

Youth is the period in which a man can be hopeless. The end of every episode is the end of the world. But, the power of hoping through everything, the knowledge that the soul survives its adventures, that great inspiration comes to the middle-aged. G. K. Chesterton

Heart of a Man - Part I

This story was first published when I was a Junior at the University of Southern Mississippi in 1968. The publication was featured in the student literary anthology, Contemporary. I am going to present it in two different segments. I hope you enjoy the early work of the Texican.

The Heart of a Man

The distant crowing of a rooster pierced the early morning silence. It was soon followed by similar, shrill, grating cry as another barnyard herald joined the fugue of the feathered symphony. Inside the front room of a weathered house, a pile of quilts in the middle of a big, old-fashioned, poster-bed began to unfold, and slowly assumed a more recognizable shape. A few short strands of matted red hair emerged from under the lumpy patchwork. Suddenly a freckled hand swept open the warm cotton nest exposing a sparsely clad body to the filtered chill of the room. Thirteen year old David Reins slowly raised himself into a sitting position, and turned so his legs slid off the edge of the bed, and dangled aimlessly as his mind focused on his surroundings. He glanced through the darkness and his eyes stopped as the luminous dial of the alarm clock came into view. The hands were spread to read five o’clock.

David knew his mother would object. Just in the last year she had become extremely overprotective. David eased his weight onto his bare feet. His hands kept steady pressure on the rusty bed springs until he was in a position to release them slowly and silently. Everything had been carefully placed so it could be found easily without the use of a light. His faded blue jeans, and his old checkered flannel shirt were carefully dropped on a short bench which stood in front of the dressing table with its three arched-topped mirrors. His worn leather boots were directly beneath the bench. From the top of each boot, a thick wool sock hung like a large worm about to escape a tin can. David was almost ready. All he had left to do was to pick up the canvas hunting coat, and the shotgun that stood by the dusty, old chifforobe next to the door. The coat and the shotgun had belonged to his father who died just the year before. The coat was stiff and heavy. The shell slots in each pocket were full, and the vinyl game pouch at the back of the coat still smelled of last year’s hunting successes. David’s arms hung inside the warmth of the sleeves which were several inches too long. He pushed them back in accordion fashion so his hand could grasp the cold, blued-steel barrel of the Winchester .12 gauge.

David opened the door and stepped outside. His eyes watered, his cheeks burned, and his nostrils ached as he followed the white puffs of his breath through the darkness. A November cold front was moving across the southern countryside. His boots crunched and grated on the gravel in his grandfather’s driveway as he moved toward the gap in the barbed wire fence that opened into the woods. David stopped at the gap. The roosters had stopped crowing. Everything was quiet. It was the silent time of dawn when everything pauses to await the crest of the sun. His heart began to beat faster as he gazed into the dark chasm formed by a large hickory-nut tree and some small pin-oaks whose branches arched over the narrow path that led deep into the swamp of the creek. Things were different; he missed his father’s presence on the trail beside him. David’s numb fingers fumbled in the pocket of his hunting coat as he pried three of the new magnum plastic shells from their slots. He pressed two shells into the magazine, then he moved the slide beneath the barrel all the way back, and with a quick, forward jerk slid it back into position, chambering one of the shells. Even with a loaded gun, David still had trouble getting his feet to move further down the dark pathway.

"...without heart a man is meaningless." Star Trek

Bullies

I'm inclined to believe we have all encountered those who because of their physical size and poor self esteem became bullies. Those individuals who prey on others, whom they perceive to be weaker, to elevate their own feelings of self worth or self importance. It may have been when you were young, or it may have been at the job site when you were an adult. Regardless of where and when you meet one, you are likely to remember the experience. I was never much over average size and I had average physical abilities when I was growing up. I didn't really blossom physically until I was an adult working in law enforcement. I spent countless hours in the gym to create a look that said, "Don't tread on me." When dealing with bullies, the psychological edge is often enough to cause doubt and send them looking for easier targets.

BULLIES
I was too young to start school. I still had my baby teeth. But there I was, back against the wall, trying to avoid contact with strangers. A large boy stood in front of me looking down at my upturned face. His stare was unfriendly.
“What are you looking at?” he asked.
“You look sleepy.” I said.
Apparently he took offense at my retort and pounded me into a submissive blob. This was my first encounter with a bully. I didn’t report the incident to my dad because I knew he would have questions about what I did to defend myself. I didn’t think crying and rolling into a ball would count for much.
I come from a long line of good boxers. Dad made attempts early in my life to instruct me the art of self-defense. I’m left handed, and a bit of a bumble foot, so I avoided physical confrontation. Several times I tried to mock the tricks of my favorite cowboy stars, but it never worked out just as it did on the big screen. I once tried to grab a charging playmate and roll backwards with my feet in his stomach thus launching him over my head. My legs were unable to support his weight and to my father, who was watching from the window, it looked as though I had wilted in the face of a challenge. Further lessons were a necessity.
I gained confidence as I rose through the elementary grades, but, just when I felt comfortable, Junior High School started. I was a round faced seventh grader. The bullies I encountered here were bigger and meaner than any I had seen before. Some rode motorcycles to school and wore leather jackets. They had longish greasy hair combed back on both sides forming a duck tail at the back. The front was curled to fall over on their forehead in the front. I spent hours contemplating what I would do if attacked. I timed my comings and goings from school to avoid any notice from that crowd. However, it was not to be.
It was picture day and I dressed in a new white shirt and a bow tie. Sammy, the class bully, sat directly behind me. The teacher was out of the room. Sammy had a side kick named Earl who always jumped in after Sammy softened up his mark. I don’t know why the teacher decided to put me in front of these two. As I sat with my face forward trying to be invisible, I felt dampness on the back of my shirt. Sammy was slinging blue ink from a cartridge pen all across my back. I knew my dad would ask about the shirt when I got home. I had to do something. I stood facing Sammy and hit him hard with my left fist right between his eyes. A big knot formed over the bridge of his nose. I turned on Earl who was trying to slide down in his chair. Just about that time, the teacher walked back into the room. The class monitor, a girl with a pen and pad, was only to happy to report my breach of good conduct to the teacher. I was held after school along with Sammy and Earl. After a while my dad walked through the door of the classroom. He asked why I was being detained. The teacher, a small woman, explained the happenings from earlier in the day as my father listened. He asked her if she had seen the incident and she reported she had not been in the classroom at the time. My father came back to where I was seated and said “Come with me son we’re going home.” As we passed the desk he turned to the teacher and said, “He did just what I taught him he should, and he won’t be staying after school for that.” From that day forward I had very little trouble with any of the other bullies in the school. A bad reputation can be a good thing.

Without courage all virtues lose their meaning. Winston Churchill

Bouie River Rats

We are the Bouie River Rats,

better known as the DDT.

Comprised of Dino, Thorn, and Hern,

We are the mighty three.

The photo above was taken on the Bouie river just north of Hattiesburg, MS. It is a popular canoeing river in the area today, but when I was a teen, it was mostly wilderness and not a real popular destination. The verse below the picture is the first stanza of a poem I wrote in high school to chronicle the existence of the DDT. The DDT was a mutual protection club with three members, Dennis, Dale, and Theron. The poem heralds our chosen nicknames, Dino, Thorn, and Herngolian. We were average sized teens by any standard. However, there were in our high school, boys who looked forty. They were big, and many were prone to take advantage of their size by terrorizing the lesser males in the pack. On friday and saturday nights, these monsters could be found congregating at several fast food locations around town. Lesser males who wandered into these protected territories often left with visible reminders of their visits. We decided to take to the woods on nights when we had nothing better to do than make the rounds. In the bylaws of the DDT was a provision for a particular type of alarm cry (a modified Tarzan yell), which we practiced, to be utilized if we found ourselves separated from the group at school and confronted by superior force. Although I don't recall ever having to use it, there was comfort in knowing we could. The members of the DDT were to drop whatever they were doing and follow the call to arms. Theron's folks owned a small neighborhood grocery, and his uncle was a butcher there. He would provide us with steaks to take with us on our adventures, and we would all bring supplies for an overnight visit to the woods which surrounded the Bouie River. We swam, shot turtles, told stories, built a big fire and cooked our tucker. Staying alone overnight in the woods was proof enough of our manhood. We are still friends today.

When buying and selling are controlled by legislation, the first things to be bought and sold are legislators.
- PJ O'Rourke

The Season - Part I

I have decided to post a story in serial form for the next few days. The story is too long for one post, so I am breaking it up into three parts. Our lives are influenced by so many things when we are young, but we never consciously think of them until we are adults. Why are we like we are? Why do we think the way we do? Many of these answers come from the examination of our lives as youngsters. I hope you can relate.

My method is to take the utmost trouble to find the right thing to say, and then to say it with the utmost levity. - George Bernard
Shaw

The Beginning - Part I

Sweat dripped off of Roy Bond’s oily teen face. It glistened in the bright September sun. The temperature was still in the high 90s in south Florida. The registration line stretched from one end of the school to the other. The hallways were open and ran along the exterior of the building. Roy was leaning out to see how much further he had to go when someone stuck a permission form in his hand. Turning, he stared at the slender man with the crew cut.
“Son, get you parents to sign this form, and report to the field house tomorrow for a football physical.”
“But…” His stammering response fell short of the back of the man’s head. The speaker continued down the long line with another man following close behind. They were dressed alike in Khaki shorts and matching purple shirts. Both had whistles hanging from cords around their necks. They sized up each male in the line. If they had any size at all, they repeated the short speech and handed them a form.
Golfview Junior High School opened its doors just two years before. Roy stood in line to register for the ninth grade. The school sat between an affluent golfing community, Golfview, and the infamous South Gate, a place where the railroad tracks literally marked the boundary between the fortunate and the unfortunate. A few kids, including Roy, lived in a semi-rural area near the school. Both of Roy’s parents worked and had no time for golf.
He stared at the form in his hand and wondered about the possibility of playing football. Roy weighed 165 pounds, but most of it was baby fat. Very few kids in his neighborhood ever played any organized sport other than baseball. Still, the thought of putting on a football uniform and running onto the field in front of cheering fans excited him. Sweat continued to streak down his cheek as he waited in the slow moving line, but Roy didn’t notice. He dreamed of stardom. In the past, only the well-to-do kids played football at Golfview. The school win/loss record was dismal.
That evening when his dad got home, Roy gave him the insurance card and permission form.
“Dad, can I go out for football?”
Before he could answer Roy’s mother said, “You’re in the band.”
“I could do both.” He countered.
“You’ve never played football.” She said, looking at her husband for some support.
His dad was an athlete: a champion boxer in the Navy. Roy could sense that his dad was on his side.
Roy remembered how his dad tried to prepare him for life. It all started in grammar school. Roy was really too young to start school. He still had his baby teeth. But there he was at school, back against the wall, trying to avoid contact with strangers. A large boy stood in front of him looking down at his upturned face. His stare was unfriendly.
“What are you looking at?” The large boy asked...
“Uh, you look sleepy.” Roy said.
Apparently he took offense at Roy’s retort and pounded him into a submissive blob. This was his first encounter with a bully. His dad later told him that crying and rolling into a ball was not an acceptable defense tactic. He tried to teach him the “sweet science”, but Roy was left handed, and a bit of a bumble foot, so he progressed slowly and avoided physical confrontation. By the end of elementary school he gained some confidence, but, just when he began to feel comfortable, Junior High School started. The process had to be repeated.
His dad looked at him and then back at his mother. “Let’s let him tryout.”
His mother turned away in defeat. Roy started in on the usual list of promises related to what he would do if allowed to play. Dad signed the form.
The next day Roy stood in front of the concrete block field house with a great host of other potential players. Three major groups huddled in separate areas around the front steps. The kids from Golfview community stood nearest the door. Most of them had played before. Another group from South Gate milled around in the shade of a nearby palm tree. This group smelled strongly of cigarette smoke and Vitalis hair tonic. Roy didn’t know the South Gate kids very well because he spent most of the last two years trying to avoid them.
The new coach stepped out of the field house and addressed them. “Men, line up and have your signed forms ready when you get to the door. After you pass your physical, report to the equipment room and check out your pads. Practice will start this afternoon at four. Bring your equipment when you come.”
He called them “men”. Roy felt tougher already. He rubbed his hand across his face to see if he could feel a whisker. He thought for a second that he did, but realized that it was only a pimple. Once through the door they were told to strip down to their shorts. Roy looked around to see how he measured up with the rest of the guys. He thought maybe he should order the Charles Atlas muscle building course after he got home. Once the poking and prodding behind the curtain was complete, they redressed and picked up their equipment. All were fitted for a helmet, pads, practice uniform and game pants. They had to provide their own jock strap. Roy had never worn one before. He left with a hefty load of armor stuffed into his football pants. He purchased a jock strap at the local drug store on his way home. That was embarrassing. Now he stood in front of a full length mirror and practiced putting it on over his pants. He had a horrible vision of standing naked and afraid in front of strangers and not knowing how to put it on. Once he mastered his most basic piece of equipment, he worked on figuring out the rest. The remainder of the day whizzed by as he dreamed of flying tackles and crushing blocks. All of these delivered by him, of course.