It's Taken Four Dogs to Raise Me.

Better to be 44 than not. It's as close as I've ever come to being the perfect age...and pretty soon, another year'll tick off and I'll have to change my tune to something like, "Better to be 45 than not. It's as close to being the perfect age..."


I used to see the guys that worked for me, twenty-somethings with new families and barely enough money to pay for them, and think, now that's the way to do it. They'll be able to throw or kick balls in the back yard until dark and take Tae Kwon Do kicks to the gut without having to gobble handfuls of Naproxen and Vicodin at bed time to calm a throbbing shoulder or neck. They'll be forty something when the kids move out, I thought, still kinda young.


But me, I had waited until I thought I was absolutely sure I could afford kids--their illnesses and their time. And I think that was better. By the time we had a couple, I was nearly ready. My wife had prepared me for a lifetime with someone who can't return things from whence they came and non-sensible arguments about butter and egg placement in our first refrigerator. But a few dogs may have taught me more about how ready I really was.


By the time we had kids, I had already figured out that maybe it isn't the end of the world that the boy liked to break everything he touched, that the girl constantly spilled everything she ate. Maybe I wouldn't yell at them when my brush disappeared, or when all the batteries  inside our various remote controls turned up missing, and the little trap door on the remotes--even some of the irreplaceable remotes disappeared.


And to think I made it to the ripe old age of 32 before I was calm, quiet and collected enough for children. Oh, I guess I still yell--I like "grandiose" gestures, but it's more for show. When I'm dead serious not much is said but a choice curse-word followed by the yank of the Wii's power cord, or the flip of a breaker thus shutting down an entire floor's electrical flow. Then I'll repeat, "Mom said it's time to eat!" or "Mom said it's time to study!" or "Mom said it's time to get up." or "Mom said it's time to clean the rat cage." I can still get things done...but no more stomping.


I know I'm more patient these days because of the simple fact that through a congenital, Mothershead "defect", there has almost always been a dog around to gauge my personal growth. I cringe at how I treated my first dog Duffer when I think back to the days in High School when, after I had put up a half a mile of fence to create a pen, I was allowed to pick out a "free" dog to call my own. Later, when I "moved out" unexpectedly before the end of high school, her life was a downward spiral that was caused by my own abject poverty--it was horrible to live and to see.


The days where I'd have to choose between gasoline (to get to work) or dog food were always towards the end of the week just before paydays. My dog who had never slept outside in her life was forced onto a chain in my new roommate's back yard. As lonely as I felt, it was Duffer who showed it, vocalized it, so that along with my isolation, I also got to enjoy some higher levels of self-loathing.


She couldn't be helped, but when I found a household that accepted dogs into the home to renters, we moved in expecting to live out our gravy days together, but it didn't last. One of us had fleas and they spread to the entire household which we shared with Jim and his horribly disfigured Himalayan cat. I honestly don't know where the scourge had come from, but we were blamed and asked to leave again. I just didn't have it in me to chain her outside again that being the one condition of letting us stay.


From there, I had to, hat in hand, go back to my parents and pass her off to them. She didn't fare much better there, but at least she was fed, and had a home. She even got to visit my college dorm one day, for an illegal bath and an unexpected run after a squirrel on the weekend-deserted campus of UNCG. The college in which I was accepted two weeks before school started in '89 because, at the whim of my father, I was deemed worthy to come back to the fold and receive his tuition money and blessing, until....


My girlfriend graduated and sadly, couldn't hang out in my dorm room all year like she had my junior year (maybe the only benefit to being an RA was the single room) and was going to get an apartment. Well of course, I invited myself along and we made plans to share a life together like 22 and 23 year olds do all the time. But pops didn't think so. In fact, suddenly, he felt like I should actually pay for the education myself from there on out--not because I was going to live in sin with the love of my life, but because I had made the statement that college life was "a gravy train with biscuit wheels" which he didn't like one bit.


So I quit.


I moved into a apartment to live in sin with the love of my life, and I settled into working residential construction though for the first time in my life, I was not hanging up my tool belt in the fall to return to school. From there I got us evicted playing music too loud--it was an old white guy who'd replaced the fun loving black folks whom we loved as they never complained about my music. And in turn, we didn't mind a young Otis coming over to hangout with the cats whenever he wanted. They had left suddenly and secretly probably days after a pretty intense stove top fire gutted their kitchen neither telling management or local firefighters!


So after sharing the shame of eviction, we found a tiny house to rent and then did something crazy. We eloped in a not-so-secret ceremony with a Justice of the Peace in coveralls doing the honours and dad actually springing for the 35 dollars owed as I'd left my checkbook at home. Luckily we had driven up to Martinsville, Virginia where getting hitched was 25 dollars cheaper than in NC. And from there, we bought a neighbor's house just down the street from the rental and I vowed to get a dog.


By now, we're a bona-fide couple, so all dogs are going to get three names and health care and as soon as I can, I go to the pound and grab a broke-eared, Basenji-Lab mix and gag when she barfs in the truck on the ride home. I was a 20 something with a dog named Mary Margaret Mothershead. She was to be a lonesome thing, so in short order we "rescued" (that's another story) a rat terrier for "Maggie" to play with and called her Melinda Kay Mothershead, our Molly.


Now, I had had the job, which blossomed into a career and budding corporation of my own, and the times in the white house were peppered with loving dogs and the first "apartment" cats and we were one big hairy family. The dogs had run of the place, slept with us off and on, and did as they pleased enjoying food scraps and finally, steady, decent health care.


I remember letting Maggie out one morning and watching helplessly as she sauntered into the road and not looking both ways was grazed by a passing car--the kind of car that really does come out of nowhere in that pre-dawn darkness that only construction workers and school teachers know. Scooped up into arms, my little 33 pound Maggie, "lifeless" and bathed in my tears, was awake and barfing in the truck before we even got to the Emergency-After Hours Vet Clinic.


A sleepy-eyed vet looked at my dog jogging around the waiting room for two seconds and said, "She's fine." I wasn't sure. "Look, her nose is bleeding, don't you want to take an x-ray?" He turned his back on us and said, "If you leave now, I won't charge you 100 bucks," and we scooted out the door. The guys at work were sympathetic to say the least--especially after I reenacted the tearful march holding my imaginary, "dead" Maggie in my arms for them to see.


The whole time with these dogs were extremely happy and gratifying for me, and I thought at last I was ready for children. Only rarely did the selfish Brett rear his head with an ugly, "Go on!" when I was eating or ready for a dog looking for a pat on the head (or snack) to leave me alone. Of course, being ready for kids is different from actually producing them, and I've mentioned how that was before now.


After a whirlwind of paperwork, and the selling of a house, the moving into then out of an apartment, and the subsequent moving into another rental house--all within six months--we were parents. And the dogs went right along with us bearing the brunt of a new indifference due solely because of our growing family. I was about to fail my dogs again. I was about to become a cowering cliche when faced with the "dilemma" of having our old children with four legs compete with a new son, and surprisingly, another baby, a girl, to come.


I can remember having to go to work one morning before dawn and letting two dogs, who'd obviously just been sprayed by a skunk, back into the house--I just had to go to run the crew. I didn't have time to stop and hose them off or dunk them in V-8. There was just never any time for anything but work and/or kids. See, Emily was born shortly thereafter, so "then there were two", sixteen months apart.  And then Maggie lunged at someone, a little boy, and though both were safely on opposite sides of a closed sliding-glass door, mothers saw, and wheels started turning.


When I came home from work and Maggie was gone, I was too tired to even put up a fight. I knew it was a conspiracy the likes of which I hadn't seen in my family since I was 13 and my very first cat was found mauled and dead in the woods by my parents who thought it wise not to tell me until I was a grown man. And, since we still had Molly, I quietly, and guiltily, accepted Maggie's fate as my own failure. There were times when I groused at the two dogs for panting on me, or begging for food, and I feel bad that I could somehow be that gruff with them verbally, but they were the ones who "took it" when I couldn't tell the baby's to "Go lie down!" or "Git!"


A few years pass and we moved into a house we vowed to not live in longer than three years. It has been our home for twelve. Naturally, Molly came with us, and slowly while we lived (and while some of us grew) there, she, and the apartment cats got older and older. And one by one they would pass until even Molly, my last chance at redemption for Duffer and Maggie, my last parental aid, was failing and needed help. She needed the kind of help they only get once and I didn't let her down.


Of course, this whole time I'm kicking Molly off the bed at night for years and years, my kids are turning into these little people--getting taller, smarter, and more vocal. They crack jokes, they use my own twisted logic against me. And like I mentioned before, they help destroy almost everything I let them come into contact with. But what's saving them? What's keeping me from eating them, yelling at them, or shooing them away when I think I'm too tired or too busy to listen to them? They're my dogs now.


Sure, it helps that the kids have brown eyes, brown and black hair like a dog, but the kids also have a dog's caring, wanting-to-please look in those eyes. So what I do now is make sure I avoid the same baleful look Duffer gave me as I left her in a lonely back yard coming from my children if I were to ignore their voices. I see the kids smile at me, approaching to beg for my last bite of a Hershey Bar or last piece of gum and I give in at last so I don't relive seeing Maggie drop her head and slink off after I had said, "Git!" And when one of the kids wants to sleep in my room, more often than not I relent, not wishing to relive seeing Molly waddle off to her corner dejected and hurt after getting the boot.


My dogs had taught me how not to parent, and showed me how things could be if only I would let myself behave like a father, and pack leader I guess. Doing right by these dogs now, though too late, I realize that there really is plenty of time for everyone, and always room for one more. Possibly making us the luckiest dog owners in the world, that old gene and a dog-less house sent me to the pound for one more chance recently. Sadly, this poor dog would only get one recycled name purloined from a cartoon monkey.


Steve has come enjoy the kind of life a wiser 44 year old can give to her. She's the dog that'll help me atone for every sin I've committed against her kind. She's as precious to me as one of two-legged kids I have, and I only have to watch her stare out the window watching for the school bus at four o'clock in the afternoon to know that she loves them as much as I do. Grab one of my kids gruffly and she'll let out a low rumble belying her smallish size.


So finally, I feel like I'm doing okay, even now knowing that there's room for improvement with the kids and the dog. As their math homework gets harder and I humbler, I tend to shrink away from them when I hear book bag zippers in the kitchen. Maybe if I had my own textbook. When I know my tubby dog needs and wants to go for a walk oh so badly, sometimes I act like I have too much to read, or write, or even, watch on TV. Steve doesn't know I don't have to watch TV to survive; she's cool like that.

But maybe best of all, since Steve's been such a joy, I know that if one dog is good, then two is bound to be better. It's been along time since I've heard eight paws charging my way through the house after the expectant, "Daddy's home!" call. And it's been a while since Steve frolicked in some grass with one of her own--even though I count myself and my family as just that.

The New 27 Day Song "Challenge"

The first one I tried had some pretty cool 'categories'. Of course there's no such thing as a favorite this or that, and some of the 'categories' seemed a tad redundant or vague or ambiguous. But it was fun for me to try to pick single songs--though I never could it seemed.

And I wasn't out to prove anything, just to share. And then I was surprised to see how interested I was in what others were posting as well. It was a real treat. Interesting to see the commonalities and the huge differences in musical tastes that others shared--and in the end, we could all thank YouTube and copyright infringing video posters for making it so easy!


1.What is your favorite movie theme song.
2.What is your favorite television show theme song.
3.What is your favorite commercial jingle?
4.What is your favorite song for driving?
5.What is your favorite spooky or scary song?
6.What is the song on the first single you bought?
7.What is the song from the first music video you ever saw?
8.What is a song you like to work out to?
9.What is your favorite instrumental song?
10.What song would you replace the National Anthem with?
11. What is a good song for New Year's Eve?
12.A song by your favorite singer turned actor, or your favorite actor turned singer?
13.What is your favorite one hit wonder?
14.What is your favorite cover song that's better than the original?
15.What is your favorite song you'd like to sing a duet with the artist(s) on stage?
16.What is your favorite song you like to sing to a pet?
17.What is a song that reminds you of home?
18.What is a song that makes you think of your Mom or Dad....or both?
19.What is a song that describes your most important relationship?
20.What is a song you love to hate, but still tap your toes when it comes on?
21.What is a song that you wish you could say but have never been bold enough?
22.What is your favorite song for making sweet sweet love to? Or just making out?
23. What is your favorite Schoolhouse Rock song?
24. What is a song you like to play while cooking a fabulous meal?
25. What is a song you heard but misunderstood the lyrics, and what did you "hear"?
26. What is a song you sing to your child? Someone else's?
27. What is a song you like that would make a great poem with the music stripped away?






And that's all I have for now. I was thinking just now though. If you're at this list, and think of another "topic", add it below in the comments section. If you're one of the seat-of-the-pantsers, then you can't see this list anyway.

Becky Mothershead 4-29-39 to 5-8-01

Happier times. L to R: John, Me, Jaime, Emily, and Mom.

I wrote the following (below in blue) on Saturday, May 8th, 2010, but it feels longer ago than that. Her death, however feels closer in time than that, as if she'd died just a couple of years ago. It is truly hard to believe she died ten years ago, when Jaime was four and Emily was two. Anyway, I thought I'd repost it here, on Mother's day, my Mother's day.


I would only add that the things I miss about mom the most are the little things she'd do for us, and I mean the littlest things like her eating the chicken wings out of a bucket of chicken from The Golden Skillet in Greensboro so us kids could have the legs. How her hands felt. How she used to "jog" but we kids could walk beside her. How she'd eat corn on the cob like a child and it'd get everywhere on her face. Or the way she never changed her hairdo...until she didn't have any.

I remember the look on her face, the smile to herself when my kids would reach out for her to hold. She'd wait for them to come to her, never grabbing them against their will even though she would have loved to. I used to think to myself, "Grab 'em, mom!" but I don't think I ever said so. I did get to school mom on how to burp an infant Emily one evening, and I'll never forget that moment.

And one of the saddest things I ever saw after mom died was four-year-old Jaime telling my dad, "Sorry Gran'ma B. died, Gran'pa John," before we all left for the funeral that morning. 

Jaime dressed for mom's funeral.

At the funeral I cried in front of everyone there, people who would have never thought it possible. I looked into the teary-eyes of my future stepmother (though of course I didn't know it at the time) and saw the sense of loss we all felt, but more meaningful somehow from someone not in our immediate family. I don't know...I have just never forgotten her look.

She was the lady, my new mom, who kissed my bruised head while I was strapped down in the hospital with my broken neck. And, of course, two weeks later she'd find out that her husband, my dad, would head down the same tortuous path as my mom.

Anyway, it's been ten years, and I still think about those regrets as often as I do the good things I like to remember. Our lives sure have changed since she left...of course, that's one of the only things we can count on.

Rebecca Sue Richards Mothershead 4-29-39 to 5-8-01

I was at work, of course, when dad called in the middle of the week, and I could hear in his voice how scared he was. I mean, he was calling me, the black sheep, the dumb ass carpenter for help and support...so it had to be bad. He couldn't even say it, so I went right over.

When I got there, it was quiet, and we sat by her bed and we both quietly cried and held mom's hands. I couldn't speak (I had that problem all the time back then) so I just sat and listened to dad tell mom it was okay if she couldn't wait any more, that it was okay if she wanted to leave just then, that he would be okay. But it wasn't quite her time.

A couple of weeks before her birthday while we sat on my couch, I had asked her what she wanted--the awkwardness of looming death making me more of a fool than ever, and she said, "I just want to be here." Dumbfounded, sitting beside her, I could only say, "Me too." I couldn't bear to hug her or tell her anything, like how scared I was, or how much I truly loved her, or anything. She was so small, thin, and frail...

I hate myself for that moment; the moment I failed my mother.

So weeks later, May 8th, we had gathered at mom and dad's house and were around the bed waiting. Not like vultures, but like a family. Of course at 10 o'clock that evening I had to go and retrieve the company work trailer before some white trash emptied it of our livelihood so I left them all there and headed to the jobsite and then home.

I hadn't been home ten minutes and the phone rang. I had missed the moment Mom slipped away because of work. I had failed again and by the time I had returned, she of course was long gone.

She had fought long and hard. She had suffered the likes of which we can only imagine. And I couldn't tell her I loved her. It wasn't until Dad died later that I realized, that if I could have one of them back, it would have to be Mom. She was the enigmatic, sometimes silent, and sometimes decidedly NOT, support system for the whole family. When she left us, we really fell apart and separated onto several different paths...

We laughed over mom's body with the hospice nurse about the nurse's story of her white friends who had adopted a little black girl but were clueless about how to take care of her hair! The trials and tribulations were just so funny at such a sad and relieving time that we all, my sister, my dad, my brother in law, and even the nurse and I just laughed...mom would have liked that and would have laughed too...

So yeah, hug your mom, your kids, your dog, whatever...TELL them what you think you cannot say. It's the oldest lament in the world to not have done so...

Mom's last Christmas with us in 2000. Her happenin' wig!

Everyone's Poopy Loo!

Rockin' the Suburbs

Someone trained our dog Steve to bark her head off at the Opossums that come up on the front stoop during the day, which, if you’re not ready for it, will cause heart palpitations and loss of bladder control. Our little thirty pound shelter dog was persuaded by my daughter that possums are fun to bark at. And in her own way, my daughter likes to torment the possums as well--with cameras and dangling a stuffed possum from upstairs’ windows.

POSSUM!!

But why are we being visited during the day by wild, though decidedly suburban, possums? Because like many other people out there, my wife’s tender-hearted attempt at helping feral cats has spilled over into feeding wild animals as well. And while seeing possums feeding on our stoop is an up close and thrilling encounter, part of me knows better.


After a quick check online, I decided that this time of year, an opossum, which isn’t likely to carry rabies, though it is possible, is supposedly more active during the day because he’s looking for love. And what better way to fuel up for the ladies than a quick bite of  Meow Mix courtesy of my wife and the not-my-cats that never clean their plate. But the two male possums that are enjoying the buffet are the only wild animals we actually see, and I wonder what else has been stopping by.

Obviously, feeding wild animals isn’t the goal of anyone who puts out food for stray, usually-domesticated animals and it isn’t a good idea according to Perry Sumner, the Section Manager for Surveys and Research for Wildlife Diversity at the North Carolina Wildlife Resources Commission (NCWRC). He says the act of feeding strays only makes the animals even more dependant on us humans--both the strays and the wild animals.


“Cats, in particular, destroy birds and all kinds of wildlife. Cats are going to hunt no matter how much you feed them,” he says which I can vouch for having seen my wife and daughter gifted dead trophies from the not-my-cats and the one reformed stray we picked up which, though we all know better, enjoys indoor/outdoor status. By the way, the cats we have lolling about the house have all been neutered as payment for their movable feast.

Sumner says it isn’t illegal to feed wild animals either by choice, or like my family, accidentally, but he says when you do so, it’s to invite all kinds of animals to your door. Feeding wild animals is just about impossible to avoid when food is left outside. The usual suspects here in the piedmont are possums, raccoons, red and grey foxes, and  coyotes. Elsewhere in the state and you run the risk of attracting black bears and bobcats--imagine that.


And while Sumner speaks for the NCWRC, which is the state agency designed to protect and manage our wildlife, Debbie Moss, an Animal Welfare Manager at the Humane Society has a similar take on the inevitability of feeding wild populations but with a more kitty-friendly take. She agrees that one can’t keep wild animals from dipping from the same well, but also realizes that people are going to feed stray animals nonetheless.


Both recognize the risks involved with maintaining a food source for multiple animals no matter the species. Foremost is the risk of rabies when animals are “eating out of the same bowls and sharing food,” says Moss. And that’s what my biggest fear is as well watching Mr. Possum drool happily into the bowl of cat food as he scoops it all up until he notices Steve’s frantic, nose-pressed-to-glass stares and barks. No one wants to swap spit with him I’d wager.


However, Moss suggests a committed watch over our outdoor freeloaders even up to point when we‘re dealing with an outdoor, feral “colony“. For me, that conjures up a sense of overwhelming numbers which doesn’t apply to us except for her sage advice which is to maintain rabies vaccinations for your pets and the ones you want to help and feed. But for Moss and her coworkers it’s just another day at the office.


Moss says, “in a perfect world“, us feeders would trap these stray cats and whisk them away to our veterinarian’s for, first and foremost, rabies vaccinations, and then, if we could swing it, spaying and neutering. Of course, that doesn’t apply to wild animals, but vaccinating the animals you feed would alleviate some of the risk of raising a colony of rabies vectors.


So what can be done to avoid feeding local, suburban wild oddities? Sumner, our Wildlife biologist suggests not to feed strays at all. Easy to say, but hard to do when faced with emaciated animals in your neighborhood. But both he and Moss offer the same common sense approach to mitigating what I see is a problem--creating dependant wild animals.


First thing we can do, according to Moss, is to get your strays on a schedule. Feed them when you can monitor them and make sure they aren’t sharing with coyotes or others. Also, since many of the species we’re feeding inadvertently are nocturnal, both Moss and Sumner suggest bringing in left over food before dark. 


That may not keep amorous and diurnal possums from finding your feed bag like they have at our house no matter what time of day. But you could train the strays to chow down in the AM as you get ready for work, school, or life and then take the leftovers back inside until you get home and can keep an eye on the bowl until sunset.


Moss also suggests raising the food and water bowls to a height that would discourage larger, dog-like predators from gaining access. Naturally this won’t discourage smaller, clingier and climbing varmints from raiding the till, yet it’ll make things easier on your back and discourage foxes and such.


So while it might be thrilling to see wild animals just a glass pane’s thickness away, it probably isn’t a good idea for your “colony” of strays and definitely not for the animals who otherwise should fear us and avoid us for their own good. Plus, it drives your tubby house-dog crazy!

The Five Minute Turkey Hunt.

First off, the only time I actually go Turkey hunting is with the Turkey-crazed J.B. Irving. A master of the calls, he's always good to limit out year after year, and once he does, I usually invite myself along for a guided hunt. On the Irving spread, he is literally the pied piper of Turkeydom.

I know he's a master of the call for two reasons. One, he has about a thousand calls to entice an ol' Tom out of a tree. By shear numbers, he's bound to find one that'll work, although now, he's partial to the kind that fits in his mouth--a diaphragm call I think it's called. And two, his wife has been driven insane by the practice calls in and around the house. If you doubt this, hand your child a "box call" in the car and head out for a three hour drive--see how long you can take it.

So this year, it worked out that we'd meet on a Friday morning to go hunting. I say morning, but the funny thing about hunting in the spring is that the days are long, and the sun's up early, which means you have to get up in what feels more like the middle of the night than easily slipping out of bed to beat the sun to the horizon.

The good news is I have a good thirty minutes to drink coffee and shake the fog out of my head during the drive to Rockingham County. The entire ride is a study in expectations. Every dark, early morning ride to go hunting conjures up thoughts of past hunts and past dark, early morning rides--the kind every hunt seems to start with. They all seem to start quietly like this, but they never end the same way. There's always something to keep you coming back...

We met up at J.B.'s cabin under the growing eastern glow, and he suggested we try the property loosely called "the Tuttles'" by the Irving clan. So a short and (J.B.-induced) rather speedy jaunt later, we're pulling gear out of trucks quietly. Hmm, was my truck skipping during this dash?

We'd parked single file, but since J.B. has a real job, I parked kinda off to the side so he could get around me had I the shutzpah to hunt without him after he left for work. Of course, that put me in the briars, and I had to fight the snag as I passed back and forth from cab to bumper stacking gear and gun. J.B. lent me a Turkey hunting vest--something I don't even own--but as I slipped it on, I felt more like a Turkey Hunter.

We stepped to the edge of a huge clearing, and J.B. whispered, "Let's wait right here and see if we can hear one gobbling."

On cue, a quarter of a mile away, Thomas gobbled his affectations to the female Turkey world. J.B. laughs and he gives me the "Come on!" whisper and we're off. The Idea will be to set up way out of sight of this guy, and J.B., sounding like an amorous female, will call him over to us. So we're stepping off at what I call J.B. Speed--a half run, half walk that I'm used to, but I've seen his older and smoking pals huff and puff during Duck season trying to keep up. Whoever says hunting ain't a sport has never followed Johnny Bravo through the woods.

We're suddenly under pines and aren't making a peep or a leafy crunch, and J.B. pauses. We've been in this spot before a couple of years ago and I've seen J.B. sucker a scrawny Jake out of hiding and into our laps during the middle of the day so I'm hopeful about the distant Tom we hear. But as we step, we hear a hen!

We hear a hen, right overhead! We spook the hen, and she "flies" down to escape. And then we hear a gobble! Only this isn't the target Turkey, this Turkey is ten yards away! Right over us! I think we're screwed, and J.B., grinning says, "Sit down HERE!"  And that's what I do, as fast as I can, as quietly as I can against the closest oak.

J.B. dashes off behind me. I don't know until later that he sets up just on the other side of the same tree having no time at all to get hid--the Tom's that close! I don't know how much time I have, so I pull on my burlap poncho, hide my shoes, glove my white hands, and cover my face and look in the direction of the latest gobble! J.B. starts his call, I hear another Gobble, and then another crash from what could be the Tom "flying" out of his roost. I have no idea what "it" is at this point.

Then I see him. A big, black bird shows himself, but I'm still uncertain as to its sex until a fan of  "come hither" tail-feathers spread to J.B.'s calling. It's a boy. And in the shadowy dawn, even I can tell, it's a big boy. He's started our way right in front of me, right "under the gun"--I won't even have to move to draw a bead on him.

But, he quickly disappears behind some hanging vines and a sapling! He's still heading our way, but I can't shoot him. J.B.'s still calling, and I've always heard, if you call too much they'll bolt, but he's still right there. My heart is POUNDING. He's less than ten yards away, he's slooooowly coming out from behind the vines, and I'm having a heart attack. He spreads out his tail, he steps out...two more steps.

BAM! It's still pre-dawn, and under the shade of the pines and oaks, all I see is the orange burst at the end of the shotgun barrel. I don't feel the recoil, I barely hear the kapow, and I see the Turkey, my Turkey, laying on the ground twitching, giving up against copper plated shot. I'm still shaking as I stand up, but quickly recover. J.B.'s up too, laughing and smiling with me and we shake hands. Time from stepping out of our trucks to now? Five minutes, maybe.

"That's what I'm talking about!" J.B. says.

"That's too easy!" I say, "Gonna get spoiled."

"That's the way to do it!" He says.

So we go to the bird. We are joined by a camo'd neighbour who was probably after the same bird, but since we got him, handshakes go all around. Nothing like an early morning shotgun blast to bring people together, and of course, everyone is polite as well because we're all toting shotguns.

J.B. on the left, and me on the right. Beard, ten inches, spurs, one inch.

As we head back to J.B.'s house to "make some pictures" I look in my rear-view mirror. Is my truck smoking more than usual? During the picture taking moments, with Miss Karen (pronounced KAY-ren) holding the camera, J.B. hops in to move my truck, and it won't start easily. And then driving to Hardee's, as we have all the time in the world before J.B. has to go to work, my truck starts its death knells.

We eat our biscuits, but I know the awful truth to come about my truck out in the parking lot with the handsomest Turkey I ever shot in the bed. I thank J.B. as we part, and holding my tongue just right, I start the truck and limp home triumphant yet dejected.

Yes, the universe let me have five great, unforgettable minutes to harvest one of Mother Earth's finest creatures who was just out looking for love. But then the the forces of the cosmos turned a spiteful eye to my fuel injectors and made me bleed $1,400.00 the next day.

I guess the lesson is, if you get down out of your tree in the morning to get laid, be careful, because you just might get shot in the face.

My Parents Made Me Paranoid (And I Thank Them)

I was adopted, ancient history, but to say I didn't inherit anything from mom and dad would be a mistake.


I have never touched a public toilet-flusher handle with anything but the bottom of my shoe! As a grown ass man, I'll teeter with one foot in the air trying to flush the things the way dad showed me when I was barely old enough to clear the top of the kiddie urinal. I can probably count on slipping in a puddle of urine when I'm 70 years old and breaking my hip, but for now, dad's legacy has kept my hands herpes free my whole life! And yes, I showed the boy the dance too, but the girl was on her own. I don't know how women flush toilets, but I don't hold hands with them either!


I have never operated a mower barefooted. Nightmarish images of me hobbling back to school after a summer time accident on a bandaged stump kept me from pushing a 22 incher around the yard without shoes. Dad also taught me to flinch when someone wheels by on a mower with the exhaust chute pointed at me just in case that someone rolls over a rock, baby bunny, or box turtle. I always 180 my ass to the mower in that eyeball-saving swish that makes me feel safe, but look touched in the head.


It's a bad enough phobia that I make my son wear shoes when he mows, even though he gets to sit his scrawny ass on a riding mower. Luckily, he doesn't mind, and he needs the extra weight anyway because he is so light that the dead man's switch in the seat sometimes breaks the circuit when he bounces around making my green machine backfire and everyone outside turn their heads towards his general direction.


Also, I won't do a lick of work on Sunday...which I inherited from my dad who'd frown at a neighbour that'd mow his yard on a Sunday morning...or blow leaves. I remember my neighbour who got up one warm and sunny Easter morning to mow while me, my wife and our young children hunted for plastic, candy-filled eggs to the drone of the asshole-go-round-the-yard. I was livid, and the only thing that kept me from putting a .308 round through his engine block was my fear of being someone's bitch underneath the Sheriff's Department.


Of course, I'm averted from doing work around the house most any day, but Sunday is the one day I can loaf, or ditch the family completely guilt free, and someday, when the powers that be let us hunt on that day, I'll keep it holy with that incessant need to get up before dawn, drive 20 miles, pack in 15 pounds of gear to sit on my ass for four hours or walk around with a shotgun all day through briers and yellow jackets for a shot at one stupid bird...yeah, that Sunday thing'll work out even better someday.


I reckon the last fun thing I'll mention is the need to keep every thing that I have ever owned because some day, I might need the botched and broken and worthless piece of decades-stored junk for the parts if nothing else. Wade through the attic, my closet, my garage and you'll see what I mean. Need a screw for your Makita 5007, 7 1/4" circular saw? How about the screws that came with our mini-blinds that I didn't use because they suck (why do I still have them then? I don't know). How about a Gott Water-Cooler with no lid, or a RubberMade Water-Cooler lid with no cooler? I have you covered.


Sometimes I take someone else's junk just to keep my reserve of garbage up for the coming apocalypse when, to fight off hordes of blood-crazed zombies, we'll have to throw thousands of empty shotgun shells at them to stop them--or old hammers, or sledgehammer heads without handles. (I got alot of those.) It might be the weirdest thing I inherited from dad. I don't know how mom put up with it frankly, but thankfully for me, my wife's insane too, keeping potting soil until it turns to dust, and fertilizer until it turns to stone.


Lastly, I inherited a fear of vacations. Not of hitting the road and seeing people and places, but the preparation for the trip. Getting ready to go somewhere drove my mom bonkers, and it was best to let her have her way with the station wagon than to get that rare pop. And now I too become a fist-clenching not-so-silent sufferer that completely understands why rats will eat their young when the nest is a little too crowded. Make your nest a four door sedan for a few hours, with the view of the back glass blocked by a month's worth of supplies, and you better have some Haldol.


SO, I reckon I can thank my parents for all these behaviours that'll probably make it down into the kids' "nurture" DNA strands. Hopefully, like me, they'll be able to drop some as needed. One I dropped was the need to "fix" stuff without actually buying replacement parts--think coat hanger/duct tape--or the desire to "build" stuff out of scrap paper, cardboard, and wood and use it in my home. I'm all for doing it right, with the right parts. And If I need shelves, I'll buy fresh, new planks and make them myself--naturally keeping all the scraps in the crawl space for later because...you just never know.

A Handful of Love

I've taken a handful before
I wasn't afraid
At the time.

Do you know what it's like
To force yourself
To Breathe.

To feel so calm,
And at peace,
To not miss a breath,

So content and rested
That not to take it
feels as good as taking it.

I have felt so at love;
Like a hundred massaging hands
Carrying me overhead.

I've walked not feeling
My feet touch the ground,
And turned my head without a wince.

I've counted my beats
And held my breath out of jealous pride,
Loving the loss of the hold
A small part of me had.
And felt a drum
In the back of my head
Say
Now...

And I breathe,
Feel the life swell my chest,
And feel at that moment
That I own time.
And I exhale,
And I wait again.

No pain, no hurry
Just my drummer
And a warm hand to my face
Like the one I wanted
But never met.

I always love it when I meet me,
But it always takes a handful,
To make me listen,
And count the beats;
Remind me to breathe,
Remind me to see,
Remind me to be
Me.

It only takes a handful.