Hurricane Ivan's Tornado. Sept 17, 2004.

To this day, the speed limit sign in Meadow Ridge stands bent by the wind and it is the first thing you see when you pull into our neighborhood.

The collapse of the western economy was four years away, and we didn't know it, but we felt the twangs of foreshadowing even if Ben Stein said we had nothing to worry about on CBS' Sunday Morning. That week in September, my old company, RBM Construction Co, Inc. was between houses so I took the guys up to the Rockingham County Gun Club to work on a shelter the club was building. I was just keeping them busy.


The thing is, there was the remnants of this hurricane blasting around us and over us as we worked, and since there wasn't any rain, we didn't think twice about it. Except for the strangely low and swirling clouds, you'd never know it was a singular weather event--we sure didn't, until the radio's music was broken by the National Weather Services' screechy alert.


We all laughed and yelled, "Aye yi yi!" as if we were gonna die unless we split. But then the alerts kept coming. And they weren't tests. They were real events, and they were real close to home. Then my cell phone rang and Lisa was hysterically telling me that she thought a tornado had just swirled down our street. I couldn't believe it at first, but here was Lisa and the national Weather Service telling me tornadoes were sweeping around Stokesdale, NC. I mean, they called us out by name.


Needless to say, we left. On the phone with Lisa at times, and chit chatting with the guys in the truck, (I had driven, so they had all met at my house and parked all over the yard) I drove home looking for damage--it wasn't the first after disaster I'd driven to--but didn't see anything. The gun club's a good 36 miles from home. So we didn't expect much until we passed the Stokesdale water tower...then we thought we'd see some carnage, but really we didn't. That is, until further toward home, on Highway 68 south, there was little tree pushed over in someone's yard.


We all kinda laughed and rolled our eyes--a tempest in a tea pot. Then Lisa got through again, and said a Sheriff's deputy wasn't letting anyone in our development, and I thought that's odd. One of the guy's car had taken a hit from our basketball goal and had a busted window. "Rasta" didn't take it too well and sat in sulky silence the rest of the ride. Apparently, we hadn't seen nothin' yet. We turned off the highway and soon enough saw what Lisa had described. A cop, blocking my way to home. What I thought was going to be a bad day made worse by a hard-headed deputy was quickly eased with a quick license check, and off we went to loop around our hood.


It wasn't pretty.


There were leaves all over the place, and little things from peoples' porches and yards were strewn about. The street we were on, Haw Meadows Dr. runs parallel to our street, Tall Meadows Dr., and when we got even closer to the intersection (OK, it ain't exact parallel) of the two, we saw this.

pulled right out

It's a Leonard!

Same driveway and house on the corner of Haw and Tall Meadows. Looks like the wind just sucked the door out.


The thing that freaked me out the most is that both of the kids were home from school that day supposedly sick. Lisa had opened the door to the garage to close the roll down door , but was blown back into the house on her butt. Of course, by then, Jaime, Emily, and the dog of-the-times, Molly, had scampered into the hall closet to ride it out. Lisa said it was raining so hard at the time, that she never saw a funnel, nor was even sure that a tornado had been by until she finally looked out front.


Now coming down our street in the truck, to our right was most of the damage, and to the left, was mostly just shingles and trees and chairs that had been pulled to the neighbors across the street by the F1 tornado.

Mooshed house and neighbor's roof in yard.

The Dubach's house. I didn't frame it. This is before everyone showed up to gawk and help. This house is diagonally across the street from ours. The tree between the house straight across flopped over onto the roof.

Mooshed house.

The poor people were at work I guess. Later, before anything could be draped over their house, the ceilings collapsed from the rain and the basement flooded as well. To this day, I wonder if the people living there now know their house was mooshed a little bit, then flooded.


The house directly across from us, didn't fare much better to be honest. When I got home, an entire piece of plywood over the front "porch" had blown off and a hunk out of the roof on the back corner had been removed. That's all their OSB you see in the yard of the Dubach's house. I did frame that house, and as soon as I could, I got on the roof and helped Kevan Comb's dad try and save the ceiling with an old discarded billboard--the big vinyl kind--using it like a giant tarp.

The Missing Sheet.

The back hip, pulled right out.

I took this photo before the hordes arrived. It was one of the first digital photos I ever took with my 150 dollar Kodak. Anyway, I did frame this house, and when I nailed the missing piece of plywood back into the roof, I saw exactly why it had blown off. The lazy ass help I used back when we framed it had only nailed down as far as they could reach without stepping out from inside, which was only about half way down! No wonder the wind got under it and yanked it off.

That's my ladder!

To the left here is Kevan Comb's dad trying to keep the billboard from blowing off, but it was too late, while we were up there, we kept hearing parts of the ceiling collapse from the weight of the rain. While I was up on the peak, the ridge, I looked down and saw scrawled onto the top of the two by ten, in crummy, red-necked handwriting, "Fuck Brett Mothershead." No kidding! I laughed and poked Kevan's dad and said, "Look! that's me, Brett Mothershead!" True story.






At our house, the back twin window of the bonus room was pulled in and most everything loose and small in the room was sucked out through the eaves out front. A passel of canceled checks and papers and a wall clock that to this day we haven't seen again were pulled through the overhang. Even some things from the garage were pulled across the street into the neighbors' yard including our garbage and Jaime's batting helmet and a ball.

Jaime's ball and batting helmet across the street.

Later, of course, "they" came to look and help followed by the local media. There was a rush of gawkers and locals with chainsaws and even a backhoe. It was a steady stream. Even the Red Cross showed up to hand out sandwiches and bottles of water to the guys that were working. I felt like I had done my part, picking up my garbage and tax papers and climbing on the roof in the rain, so I stepped back and let the willing do all the work.


It got bad as the week went by. Our house was pretty untouched. The blown in windows were tilt sashes and it was easy to pop them back in. The only thing I had to work on was the soffit out front that got poofed out. By the middle of the following week, I was trimming hedges to keep an eye on things, but it looked like I was recovering from the storm so I was still able to soak up free water and ham sandwiches from the Red Cross.

Standing between my yard and my neighbors looking right.

Well I was thankful that no one was killed or really hurt. For some reason, tornadoes follow the women on Lisa's side of the family. Stoneville had a whopper chopper tornado that really tore up the town and killed two people before this one struck us. It also ripped the roof off my mother-in-law's house which makes me think that the Cain/Disher women are cursed--but--we've had our tornado, and thus need never worry about it again? Anyway, that's another story....

The curious and my father-in-law.

Jaime was even interviewed by Frank Mickens and some chick from Fox8, but for the life of me, I can't remember her name--but her face looked dipped in chocolate. I'd meet people a couple years later, and when they'd hear my last name they'd interrupt me and ask, "Do you have a son named Jaime? I think I saw him on TV..."


Hey! Much to his credit, he never said, "It sounded like a freight train!" And for that I'll always be thankful.

That guy killed his grass--not the twister.

It seems Jaime was the mastermind behind the seeking shelter in the hall closet. Molly had followed on her own volition, but to hear Lisa tell it, it was Jaime who dragged Emily in there while Lisa was peeking out the windows and getting blown on her ass in the garage!

Slack-jawed gawkers.

I wish I'd been at home when it hit because I'd have gotten a picture of the twister.

That's my truck stage left, and note the plywood back in it's place.

Looking past...

By the time this picture was taken, there were plenty of people to do anything your heart would desire.

They all started taking trees out, just 'cause.

That's when I was resolved to put the drive-byer's to work. I'd grab on or two and get them to help me lift heavy stuff or mow, or wash my truck. All it took was a point to my over-turned trash can and they were putty in my hands so to speak. I'll never forget the old man who helped me load a compressor into the back of my truck. I could see the look of disbelief as he got out of his Ford and stooped to help me lift the thing. It was fun to watch someone have that kind of out of body experience, and it might have been as close as a cult following as I've ever had! I might try again later.






There was one man, on tireles soul (with the backhoe) who worked as hard as any white man would (for free) that I have ever seen. And what cut him from the crowd, what made him singular was the silver of his hair that he had cut in the most regal mullet.

The Silver Mullet.

Looking back at my house from Pond Court.

Jim Dubach...that was his condemned house.

Frank!

The Booms.

In the strangest of coincidences, I had a guy named Ivan (ee-BAHN) working with us. So for the rest of my life, I'll pronounce the name of the hurricane that spawned the tornado with a Chilango accent--or at least I'll try. Earlier that week, Ivan had cut the letters to spell his name out of flashing tape and had stuck them on the back of his sweatshirt, and when we got home to the mess, he walked around looking at the wreckage proudly sporting the name of the storm. It dawned on me finally and he took it off, but for a few moments, he looked like one insensitive bastard.

Well the pictures tell more of the story than I can. So suffice it to say it was rather exciting around here for a few days, and we all had plenty to talk about for weeks and weeks. This neighborhood has had its share of interesting times for sure, and in fact, It reminds me of one of my favorite sayings: Never a dull moment.

Today, everything is just fine of course. Sadly, we're one of the few families still here. They call homes like ours "transitional" for a reason, and gone is the nod we had when we'd see each other this time of year, or at a super-bowl party. The quiet strangers we see now probably don't even know.

All is well now. That's my driveway!

My September Eleventh

Yeah, I know, I still cringe when I see the video of something so horrible that it still, at least in my mind, seems unthinkable. I think what a waste of human life, the poor folks inside who just wanted to work, and the poor, suicidal fireman who went in to "save" them. The firemen knew better. Of course I remember that day and where I was, who doesn't?

But guess where I was in 1997 on another September eleventh. At six or so that morning, I was, coincidentally, in an airport watching it rain, nervously trying to swallow and chit chat while waiting for a plane. I had a wife to go with me, and a parent or two to see us both off as we flew to Guatemala to pick up another Mothershead.

A little over a year before that moment, we had thrown in the towel trying to have a child the good old fashioned way and had gone to see about international adoption. Because of a book I read, I figured we'd do well to have a little girl, but at the initial meeting for Chinese adoptions (specializing in little girls), we found out that Lisa and I were too young (as if we were ever too young for anything).

We weren't far off, but after the "talk" we were leaving a little dejected. However, on the way out the door, I glanced down and saw a pamphlet about Guatemalan adoptions spread about on a folding table. And the little kids in the pictures looked alot* like yours truly--I mean, when I was a kid. There was a certain family resemblance and when we looked at the photos, we both knew.

Well, thankfully, I was in charge of doing absolutely nothing to promote the adoption process. See, I was still trying the old fashioned way whenever anyone would let me, and working. All that damnable paperwork and schmoozing with the adoption agency was Lisa's job. I don't know how many trips she made to the Guilford County Courthouse even though, these days, she claims she can't find it. And the home studies? Oh man, I can tell you now, don't call a deputy sheriff  "a doughnut-eating pig" while you're being interviewed--even on paper. That cost me two hundred dollars for a personality test.

Another twist of fate was a dead grandfather of Lisa's who, by some miracle, had left her some land and a sharecropper. Well, sure, it was fun to phone the "grain elevator" guys in Kansas and shout, "SELL SELL!" when grain was "up" and we needed Christmas presents, but there came a day when Lisa's step-mom wanted to sell her parcel and "it would just be better if we sold ours with hers". So we did. Suddenly the whole adoption was already paid for.

Jaime's foster 'brothers'. All smiles!

And, just like a pregnancy, we were told "You'll get what you get, and that's what you'll get." We waited and watched as the couple before us in the queue got a child, and then we waited some more until we finally got an email and a photo that choked our dial-up modem until we had a Jpeg of a crying baby boy. After the birth photos, we received more pictures from the foster family and I had a glimpse,  though I didn't recognize it at the time, of a happy, loving family...the one we were about to pull apart.


So then, cash in hand, with everything about us certifiably copied and notarized--in triplicate--and translated to Castellano, and all the right people bribed here and yon, and plane tickets bought and our bags packed, we took to the air in a rush of excitement and landed in Houston, Texas...staying there for...eight...hours.

It was ninety-three degrees at 9:00 AM that September morning. Everything of interest, of course, was closed. So I begged and begged and we finally got a room where we napped, tried the good old fashioned way again one last time, and watched TV until we danced past the passport-checking cops, boarded another jet that sweated us on the tarmac for awhile before it finally took off over the Gulf...of Mexico that is.

And in the dark, between the floating canyons of flashing thunderstorms, we finally felt the airplane slow and lurch like a city bus which was apropos because as we fell from the sky during our rain-streaked descent, we noticed the airport and runway were smack dab in the middle of Guatemala City, Guatemala. I could see Golden Arches just a few meters and roofs away as we hurtled down the runway hoping to stop before we rode through the business district.

Stopped then, we made a mad dash through the rain to the terminal, found a shifty looking guy with a "Mothershead/Cain" sign and got into a car with him. Once in the car, we were off to the hotel, or to be kidnapped, murdered and sold piecemeal for our wholesome organs--the thought did cross my mind as we jockeyed with a thousand other cars through the night.

Obviously we made it to the hotel, but I can't remember much in the way of checking in, getting the room, getting unpacked. I do remember the night was warm, but not too humid, and the city, which was just a few meters from the front door, was loud and noisy and relentless even at the hour we were there. Well, for us, it was 10:00 PM, for the rest of Guatemala, it was only 9:00.

I do remember not really believing it was the very same day that we had left NC, and that I was in another country. I felt like I could barely remember why we had even come to Guatemala until the hijo del abogado  showed up with a woman carrying a huge blue and white bundle. Then it started to dawn on me that all the fingerprinting, all the interviews, and all the "hassles", were for this moment, and that all the waiting was just about over.

The Foster Mom hanging in there.

Jaime's foster mom handed him to Lisa and started wiping tears away. And at that moment, I felt as bad as anyone could have. I already knew how selfish it is to want a child, and seeing her cry while passing this little boy into the hands of strangers made that very obvious and real to me. Even now, if someone says, "You're so good for adopting," or "You did such a good thing," I cringe and beg them off with a curt, "No we aren't/didn't. We just got what we had so badly wanted."

And just like that, after a few penstrokes we were parents. I was a father. I swear, at that moment I felt like I hadn't seen it coming, as if it were some big surprise. Suddenly, all that aforementioned guilt washed away with the anticipation of this little baby boy waking up in the morning and, assuming his eyes were open, he would see his new mom and dad and love us like we'd dreamed he would.

Lisa signing the papers, complete with tiny foot prints from Jaime.

He didn't wait until morning. Apparently babies, and Jaime was barely three months old at this time, need to eat whenever the feeling hits them. And starting in Guatemala, and for the rest of those early months, it became my job to do the middle of the night feeding. When he woke us up with that horrible screeching (thankfully, to this day, I can't remember what it used to sound like) that first night, I was sleepily trained in the art of feeding a baby. And when I looked into his little black eyes while he drank, that sudden rush of "What the hell was I thinking?" slipped away into something without words yet understood between he and I.

Watching Willy Wonka.

I have rarely felt so selfless, maybe once or twice in my life, than I did in the low light of the single lamp, looking down at my son as he drank his snack and lulled himself back to sleep. It was love at first sight, that's all I can say.

We could've timed the whole encounter so we could jet back to the U.S. the very next day, but, hey, we were in Guatemala! I forced us to plan a weekend so we could see some sights and maybe take back some mementos and memories and photos. It hadn't dawned on me that we'd be parents when I decided we'd take our time, but we had help. A couple and their daughter took us around showing us some things, and Antigua, and a market. I thoroughly enjoyed myself.

If you've ever read anything I've written about this time, then you already know it was an eye-opening experience. All my life, I had never been surrounded by people of colour who just so happened to match my colour! Was it a racial awakening? An epiphany of sorts? I finally fit into a crowd and I liked it. For once, it was Lisa who looked a tad out of place as we saw the sights! At a bank, standing in line to exchange some cash, a fellow customer turned to me and started talking to me as if I had grown up right next door.

The face of discontent. "Who the hell are these people?"

Anyway, when it opened up, we had to go to the U.S. Embassy and sign some more papers and get Jaime's papers straight. I'm not sure what we were doing, but finally, we were on our way, and on the way home. And what had been an awesome adventure coming down to Guatemala, now had become a (new) parent's nightmare.  No one tells you how heavy these kids get after you've been carrying them for a few hours--not to mention all the accoutrements.

Jaime's passport! Note thumb print.

Also, no one tells you babies hate pressurized jetliners. And no one tells you how lonely two people can be when they've just become parents and there's no one for a thousand miles to help out. The only people around you are there to double check your paperwork, taking their own sweet time and denying you and yours access to the one thing you really need: your parents, and more specifically, your Mom!

Jaime's green card!

And that is why, when the plane touched down at GSO, and we walked out of the chute, I choked back tears of shear joy when I saw friends and family waiting for us three with eager arms outstretched to take the newest Mothershead out of my tired arms. Again, that kind of relief only comes once or twice in a lifetime. And once in a while, it feels good to feel as loved as we all did. Someone even got poor ol' Jaime to smile after the journey as he was passed around from uncles to cousins to grandparents.

Impossible to meet someone at the "people tube" nowadays, but there was everyone  in 1997.

The picture is bad, but on the floor at Lisa's feet is a bear that she dropped, but never stopped walking as she kicked it towards our family and friends. I'm behind her with the boy trying not to cry but eager to pass him around. My late mom and dad, who adopted yours truly, is on the left, and Lisa's mom is there on the right. Obviously, and sadly, the moment captured here would never be allowed these days because of hateful, deluded people and what they did on a later September eleventh. No one's allowed near the chutes now unless they're getting off or on a plane.

The world was indeed a better place when September eleventh was something we had looked forward to with anticipation, and then as the day we'd remember as the beginning of a completely different life for all three of us. It is the day I finally had a reason to be here, and for that, my September eleventh is good enough for me.

Jaime's 14th Birthday. June 17, 2011.

P.S. And even more "good enough for me" is the "good old fashioned way", which as it turned out, worked just fine after a while...but that's another story.

Ten Simple Pleasures--Don't Judge Me

Emily got a secondhand bunk bed. So we had to rearrange things upstairs to make room for the thing. The good news, at least for me, was finding something I had typed out a long time ago.


Well, not that long ago, but probably over a year ago. Here 'tis:

Click on it for a easier reading size

Well, from there, I never finished it, and since there's two number sixes, I'll start the sprint to the finish with a number eight. I mean, over half the work's already been done for future brett by past brett. I just have to remember to go back in time to hide dad's keys...


8. Sniffing someone's head...or the dog's. I guess if you can't sniff your kids' heads, or your dog's, then whose can you sniff? If you sniff them enough, I bet you'll start lactating--except in the dog's case, I'd hope. Smelling stuff in general is something that gets left out of our daily lives altogether too much. Sure you'll get awful surprises, but if you got five senses then by god use them.


9. Making people laugh. I knew I had that conversational Castellano class in my hands when I got everyone to laugh with the profesora. I knew I lost the student/professor in comp 101 when I got everyone to laugh at the student/professor. I was the only student who got to write an extra essay for the final exam. I was the only one who needed a blue book that day.


10. Driving. Sure, it's not all fun and games. It's behind the wheel that brings out the worst in me--but sometimes the best as well--as I cruise these mean streets of NC. But nothing creates the illusion of freedom more like sitting on your ass, tip-toeing your right foot on a magic pedal, and going anywhere your budget allows.


Well that's just ten, and stopping at an even number is standard. I notice that work didn't make the top ten, but now that the kids are older, and less likely to pounce on unsuspecting dad these days, perhaps there's room for dit-doting the countryside with immobile marks that'll be around longer than I will.


Oh I'll still sneak a sniff from the kids of course, becoming something of a shadow when they least expect it, especially the boy. The dog, however, can't wait to sniff and be sniffed which might be why she was invited to be around. We started with four-legged kids, and soon, we'll be left with four-legged kids if all goes well and "happy" and healthy.


So give me your short list. Make it you top five if you think can.

Typewriter Work--Been a While

Here's something I used to do just for the sheer satisfaction of using something old yet still useful, and hearing the bell ring and the type arms slapping all over the paper. It was how it was done before, you know...

-rbm

Bloodthirsty Vegetarians

I've been pen-palling with a friend and somehow the art of not eating meat came up. And I have said a few things here and there about not eating meat but have never plopped it all down in one place before...before now.

Here's my take on vegetarians: You eat your prey alive! ALIVE! Take that radish outside and plant it, water it, talk to it, and it'll start growing! Yikes! Potatoes, Carrots, and Avocados'll do the same thing given a chance. They're just sitting in your fridge hoping you'll turn your back on them so they can make good their escape and live out their lives quietly just under the edge of your back deck, out of sight, and safe from your mower.


And when you're not eating them alive, you're doing the lobster to them: cooking them alive in boilng water or steam or boiling oil! I've seen it done thousands of times all the while drooling. And what's worse than that? Sometimes you're aborting the next generation of plants with certain fruits (and fruits used as vegetables: poor poor Okra--doomed to be coated with the ground up remains of infant corn and boiled in the blood-oil of infant corn) by eating their unhatched young. Crack open a peanut and you can see the tiny leaf nestled between the cotyledons...so sad...


I mean it's horrific. Luckily I have a high tolerance for the macabre world of southern dining.I know my place. I'll eat the sweet swine because for me to live, something has to die....might as well be yummy and crispy off of the iron skillet. Oh, if I get the drop on a deer and kill it to eat it (obviously, I don't have to kill deer or birds to survive, it's just fun and awful all at the same time--like sex with the lights on) then great...if I get jumped by a bear or panther in the woods and get et, then so be it. I wouldn't eat good ol' dog Steve unless I had to, but she wouldn't eat me either...unless she had to...we get it.


I guess all I'm saying is that if you don't want to eat meat because you don't want to kill anything, you might be wringing your blood-soaked (or sap-soaked) hands over nothing. Vegans too fret over stuff that only oozes out of animals--and if not squoze out then rendered out the good ol' fashioned, boiling pot way--or pops out an orifice/cloaca. But what they forget is that even their soulless soy bean is alive and was raised in a field that used to be prime habitat for countless examples of wildlife and delicious shootable game animals.


Agriculture is a destructive process, no doubt, and as we work the land more and more, it's becoming apparent that we might have pushed the soil medium too far and might be headed for a disaster down the road, but that's another story. Also troubling is the stranglehold that chemical companies have on our vegetable food chain but that's another story as well. Not only do non meat eaters have sap on their hand for destroying habitat and ecosystems, but even worse, they owe a huge debt to Diesel Fuel and the companies that make it.


Everything they eat is touched by the cheapest to make (yet most expensive--artificial shortage anyone?) and most filthiest burning fuel that'll run an internal combustion engine. Pour it in your yard and it'll kill your grass! Rub it on your hands and you'll smell like ass for days. Your veggie friends are cultivated with it and shipped with it from the seed to the plate. And if you like being green by eating greens, then have a dip in the Gulf, dig your toes deep in that Louisiana sand and see if you can't touch some BP product. I dare you to eat a shrimp from there. Oh, wait, are sea bugs meat?


Oh sure, the way they raise meats today is pretty gut and heart wrenching as well as unbelievable in that, according to the movie Food Inc., the whole enterprise is controlled by a handful of companies in our country. But if there's anything good about the deplorable way domestic meat is raised, it's the fact that the practices make the protein cheaper so perhaps less people are raised on low grade pinto protein and are reaping some benefits of "eetin' mor chikin."*


Well, I hope people don't think I'm anti-vegetarian, because I'm not. I just don't let something's soul get in the way of me having a good meal--every living thing has a soul or, at the very least, an immortal spark that gets passed around like a fake ID. I mean let's face it...the whole foods we're really talking about, animal and vegetable, are much better than the white powder that makes us fat and dead...no matter what you do or eat, we both know you'd be better off (and thinner) if you pass on the white, processed, polished, and enhanced powders and starches that seemed so great a couple of generations ago.


Our ancestors were thinner 'cause Cokes were 8 ounces and orange juice glasses were tiny. And meat was raised locally and so were their green, leafy dinner dates.

William Julius Maron 07/03/53 - 08/19/11

The last time I Shot with Bill at The Rock, and the last picture I ever took of him. Memorial Day, May 30, 2011

My buddy Bill died much sooner than later. He'd found out he was sick a year before this picture was taken. On this day he had shot two rounds of skeet and then sat down and said, "That's it for me." 


Bill was a kindred spirit and the big brother I never had. He would drive anywhere to shoot a round of sporting clays no matter how far as long as someone was riding shotgun and the beer was within reach. He liked to laugh at himself and others and did so often--especially at my shooting.

May 30th, 2010, a year before the above photo and shortly after he told me he was sick, and a day after Dennis Hopper died of prostate cancer.

He was a deep thinker despite his bourgeoisie tendencies. A confident person and a hell of a shooter, Bill would never let the opportunity to eat, drink, and be merry slip past.


I never got to see the golfer Bill--he probably would have been alien to me. But I did get to see Bill the fisherman when he took me and JB on the Intercoastal Waterway around Southport, NC a year ago this week. That was the trip of a lifetime for me even though I am not a real fisherman.

August 16th, 2010, a year ago this week. We were all going to go this year too.

It was cool to see Bill and JB in their element catching skates and fish while I baked in the sun and drank beer not having any luck. It was near these waters that Bill shared the saying, "If you're going to drink all day, you have to start in the morning."


Anyway, you know how it is; the Bill we knew slipped away shortly before his body gave up, and all that was left was our tired friend who was in pain, unable to care for himself and at the mercy of others which I'm sure he disliked...my heart goes out to his wife Shawn.


I wish I had known his middle name was Julius! I could have worked him over good with that.

Bill at this year's Drake Naylor Invitational. May 28th, 2011.

Well good-bye, Bill. How quickly we lost you. May you rest in peace.

The Countdown Continues: Sloppy Seconds Part 1

If you've been keeping up, then you know all about the challenge to take at least one game animal with every rifle in my safe without choosing the same rifle twice. You also know that for the up coming 2011-2012 season, I already get to use an old French MAS 36 and the venerable M1 Garand. But if this season is going to be like last year's, then I'm going to have to use more than two rifles.


So, in line next for this season are some rifles I have owned for years but rarely see the light of day and so far, never get carried afield. These are the guns I bought because they appealed to my (and I mean this very loosely) collector's eye, and they only get taken to the range to punch holes in paper and test handloads. Oh, did I mention that they're all leverguns?

A pair of what they used to call "Gold Trigger" Marlins.

First up is the Marlin Model 1895SS in 45-70 Government. The cartridge was adopted by the U.S. Army back in 1873 for their Springfield Trapdoor rifles. It was an "Indian Fighter" cartridge, though, in the Trapdoor Springfield, a crazy retro-refurbishing of the Springfield muskets from the War Between the States, the rifle and cavalry carbine were single shots. That fact might have help put Custer's men in the ground (what was left of them). The Warriors were armed with levergun repeaters while the cavalry were armed with the single shot trapdoor, but that's another story!


The bullet is .45 caliber obviously, and the cartridge started life as a black powder number. And any factory loads you buy are stoked to a chamber pressure with that fact in mind. The big corporations don't want to blow up your old Trapdoor or vintage Winchester Model 1886 by making their ammo too hot for older guns. Luckily for us handloaders, there are many sources that give you data for loading your own cartridges to specifications commiserate with the modern-manufactured models.


My Model 1895 wasn't made way back then. This modern action is similar to the ubiquitous Model 336 that came out in its present form in 1949, but called 1895 I reckon because it hearkened back to when the old model '95 was a big bore hunting rifle as well. My rifle was manufactured in 1981 when I was 15 years old, but I didn't see it until I traded into a few years ago. It wasn't until 1984 that I was old enough to buy my first Marlin which was also my first rifle ever. I still have that one by the way, but it has to wait until I get through the rest before I can hunt with it again.

The 45-70, note the Williams sight.

This 1895 Marlin sports a Williams receiver sight and the factory brass bead out front. The success of the open sight hunts last season with the 1903 Springfield and the Model 30 Remington have me thinking I can pull it off again. Also, with modern jacketed bullets, and plenty of smokeless powder behind them, this gun kicks as hard as any rifle I have ever shot. If there were a scope atop it, I daresay, I might have a matching ding in my brow from practicing off the bench at the range. I just don't want to worry about that, so she'll stay as an iron sighted shooter for this upcoming season.


The only problem I can foresee is the same thing I encountered with the Marlin .444 last season. It might be too much gun--hell, it is too much gun for deer. Shot placement will be key for harvesting a deer without blowing the animal inside out and ruining more meat than necessary. I'll be up to it I'm sure, and I'll let you know what happens.

The .375 gets a vintage Leupold M8.

Next up is the Marlin Model 375 in, you guessed it, .375 Winchester. Winchester came up with this cartridge in 1978 for a variation of their Model 1894 which they called the "Big Bore" because they had to beef up the receiver to handle the cartridge pressure. Marlin saw some promise in their competitor's creation, but since the Model 336 receiver was already plenty strong, all they needed was to re-barrel their rifles in the "new" cartridge even if it were from Winchester.


I said "new" because this cartridge closely resembles the good old 38-55 Ballard that was a black powder number from 1884. Somewhere along the line, Winchester hung its name on the cartridge as well. The two are only closely similar in dimensions rather than chamber pressure. In fact, you could chamber a .375 Marlin cartridge in a rifle chambered for 38-55 Winchester from back in the day, but the gun would blow up in your hands--not good.


My Marlin was made in 1980 and I bought it from my buddy Brian at his shop a few years ago. (Remember, he's the reason for the countdown.) Having shot it already with cast lead bullets and jacket soft points, I know for a fact that recoil isn't too awful. So with that in mind, I topped this rifle off with a vintage M8, 4X Leupold. Since the rifle's from the eighties, I figured the scope ought to be too. The "low" four power doesn't bother me, and shouldn't bother anyone else who knows what they're doing. It does a fine job in North Carolina woods.


I do admit that a scoped rifle is better than one with just open sights. There's no comparison--especially for *gulp* 45 year old eyes like mine. The old saying, "I can get on target quicker with iron sights," is just hard to believe at dawn and dusk. Cross hairs are the original "red dot" sights, and if you've done your range work, you know the bullet will go where the cross is, more or less, out to a hundred yards or so in these lever guns. I'll only use iron sights in the morning as the day gets brighter and brighter and the sights get easier and easier to see and use.

Tentatively on the queue this season I also have a different model of Marlin: A Model 1894 in .44 Remington Magnum. This diminutive little carbine hasn't changed much since, well, 1894 except that it's made with stronger steels for modern smokeless powder of course. The cartridge it fires was introduced around 1955 for handguns and the hunting with them. And Marlin followed in the tradition of "cowboys" who liked to have a rifle chambered for the same cartridge they stoked their sidearm with.

Poor "Dead Guy's" gun. Mine now.

The Bullet is really .429 caliber and not .44, but it doesn't matter; it's a hard hitting, hard kicking combination. The recoil is pretty hefty due the the light weight of the little rifle and the heavier weights of bullets. And since it was never a blackpowder cartridge either, even factory loads will be as powerful as any sane person would need for taking game or defending hearth.


The rifle is straight-stocked and very handy. The downside however, is that while the .44 Magnum is a stomper cartridge, it only does so for a somewhat limited range. All these Marlins require flat-nosed bullets since they all are loaded by a tubular magazine. And when filled, all the bullets rest upon each other head to tail so that if a cartridge's bullet were pointed and was poking the one above's primer, and it gets jostled under recoil, it could detonate a whole column of cartridges in the magazine which of course rests in the shooter's hands! Again, not good. 


So flat bullets it is, but when they're fired, they loose velocity very rapidly meaning that past that aforementioned hundred yards or so, they might not be as reliable. With that in mind, I'm not going to stretch the 1894 out past 75 yards or so. To do so means I'd probably end up having to track a deer even if it were hit just right. I mean, the cartridge and carbine will kill game, but sooner's better than later when shooting deer. I honestly think the results of hunting with this carbine will be the most interesting of all three of these.


The 1894 I have was made in 1975 and I bought it from Brian's predecessor at the shop. Coincidentally, his name is Brian too. Anyway, he told me it was brought in by a widow and when I bought it, I christened it, "the dead guy's" gun. I hope somehow this "dead guy" who passed before he could get all his shooting done knows that his little old Marlin found a good home. And now, after ten years of bruising friends' shoulders and ringing steel at the club, it's going hunting.

The .44 Mag also featuring a Williams aperture sight.

I wouldn't dare put a scope on this little gun, so it too has a Williams receiver sight and the factory front bead which means this rifle will be primed for a morning hunt. To scope such a fine little and lightweight carbine would be silly and silly looking--I know, I've seen it done by another hunter. Even the smallish M8 would be a third of the Marlin's length and add eight ounces or so, so forget it.


Well, as for Marlins, the only three I have left are another Model 444 in .444 Marlin from the '80's , another Model 336CS in .35 Remington from the fifties, and a modern 1894 in .357 Smith&Wesson Magnum. I hope I have enough time for them this winter, but if I don't, there's always next year, right, lord? The only one that gives me pause is the 1894 in .357 Magnum which is chambered for a handgun cartridge that many, myself included, think is just at the edge as "enough gun" for deer.


Oh, the .357 Magnum will do it, but the deer better be close, and the shot placed right where all the picture books on hunting highlight. Again, handloading to the rescue as I'm sure I'll get the heaviest jacketed bullets (or lead solids that seem to be gaining popularity lately--everything old is new again) and charge them as fast as I safely can to make sure that any shot I take will be lethal.


Well, that's where we're at for now. As always, I'll keep you posted. I have a feeling that there will be a lot more disappointment this year as I use more rifles with open sights. I just don't think I'll be able to connect as much without the ease of magnification. Not that I'll miss, but that conditions and positions will have to be just right before I commit to squeezing the trigger. A slightly irregular shot with a scope is easy, but with open sights I'll be waiting for the classic broadside...so what if one wanders off on me...remember, it's North Carolina, there'll be another deer along in five or ten minutes.