How Much to Get Drown and Shot? Part II

When the morning came, it arrived like it always does when one is sleeping under a few microns of nylon and down. Too early. Unlike most first nights spent in the woods, I actually slept like a log. All the night noises that usually make me flinch awake and stare into the darkness as I run through my mental lexicon of snuffles, breaking twigs or bug noises, were beaten out by the strange exhaustion that comes when you’ve spent hours and hours driving in unfamiliar territory, hoping that you’re going the right way. The beer, I’m sure, was a helpful sleep aide as well.

All of us, shambling and bleary eyed, shuffled off in the directions of showers, sinks or coffee vending systems in our own private rituals of restarting our mental engines in preparation of today’s events: “Trying to have as much fun as we could with out drowning.” Once the other campers/would be rafters had all gotten vertical to one degree or another, we assembled in the main building for our orientation talk on water, boulders and how to keep your head above both. The mix of people here to have fun in the nearby white water was about what you’d expect. Mostly youngish, mostly male and mostly not paying very good attention to the talk, present company included. The problem was that we were in the wrong mindset for paying strict attention to a lecture. We were there to have fun! The few, obvious hangover victims spent the time hovering over steaming cups of black coffee, the young yahoos blithely chatted to the other young yahoos and the rest of us spent our time looking at the photos on the walls of rubber boats full of smiling, terrified people, seconds before going for an impending and inescapable swim.

rafting

To be totally honest, I remember NONE of the talk. I’m still here, so I’m guessing that I didn’t miss anything. After we picked up our helmets and life vests, we all clambered into the club van and headed for the river. We could hear it from our campsite, but this, as it turned out, wasn’t where we were going to be putting in.

These are always odd moments for me. My parents come from very different stock when it comes to adventure and the way they see the world, and being a mix of that, it often puts me in a position of some discomfort. If I had multiple personality disorder, I’d be one of those crazies you see on the street corner having heated arguments with my self.

Mom, is cautious.
Actually, Mom is VERY cautious. It’s not that she’s a fearful person. She’s not. It’s just that she likes to have thought out every possible angle of every situation before it’s approached. She needs a plan and if the accumulated data indicates that things will not be in her control, then she tends to avoid it. In plans, she finds comfort and things like throwing your self into a raging river with a dozen other people and a raft the size of a van that may, or may not smack you in the back of your head, just doesn’t come out sounding like a good one. This plan would obviously not be played out.

Dad on the other hand, likes to wing it. Plans are good and all and come in very useful during the workday, but when it comes to fun, he’s almost always happy to simply step out the door and see what happens. This is a man who, when he was younger, would go to the airport with a toothbrush in his pocket and get on the standby list, just to see how far his meager funds would get him. If the flight was full, he’d get on another list and see how that panned out. This kind of adventure would make my Mother bananas. Again, it’s not that it would scare her so much as the fact that she couldn’t plan for all the eventualities. Her brain would overheat as she tried to map out every possible coarse of action that could happen. Dad calls it having an adventurous spirit. His father in law refers to it as, “Ready, Fire, Aim.” Both ways of living have their benefits and the two of them actually compliment each other very well. After almost forty years of marriage, I guess I’d say that it works well for them.

You might think that since I am a product of these two philosophies of life, I would be perfectly blended of each part and able to plan well for life’s journeys, while still being able to let go in the moment and see what comes, but that’s not really how it boils down in my psyche. It ends up being more like a cage match between the Id and Subconscious, the winner gaining control my actions until the other can wrest them from the other’s grasp. How this usually plays out, is with me about to do something dangerous and fun, huge grin on my face and fists clenched when, “DING!” the Mom side finally gets the Dad side in a full Nelson and screams, “What the HELL are you doing here?! Are you seriously about to attempt this? What ARE you THINKING?!”

These are not calm moments for me and they usually make me hum nervously as I look around at where I am in a desperate effort to either distract my self until the moment passes or find a window to leap out of and escape. This was one of those moments… but the van was moving and the windows only cranked out a few inches. There was nowhere to go except in the drink. We pulled off the road and into a small clearing filed with enormous rafts, paddles, more vans and more nervous-but-trying-not-to-look-nervous would be drowning victims. The nearby river looked calm and flat as it lazily rolled by.

My Father’s voice whispered through my head, “You paid money to raft on THAT? Man, did you get ripped off!”

Mom then added, “Thank God! I hope you brought a snack and towel.”

More later…

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How Much to Get Drown and Shot?

As I walked up to the out door tiki bar, the unmistakable shape of my friend, Ioseph’s back greeted me. I had been looking for him specifically and, lucky me, he was not easy to miss. Flaming red hair, big in every direction and as per usual, decked out in a Hawaiian shirt. I quietly strode up, reached out both hands and wrung his neck.

“Why…” I started to enquire through clenched teeth. “did I have to drive seven hours to have a beer and play in the water?!?”

Ioseph, having quickly recovered from his momentary strangulation, simply stood up and turned around, me still dangling from him like a peeved remora.

“You look like you need a drink!” Ioseph thinks everyone needs a drink.

Letting go and wordlessly taking his spot at the bar, I allowed him to order me a large, cold beer on his tab, and sucked down half of it in one lift.

“Better?”

“Grumble mumble rumble…”

Where we were, was the “the middle of no where” Canada and the reason we were here was Mountain Man’s bachelor party. Of the four close high school friends, I was the first to marry and I kept a tight rein on the pre-wedding festivities. I admit, I can be a bit of a wet blanket at times and so thankfully, my friends were decent enough to keep things sane on my bequest. It’s not that I don’t enjoy having fun. It’s more that I know Ioseph.

And knowing is half the battle.

Ioseph, when given tabula rasa is prone to go… nuts. There is no way, NO WAY, that you will be able to predict what he will get in to in the name of a good time. He is in possession of one of the most dangerous mixes of personality traits that I know. He is: self deprecating, funny, highly intelligent, totally uninhibited in any way, can justify just about anything and is instantly forgivable for just about any of these actions. If the year were 1720, I have no doubt in my mind that he would be a pirate, a royal governor of some tropical island, or both. Probably both. Luckily for the world, he’s also a very nice guy. Just bananas.

The reason he had chosen Canada was because we had nixed the idea of Vegas.

Ioseph in Vegas… *shudder*

The drive here had been a long one and I had done it alone. My directions were essentially to go north until I hit Montreal and then hang a left. When I ran out of pavement, I was just about there. I was tired and my butt hurt and I needed another beer. I couldn’t for the life of me understand why we couldn’t go white water rafting in the States. I requested my beer and paid with an American twenty. The bar tender handed me a fresh pint and twenty-two dollars in change. Hmm. This might not be such a bad thing after all.

It was already dark out and I still needed to get my stuff out of the car. I joined my friends, Ioseph, The Doctor and Mountain Man and got the lay of the land. It was time to make camp.

This, to be sure, was my kind of camping. Any campsite that comes with an outdoor bar, indoor bathroom facilities and food made by someone else gets the thumbs up in my book. For people like Mountain Man and The Doctor, I’m sure it was eye rollingly cushy, and it was, but it was also exactly what I was up for after my marathon drive. After flopping out my sleeping bag in the tent, I was unconscious in a matter of moments. Maybe it was the beer, the drive or both, but I did know that I’d better get rested up. Tomorrow was one of Mountain Man’s last days as a bachelor and there were big plans. We were going to see if we could get sucked under a raging river, flung against massive, unseen, underwater rocks and not get killed!

Hey! It’s important to have goals!

Ran out of time today.More later…
-TP

Unknown Classics

As we raced around the kitchen doing our daily morning dance I couldn’t help humming. Music is something that seems to always follow me around in the form of a hum or a whistled tune and so none of my family gave it much notice. The kids are too young to play “Name That Tune,” but Action Girl caught it.

“Were is the butter?”

“Got it.”

“The coffee needs pouring and the dishwasher still has claim to all the good mugs.”

“I’ll get them.”

“Hmmm mmmm mmm Mmmm Mmm mmm mmm m Hmmm Mmm.”

“Are you humming ‘Wash that man right out of my hair’?”

“Hmmmmm…. Perhaps.”

The night before, long after the kids were supposedly asleep, Action Girl and I finished the second reel of “South Pacific,” and I have to say, it was a lot of fun.

“South Pacific” is in no doubt to any body’s mind, a classic and I already knew a handful of the Rodgers and Hammerstein songs from cultural osmosis, but like so many things we “know” all about, I had never seen it. Not even the highlights. Because of this, South Pacific fell neatly into my “To Do” pile along with a mountain of reading, a pile of movies and Lord knows how many songs. Call them cultural debris or the staples of knowledge, but the truth of the matter is that we all seem to know things that we really don’t.

“Treasure Island,” comes to mind.

I know the story well enough and this is not due entirely to the Muppets.

muppettreasure1

I knew as a young boy that Long John Silver had a peg leg and was not to be trusted but to be honest, I had no idea why. Young Master Hawkins never even crossed my radar, partly because he wasn’t an interesting pirate missing a major appendage but mostly because I HAD NEVER READ THE BOOK!

The really goofy part is that I even know the background about where the story comes from. Robert Louis Stevenson and his young family were on vacation in the very soggy and rainy Scottish Highlands back in the pre- pre- pre- technology days and being a good father and story teller, or perhaps feeling guilty at having dragged young children out to spend their summer in a stone cottage covered in lichen and moss, he spun the tale over many evenings to keep his brood happy and interested. Also, I’m guessing that if he strung it out long enough, he could pull a Scheherazade and keep him self safe from familial retribution while he slept. I know that’s the way I’d be thinking, at any rate.

My point is that to this day, I still haven’t read Treasure Island. Though I own an old, hardcover, dog eared copy rescued from some library’s discard pile, it sits gathering dust, patiently waiting for me to, like an archeologist, slowly and carefully dig down to its layer, brush it clean, document its many pages and finally set it on permanent display. I still have a lot of layers to go.

Having a weakness for old and important things, I have amassed a good pile to weed through and among the bit and pieces, there are lots and lots of cultural “classics.” The very word “Classic,” makes me think and reminds me of a rebuke I received from my little cousin Rachel many, many years ago. When I arrived at her house one day, no doubt in tow with my Mother, my young cousin asked me if I had ever seen the movie “Willy Wonka.” Apparently, she had just finished it and wished to discuss its finer points.

I hadn’t, and told her so.

“Yes you have.” She replied with hands on hips. Even then, she was practicing that look that all women learn to give men who are obviously being thick on purpose.

“Ummm, no. No I haven’t.” It seemed an odd thing to contradict me on and it made me nervous. I was still me, right?

“Yes you have! It’s a classic!”

“No. Really. I haven’t seen it. Not ever.”

Rachel was looking sort of panicked now and getting louder and more firm in her opinion of what I’d seen and what I hadn’t.

“Yes you HAVE! Everybody’s seen it! It’s a CLASSIC!”

I can only guess that there had been a conversation I had missed out on. My best theory is that her Mother had called the movie a “classic” and Rachel, being a normal and therefore inquisitive child, requested a definition. It probably went something like, “It’s something that everybody has seen.” It seemed that my negative answer had put me outside of humanity. Through my admission of not having seen Gene Wilder doing his dances in purple top hat and cane, I had inadvertently short circuited her world.

As I recall, I finally relented and claimed that I had seen it just to make things right with her again, thus completing the male/female dance called the “You’re right and I’m wrong” Cha-cha. Hey, it makes life livable and besides, I’ve seen the movie now and therefore regained my membership with the human race.

A few years ago, I decided that it was high time to knock down a few more classics that had eluded me. The first conscious step I took was to put Steve Martin’s adaptation aside and read “Cyrano de Bergerac.” I LOVED it. Were they all this good? Is that why they sit in such an exalted place? I attempted the same with another legend and got 98% of the way through, “A Farwell to Arms” before I came to the conclusion that I didn’t need to see the rest. Hemingway might have been a boozy, thrill seeking genius, but to my mind, his writing just doesn’t stand up. At least not now. At least… not to me.

The good news is that there is still a stack of material that goes up to my chin that I have yet to go through. The bad news is that there is simply no way that I will ever get to the bottom of it.

The lesson here, I suppose, is to focus on what you like. I’m not the type of person who does things because it earns me brownie points with the black turtleneck and beret crowd or gets me bragging rights amongst my peers, but rather because I don’t want to miss out on something good. The stories of woe and hardship are plentiful and I’m sure that many of them are expertly and gut wrenchingly told, either on the page or the silver screen. I know that many people love these stories of personal horror and you too may enjoy this type of Opera bait, but you won’t see me there following along. For me, the day is just too nice to ruin.

So, over the last two nights, Action Girl and I watched our classic and now cheesy musical and had fun laughing at the soft focus and doubtless revolutionary color changes through out the production. Were were both taken by surprise by the heavy moral message that came through only at the very end, taking the unexpected and I’m sure at the time, controversial slap at racism. You learn something new every day, even if it’s from something old. Especially if it’s old, in some cases.

I’ll have to return the movie to the library today and see what’s next on the list. There’s a good collection of older folks here in the community and that translates into some great old movies to take out. Classics abound.

The trick is to find one that I know all about, but not really. You never know what you didn’t know until you actually learn.

I’m gonna wash that man right out of my hair and send him on his waaaaaaaay!

Maybe I should just hum it as I walk.

Range Day

“You should go to the range this week.”

These are words that will always get my attention. When they come from Action Girl, they can almost bring tears to my eyes. This is how I know she loves me.

Things are finally getting warmer here in Maine and the snow banks are slowly creeping back into the woods. All this makes me itch to get my rifles back out after a long winter’s hibernation and spend some quality time making loud noises and punching holes in pieces of paper. Hey… the paper had it coming.

The problem that I’ve encountered lately is defining the time that I should get to go and play. Since I’ve left the Monday through Friday, nine to five world and put most of my energy into caring for the kids and working on the house, it’s been really hard to set aside time to go and do the things that I love. Don’t get me wrong. I love being with my three year old and one year old every day. It’s something that is invaluable and immeasurable and I am unbelievably lucky to have the opportunity. It’s just… sometimes Dad needs some downtime… or rather, Dadtime.

Going off to play does make me feel a little guilty on some level though.

It makes me think of a public service announcement that ran on TV when I was a kid. The ad showed a father going away on yet another golf trip as he left his wife and kids alone and sad looking in the dooryard, one child asking him why he wouldn’t stay. The message was something like, “Did you ever think of having fun with your family instead of being selfish? Dick!” (I’m assuming here that his name was Richard)

I know that I’m hardly in the “absentee dad” category and that I do indeed, get to go have some fun sometimes but it does run through my mind when I’m going off to enjoy myself by myself. Just a few more years of this and maybe I’ll have a little companion who will want to come with me.

Target shooting, one of my very, VERY favorite things to do, has become exceedingly difficult to get around to for several reasons. The first thing that makes it tricky is the fact that I live on an island, and though blasting away with .22’s at the dump might have been perfectly fine a generation ago, those days are most defiantly gone for good. I need to get to the mainland if I’m going to justify owning firearms, and that takes time.

There is no such thing as a “quick trip” to town.

luggage

Pack up your bag, walk to the dock, get on board, find a seat and wait. Dock, disembark, walk to the parking garage, find the car, toss everything in and NOW… you’re ready to start. It takes a long time just to get rolling and if you forgot something back home, say… your car keys, you get to use some very colorful language and toss all your plans out the metaphorical window.

When I worked on the mainland every day, I could decide to go shooting during lunch and simply bring a rifle along with me in the morning. Now if I want to go, it’s a special trip and I have to set aside a big block of time and these days, those are few and far between.

So, with taking care of the kids and desperately trying to get a few things done on the house, I just don’t get to go shooting much. That, and the small fact that winter in Maine will make just about anybody think twice about sitting at an out door bench for an hour while you try to feed frozen ammunition into your frozen rifle with your frozen fingers. Some how, frostbite always seems to suck the fun out of any occasion.

This morning, with the help of Action Girl handling the kid wrangling and the lovely spring weather if not full of the scent of tulips and daffodils, at least holding off the rain, I headed out with a bounce in my step. I’d done the right thing and called several friends to see if they wanted to come along, but being the middle of the week, all replied that they just couldn’t make it. I enjoy taking others out to shoot but this was just fine. Time alone at the shooting bench is a wonderful thing.

As I steamed into town working on the first of my two coffee thermoses, I chatted with a few friends and enjoyed the notion that I would have the whole morning off. A rare and blessed thing. The obligatory stop at the local doughnut shop to pick up provisions and I was ready to start the morning right.

The drive there is an easy one and if not exactly beautiful and pastoral, it is at least quick. By the time the first chocolate glazed was reduced to crumbs on my shirt and lap, I was pulling in and switching off the car. It was still early and all the ranges were silent, but not for long if I had anything to say about it.

I’ve been here many times before, alone and with friends, but it’s always more relaxed when I’m there on my own. No one to wait for when setting up targets. No botching a shot because you flinched when the person on the next bench fired just a half second before you. No worrying if you’re going to bean the guy to your right with a hot and freshly emptied shell casing when you pop the breach open with the enthusiasm that comes over you after a perfect shot. None of that for me today!

The last and best thing about shooting alone is music. I don’t know who invented the “ear bud,” but to them, I shall always be thankful. In addition to looking slick, cool and coiling up in your pocket, the little buggers also nestle beautifully under a set of ear protection, thus saving your hearing from the sudden concussion of rifle fire so you can crush it under the din of your favorite music.

music-protection

It was a Motown morning for me as Dianna Ross and Supremes joined me for a while during target practice.

After an hour and a half, I stood seventy-five yards away from a well holed paper target and just to the left of a sizable pile of empty brass. It was a great morning. Just as I was picking up, our range safety officer happened by to check on things. He’s a nice old gentleman and I’ve been privileged to chat with him on a few occasions. After our initial greeting his eye fell to the bench as his eyebrows arched. “So, what do we have here this morning?” I pulled the bolt open and handing it to him.

“It’s my Grandfather’s Mauser K98k. His brother brought it back from Europe for him and he had it sported into a deer rifle. I don’t usually care for sported combat rifles but this is a top notch job and obviously, it’s got the family history going for it. It’s actually my favorite rifle to shoot. I can’t wait until my kids can come with me to do this.”

He looked on approvingly as I cleaned it in preparation for its ride back home and we talked about shooting. He told me about how he used to go with his son when he was younger and how much fun it was. “He doesn’t like shooting any more though. It’s too bad. I have quite a collection to pass on but no one to pass it on to.”

“Oh…” I groped for a way to ask without being prying. What would cause that? He solved the problem for me and volunteered the answer.

“He joined the Navy and that was fine. He still liked to shoot and we had a lot of fun when he was home, but then he joined the Navy Seals and well… lost his taste for shooting after that.”

I can only imagine what might have happened to cause that change and to be honest, I’d rather not imagine too hard. I’ve never been in the situation where I had to shoot at another human being and I hope to God, I never will. I have the same hope and prayer for my children. I looked down at my rifle and thought about the young German soldier to whom it must have been issued. I wonder what happened to him? I wonder whom he shot at or if he ever even had the chance. Whatever his story, it was lost to time. The rifle was mine now and I was in charge of its use.

As I drove back to my island home and awaiting family, I thought about how enjoyable it was to have some time to practice a hobby that I enjoyed so much and then about my range-friend with his futureless collection. I truly do enjoy the sport but what he told me was sobering.

One of my Grandfathers taught me how to shoot and the other has supplied me with my two favorite guns to take out. I hope that someday I’ll get to take both my children out to enjoy days like this with me but if they don’t, I’ll hang on to my collection for as long as I can. Who knows? Maybe I’ll get the chance, years from now to sit down with a cup of coffee, my Grandfather’s .22 and my own grandchildren. I’ll explain how their Great-Great Grandfather got it for Christmas when he was just eight, and then I’ll show them how to use it. When they’re strong enough, I’ll get out the Mauser too.

Firearms are nothing to be taken lightly and I treat them with the respect they deserve, just like I was taught to. I feel that it’s an important lesson to pass along. Short Stack and Lulu Belle may not want to have anything to do with them, I know, but they will understand how to handle them. I hope they will at least humor their Dad at times and go with him to the range for a sunny morning of shooting.

It’s warm and bright this morning. The wind is barely perceptible and I still haven’t had breakfast. It’s just right for heading back to shoot some more. Not today though. It’s time to work; shooting can come later. Anyway, waiting for it makes it all the more special when I do go.

Maybe next week…

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