One thing my friends, acquaintances, and I spent hours doing is shooting .22 caliber rifles out in one of the junk piles that were left on the land when my folks bought it. Ammunition was cheap, and I used to have pretty good accuracy, though I’d never have made sniper infantry. It provided for some good targets, as the pile was full of cans, shoes, radios, glass jars, plastic containers, and the like. Sometimes my dad and I, and occasionally my mom too, would practice there, or site in the deer rifles.
We would usually set up cans on an old electric range, which kept the cattle from catching stray lead. It was always interesting to see the bullets we shot. The stove layers absorbed them, trapping them before they could pass all the way through. We’d open the door, and there were our squashed bullets strewn on the oven floor. I certainly wouldn’t recommend trying that one at home.
One of my favorite things to do after school was to grab a gun and go out into the woods until dusk. I had several, and my choice depended on the kind of wildlife I’d be hunting. Sometimes I wouldn’t come back until it was totally dark, especially when I was tracking some game that continued to evade me.
Most of the time, however, I wasn’t too worried about the hunt, and I just enjoyed the tranquil peace of the rural countryside. It was not an uncommon sight to see me sitting up against a tree with a gun across my lap, dozing peacefully with squirrels and birds cavorting through the leaves in front of me. I loved it! This trend continued until around my freshman year.
While I fished fairly frequently like so many boys growing up, I was always more of the lonely hunter. There was just something about the land and the hunt that appealed to me. I loved the countryside and felt so at peace there. Still, I can remember catching a number of fish—mainly bluegill and perch—in some of the small streams along our road or in the area ponds, often riding my bicycle there while trying to balance a fishing pole and whatever other fishing accessories I might need.
And of course, I spent a lot of time fishing along the river. I still visit there a lot, often musing over sights such as a beaver gliding under the water, or a blue heron on its long, spindly legs spearing fish with its needle-like nose, though the one time I’ve tried fishing recently I couldn’t get any reels to work. I spent the $10 on a license for naught.
At any rate, it is not uncommon to see all kinds of wildlife including wild ducks and geese . . . and then there are the wild turkeys that love to roost in the sycamore trees overshadowing the river. Those things could give a person a heart attack! They will suddenly spring into flight, their huge wings making a terrible racket as they go flying off: twenty-some-odd silhouettes flapping against the moonlit sky.
I got a little smarter though. When I heard what sounded like raindrops hitting the water I knew I better brace myself. It was the sound of their droppings falling from the lofty perches high above in the nighttime air. I knew that at any minute if I continued walking I could expect to find my heart in my throat. No matter how prepared I was, it never eased the sudden startling effect, like flushing out a covey of quail, if you have ever done that. One minute I was calm and tranquil, lost in my own thoughts, the next I had what sounded like a hurricane going off in my ear: like a mighty, rushing wind from out of nowhere.
Unfortunately however, I had absolutely no warning when the turkeys perched in the trees in the woods. I don’t imagine that their droppings hitting the leaves make as much noticeable sonic impact, but I can assure you that their wings still certainly do.
One of my all time favorite pastimes was to go out gigging for bullfrogs. I would carry a flashlight and a gig, bolted onto an old shovel handle. Even then I really did not like to think about what it must have felt like to the frogs. I mean, imagine someone shoving a barbed pitchfork through your back, picking you up and then pulling you off, the barbs tearing chunks out of your flesh. Still, that did not deter me, though I don’t think I could bring myself to do it today.
I did not always use a gig, though. Sometimes I’d use a .22. Either way it was always a challenge to balance the flashlight with weapon in hand well enough to score the mark. I had pretty good luck, usually bringing back a mess of frogs from anywhere around five to twenty-five. I really did not much care for skinning them out, though frog legs don’t taste too bad. It was more the outdoor adventure that I liked.
Anyway, I’d go to one of the many ponds around, stumbling through the wooded sections under the night sky, getting a thousand spider webs in my face and everywhere else. I well remember that, especially since I just got done washing spider webs off me. I am still dripping wet from my shower as I’m sitting here typing. In fact, it was my walk that inspired what you are now reading. One thing that was different this time is that it is now fall, and I don’t have to put up with those pesky seed ticks. Still, I am feeling a little buggy tonight.
As I was saying, Missouri is famous for its lone star wood ticks and every year a new hatch comes out in full force. The baby ticks are only about the size of the tip of a needle, and it is not uncommon to literally have hundreds of them swarming up your body. They keep biting and biting and they itch—ooh! I hate them!
My family and I take masking tape and try to get them off that way, sticking a strip of it to our skin again and again and watching the little brown specks begin to multiply. Unfortunately, even after doing that and taking a bath or shower—and scrubbing really well, too, mind you—a few still manage to survive, and they usually attach themselves to the warmer regions of your body. Simply put, there is nothing like trying to maintain your composure in public when one has managed to find the much more, um . . . sensitive parts of your body!
And you know, my allergies have been acting up, and I was thinking that when they do is usually when I decided to spend the most time out of doors. Being out there with all the pollen is real smart. Then it dawned on me. “Duh, Eric. When the seasons change to spring or fall is usually when you are most interested in being out: in the spring to celebrate the final arrival of the warm weather and in the fall because you know it will be the last chance you have to enjoy warmer days and greener scenery.” And of course when the seasons change, there is more pollen in the air, hence the annoying stuffy nose, itchy, watery eyes, and scratchy throat.
Anymore I don’t go out as often as I once did. Once upon a day, I spent almost all my waking hours outside in the miles and miles of countryside surrounding my folks’ place “getting lost.” Actually, I knew my way around quite well, only occasionally truly getting lost.
I still love nature, and it gives me a great sense of freedom and peace to go traipsing around in the middle of beautiful nowhere, surrounded by the trees, the birds, the breeze, and all the many offerings of the countryside. The stress and cares of the man-made world all seem to drop off in these moments of peace—no annoying telephones, no one telling you what to do or where to go—just you and the miles of untamed rural beauty.
I did not have as much luck with night hunting, though—well, except for the gigging. I frequently tried going hunting for raccoons and opossums, as their hides bring in a few dollars a piece during the right season. I never got a raccoon, though I did manage to get an opossum or two, and you know they actually aren’t bad eating either.
Truth be told, I saw a lot of them. I have read that they frequently play dead; however, I have never seen one do that. It’s been my observation instead that they usually bare their teeth and hiss like a cat. I sure wouldn’t want to get my fingers caught between their vicious jaws: their fangs look menacing. I know the chickens surely thought so. We frequently had to shoot them because they would get in the chicken house and have a feast.
Often, they wouldn’t do anything, just sitting still as though they thought I wouldn’t or couldn’t see them. I understand that their brains are actually only about the size of a pea, and I can definitely believe that. They are so stupid, I think that is what keeps them safe more than anything. I think they are kind of cute though. Mom and Dad like their miniature dachshunds (I do too; it was me who insisted we get the first one), and they remind me of a cross between a cat, a rat, and a dachshund: I suppose the dachshund because Mom and Dad always had the smoothed haired ones, and their tail reminds me of a possum tail.
I can remember on one occasion in particular I had been out in the woods since getting home from school, and it was growing dark. I stood there really still, and one sauntered right between my legs and along on his merry way, totally oblivious to me. I just laughed at it. Then I recently saw a young one that tried to scurry up into a short, eight-foot tall tree in an attempt to hide from me. There were no leaves on the tree, and there it was, its rather obvious silhouette standing out against the bright moonlit sky. Once again, I just laughed, but I did consider giving the tree a bit of a shake. Oh come on! I wouldn’t have shaken it very hard. You animal softies make me sick! (Yeah, look whose talking, Eric.)
I did not actually see any raccoons when out walking at night that I can remember as a kid. I have since seen many of them, as I love walking along under the bright moon, though I haven’t carried a gun or hunted in years. I saw one a while back next to the road, and it was sitting completely still. I carefully reached out and managed to pet it twice—long enough to know that its fur was all matted and nasty—before it practically dove into the tall grass next to the ditch.
On my way back by, I did not see it, but I could tell I had offended it. It came flying out of a tree running in my general direction, hissing like a demon-possessed cat. I jumped back in spite of myself. I realized later that petting a wild raccoon is not the smartest thing to do as they have some nasty teeth of their own. I’ve been told they make some really neat pets though. I remember in kindergarten a guy had one that he brought in to show the class. I thought it was really cool, partly because of my Girl Coon.
Still, I have little fear of the night or any wild creature: night creature or otherwise. This has been evidenced time and again when I am out walking with a friend—usually at night—and I see how easily frightened they are of this or that. I never say anything, I just agree when my friend decides to turn back: for their sake, not mine. It is usually something like being afraid of a farmer’s bull or the like, though I think it has more to do with the fact they did not grow up combing the countryside for hours on end the way that I have. They don’t trust the nighttime countryside air the way that I do. It is virtually my home away from home. Admittedly, I’m usually a little disappointed, as I wish they could enjoy it in the same way that I do, but I understand.
I wouldn’t go so far as to rashly proclaim that there is no danger when it comes to wild animals or walking alone in the countryside at night, but I think the danger is largely overrated. Generally speaking, wild animals are as afraid, or perhaps even more so, of you than you are of them. At any rate, no one will ever be able to convince me to stop taking the nighttime moonlit or starlit walks I love so dearly. They are something I greatly treasure and hope someday to be able to share them with someone who treasures them as much as I do.
I especially love it during the spring when the chorus frogs are droning merrily away and the fireflies are out in all their phosphorous splendor: hundreds of bobbing, glowing orbs winking on and off again and dancing and weaving through the countryside night. Add to that the steam rising from the surface of the river and the golden moon, and I’m getting a nostalgic and fuzzy feeling just thinking about it; it just does something to this old heart of mine. I love moonlit countryside nights!
I’d probably be more of the outdoorsman today if it weren’t for the fact that I discovered an aptitude for a wonderful invention commonly called the guitar. I still love to venture out in nature, though and probably always will, though my avid sportsman days are over. I swear, I’ve turned into such a softie. I don’t even like to crush an insect now, unless it stings or bites me—or it’s a cockroach.
One year Jeff gave my dad a Honda 90cc dirt bike. I remember my dad taking it on a test run, with me sitting behind him. It seemed strange riding on a motorcycle behind my dad, but I loved it. It wasn’t long before he let me ride it, as long as I reimbursed him for gas money. Five dollars in the tank got me an awful lot of riding. It had some problems, and we ended up replacing the contact points. Finally it bit the dust for good and still sits in front of the barn at their house, collecting rust.
I can recall several occasions burning myself badly on the muffler, which is a common problem with dirt bikes, especially when they land on your bare leg. There was one incident in particular I remember. I rode it in the fields, because I wasn’t allowed to ride down the road. I was cruising through the cow pasture, and the grass had grown up over a stump in the field. I hit it full force, shot straight up in the air and once again felt myself getting severely singed under its weight.
That reminds me of the first time I ever rode anything like that. We were visiting some friends in Michigan, and they had “his and hers” mopeds. I don’t how old I was, but he let me ride hers. I had it on the ground several times, but that wasn’t the worst of it. I had climbed off it while it was still running and accidentally pulled back a little on the throttle. That caused the bike to move, and I clung on to it, which in turn pulled harder on the throttle. Before very long I was dragging along beside of it, before it finally fell on me. I was pretty shook up. The guy was more concerned about me, but if he had been me, I wouldn’t have blamed him if he’d skinned me alive for scratching up his wife’s moped.
I also remember visiting Jeff and Susie in New Mexico when he was working there for Sperry Aerospace and Marine. It was really beautiful there, and the adobe style houses captivated me. I enjoyed cruising around with him in his yellow ’71 Triumph TR-6 convertible, too. The highlight of the adventure, though, was riding the tram up the Sandia Mountains. (Incidentally, I understand that it is supposed to be the highest tram in the United States.) We hiked a little way back down, but they had their car waiting. I can still remember that tram, though, and somewhere I think I still have a picture or two to show for it.
I usually made my own gifts, and I tried my hand at making many things. I often did not have quite all the tools I needed, but I’d always try to improvise. I got an idea for making a birdhouse—from Boy Scouts I think—and decided to make one for my mother that Christmas. It was coming along beautifully, and I just needed to cut the hole for the bird to go in before nailing it together. I was using an electric drill, and I couldn’t find the right bits.
Finally I found my dad’s brace bits which operate somewhat like a drawing compass, having a screw tip and a metal bladed arm that orbits it, allowing a diameter twice the length of the arm to be bored. Sticking it into the chuck, I stood on the board to anchor it securely, one foot on either side and started the drill spinning between my feet. A word to the wise: don’t ever try using a brace bit in an electric drill, especially when barefoot.
Because it was intended to fit a brace’s square jaws, the bit I’d selected did not fit in the chuck right and was wobbling badly. Suddenly it recoiled, jumping off the board and gashing me deeply, bouncing back to slice me a second time. I hurried from the milkhouse (converted into a tool shed) down the driveway back to the house, leaving a bloody trail of scarlet.
I did not get stitches, though it would no doubt have healed a lot more uniformly. As it was, it cut me to the bone, and I still have a vicious double scar near my toes on my right inner foot. For that matter, I never got stitches for anything growing up. To this very day, the only ones I’ve ever gotten were when the dentist sewed my gums up after performing a dual tooth extraction. I’ve had several more from other dentists, and he was the only one who used them. I never bothered going back, instead cutting them out on my own about a week later with a pair of nail clippers. (They were really starting to itch.)
It must have been in sixth or seventh grade when I became a lot more interested in drinking and chewing. A lot of other kids were, so I got curious. My golden opportunity came when a friend who rode the bus agreed to buy me a pouch of chewing tobacco. I gave him a five, and he brought me back my change and a pouch of Beechnut wintergreen longcut.
I took it out behind the house after school and stuck a big gob in my jaw. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do with it, but I’d always seen people spitting, so I spit the juice out as it salivated in my mouth. It did not seem logical to me at first. If you spit it out, how is it supposed to do anything for you? I was very soon to change my mind.
It gave me such a buzz, I felt like my head was going to fly off. I felt extremely light-headed and really did not much care for it. I tried it several more evenings with no better effect. I remember wondering how I would ever get through the entire bag and finally threw it out after about a month. Ah well, it seemed like such a waste, a good idea gone bad.
My opportunity to experiment with drinking came shortly thereafter. Mom and Dad would often collect aluminum cans and living on the country road that we did, people would sometimes throw out part of a six-pack or case. They would bring home the cans unopened, and you guessed it—I often volunteered to go out and crush cans. For some reason most of the cans were Coors Lite, though there were a few Milwaukee’s Best too. (Yuck!)
I’d hurriedly slam about five or so. I remember feeling rather bloated and sick, and my head swam. Sometimes I would vomit warm beer. When I was finished I’d wobbly stand and work to command my reluctant legs to carry me in a straight line. I’d try very hard to act normally and be nonchalant.
I don’t know if my folks ever knew or not. I know they could have easily smelled it, but I don’t imagine they were looking for it. I would try and avoid them, usually going to my room, closing the door and sprawling across the bed, wondering why I had to be so stupid and what people thought they saw in drinking. Nevertheless, this was a trend I was to continue for the next several years. I guess I had already begun to discover the cycle of the addict: depression, escape, guilt, more depression, etc.
For that matter, I could not have been much older when I’d go scrolling through Mom and Dad’s medicine cabinet, popping pills at random. I guess it was a form of escape. I know I often felt a little blue, but I’m not exactly sure why I’d get such urges, unless of course I had a little invisible help.
Whatever the cause, I became a binge pill-popper, from time to time getting the notion to go browsing through the medicine cabinet. I never knew what I took—I guess I just took the ones that caught my eye. It usually made me feel really spaced out, the way that cold medicine, codeine and the like often does. It rarely left me feeling what I would call truly good, but I continued to persist anyway.
Eventually I just stopped doing it, though when I got into illegal drugs it was still an occasional enticement. For that reason, I am careful about having pills around now, unless I know I really need them. Perhaps it should have told me something then, but it did not. I did not even know what addiction was.
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