Thankful for Family

In Day 2 of my self-imposed thankfulness challenge I am thankful for family.  I am thankful for the small feet, the large feet, the help, the messes, the fun, the work, the questions, and all the other things that come with family.  Not everyone has the good fortune to have family in their lives.  If you do, be thankful, no matter how messy the relationships can sometimes be.

Thanksgiving is also a time when the impact of missing family members hits home a little harder than it might at other times.  It is because when the family gathers, those who are no longer there stand out by their absence.  Those are the times when we need to remember that our faith will bring our families back together again in a place without sorrow or, troubles.

The Thanksgiving holidays always meant hunting when I was growing up.  It meant chasing the elusive quail through the Sandhills, or out on the Draw.  It meant the occasional wild turkey dinner because Grandpa used to go deer hunting on the weekend before Thanksgiving and if he could bag one, Grandma would cook it for Thanksgiving Dinner.  She always had a "store-bought" one in reserve just in case.

Family together means games and noise and sometimes flared tempers.  There might be a few tears here and there too.  The gathering together exposes how we've grown apart and changed.  It is important though, to renew our bonds and allow our hearts to be filled with the presence of those most like us genetically.  It is in our DNA that we feel a connection to family that transcends our differences.

I pray that this Thanksgiving you are able to spend time with family.  If it isn't family of the genetic sort, I hope it is those with whom you feel a bond, a closeness, a connection that fills that part of you that needs family in your life.

"Sons are a heritage from the Lord, children a reward from him.  Like arrows in the hands of a warrior are sons born in one's youth.  Blessed is the man whose quiver is full of them.  They will not be put to shame when they contend with their enemies in the gate." -- Psalm 127:3-5

Family Time at Christmas

For the last couple of days we have celebrated Christmas with family.  Our kids were home, though briefly, and not at the same time.  It has been a good couple of days with the sounds of laughter and happy activity, lots of good food and time together.

One of the things that sticks in my mind is the look of sheer joy on the younger kids faces when they crossed the creek in the Polaris Ranger -- their father driving and mother keeping them corralled.  I was the "gate man" and therefore able to watch their faces as they made the quick crossing, yelling and laughing.  There was no water in the bottom, but it was muddy and the sides are steep.  I wish I had thought to pull out the camera on my phone to capture the moment.

Saturday, we had a special meal prepared by my son.  It was his gift to us and a very special one.  He and his girlfriend visited on Saturday.  There were games of cards and dominoes and checking cows and visiting.  It was a long hard trip for a very short time for them, but we appreciated it greatly.

Sunday was filled with my daughter and her family.  Little children always add to the joy of Christmas.  Their excitement and laughter are contagious.  I know their parents sometimes worry about the noise and activity, but children playing is good for this old guy's soul.

We have also had my in-laws and a visit yesterday from my wife's sister.  We will be at her house on Christmas Day.

Once again we are reminded that Christmas is a time for family.  On this Christmas Eve, I hope you are blessed with the presence of those you love.  I regret that we won't be able to see my mother and siblings this Christmas, but I hope they know we would like to be there.

"While they were there the time came for the baby to be born, and she gave birth to their first-born, a son.  She wrapped him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn." -- Luke 2:6-7

Travel and Christmas

There were many times through the years that we would leave work on a Friday and drive 6, 8 or, even 10 hours to one of our parents home for the Christmas holidays.  Sometimes it would be a "quick" trip that allowed for only a day or two at one house and then it was another drive to the next family Christmas with the other side of the family.  There were also the expected gatherings at a grandparent's house -- or, sometimes a couple of them.

Holidays can be hectic.  Marriage brings with it the need to meet obligations on both sides.  Everyone is understanding (usually), but it can be crazy trying to manage all of the places where you want to be or, need to be, or sometimes, are expected to be.

Children make it even more challenging.  It is important that they get to spend time with extended family, but the logistics of hauling all of the paraphernalia needed for a baby and then later as the kids grow and the family expands, it sometimes is difficult to get everything packed into the limited space of a vehicle for the trip.  The bigger the family, the number of gifts grows until it becomes a nightmare for some.  Who needs clothes, right?

At some point in most young families life, a decision is made that Christmas will be at home, with just immediate family.  It is a hard transition for some, but a necessary one.  It is part of the growth in independence and self-sufficiency.

It is good to maintain the extended family contact, but sometimes it is more important to maintain immediate family sanity.  Sometimes we need to slow down and remember the reason we celebrate Christmas.

We have reached a point in our journey where we are waiting up until the "wee hours" for kids who are traveling to spend a brief day with us before heading back to other obligations.  We are thankful for that time.  We covet that time, but we also know it is hard on them.

As we enter these final days before Christmas, be mindful of the needs of others.  Be thankful for what you have.  Remember the reason for the season.

"So Joseph also went up from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to Bethlehem the town of David, because he belonged to the house and line of David.  He went there to register with Mary, who was pledged to be married to him and was expecting a child."  -- Luke 2:4-5

A Golfing Memory

Years ago, Dad made a golf club out of scraps found in Grandpa's junk pile.  He used a piece of steel rod for the shaft and a piece of flat iron for the head.  It had a slightly larger piece of iron pipe on the end of the shaft to act as the grip so it would be easier to hold.  The head was probably at about the correct angle for a 2-iron.

I couldn't have been very old when he did that, but I remember him building it just outside the door on Grandpa's old barn.  The welder sat in the corner of the shop and had long leads which would reach outside the barn where it was unlikely that a spark could get back to the hay which was stored in the back of the barn.  The acetylene torch was also inside the shop, right beside the welder, and the hoses on it would also reach outside.  It wasn't the ideal workspace, but it was workable.

Dad had a handful of golf balls which were probably someone's "driving range" balls which he had acquired somewhere.  He took that club and golf balls and went out in the backyard of Grandma and Grandpa's house there on the hill and proceeded to hit golf balls across the dirt road and off down the hill into the Wylie pasture.  He was a natural at it.

A couple of my uncles who were still at home also tried hitting balls with the club.  It was probably their incentive to go off into the pasture and "shag" the balls Dad had hit.  I was hardly big enough to pick up the club, let alone to swing it.

That was the first time I recall "golfing."  It was primitive, but it was a start.  It wasn't long after that Dad took up the game in earnest and became an excellent golfer.  He loved the game and it was one of the few things he would "splurge" on over the years.

I tried taking up the game while in High School.  I could "knock the snot" out of the ball, but just like with a baseball, I had little control.  I seemed to always be playing from the wrong fairway, trying to find my way to the correct green.  It's pretty sad when you have to hit over another green to get to the correct one.

It was probably a good thing that I at least learned the fundamentals of the game while young, because as I became older, there were times it was useful in a business setting.  One company that I worked for would frequently have "customer appreciation" golf tournaments in which I was expected to participate.

It has been a lot of years since I attempted to golf.  I have a set of clubs out in the garage that are probably antiques by now.  I noticed them standing against a wall the other day, collecting dust.  I probably should sell them.

One thing is for certain; any time I think of golf, I will think of Dad and his love for the game.  He loved to play it and he loved to watch it on television.  If they golf in heaven, I suspect he has a foursome together, headed down the fairway....

Building Positive Memories

It's funny how memories trigger memories.  We were fortunate enough to spend a little time with family over Thanksgiving.  In visiting, the post I wrote a couple of days ago about Grandpa's old barn came up (proof that some in the family read what I post -- probably to see what cockamamie thing I might come up with).  I need to go back and fill in the other items that everyone remembered about the barn now!  Mom even pulled out an old photo of the barn that she had used as a model for painting it.

I think memories are important.  I'm not sure why reminiscing about the past is such a strong tendency, but I'm sure some psychologist somewhere has written a paper or two related to it.  It is something we do when we are with others who we may not see on a regular basis.  Sometimes it is something we do in moments of reflection when we are alone and perhaps "feeling sorry" for ourselves.  There must be some deep-seated psychological need that it fills.

I bring it up for this point:  We need to create strong, positive experiences for our children and grandchildren.  They will become a reservoir to be called upon in times of sorrow, or defeat.  They are the glue that binds family and friends in many ways.  They are important.

Family get-togethers are important.  Cousins spending time playing in the back yard builds memories.  Photographs and written records, in time, become keys to unlocking those memories and making them available to meet unforeseen needs.  Sometimes holidays can bring negative memories as well;  I am sure they are also important.  Those negatives include lessons and point to opportunities.

Our society is extremely self-oriented.  Such orientation is a short-term view.  We need to shift our emphasis to the longer term and invest in the next generations.  Make your life count by providing those positive experiences.

Grandpa's Old Barn

Yesterday as I wrote about Grandpa going hunting each Thanksgiving, I had a strong mental image of his barn.  I spent lots of time in and around that old barn.

It was a Quonset barn which sat about 100 yards almost due west of the house which sat on a hill overlooking Running Water Draw north of Olton, Texas.  The soil was poor and thin and was underlain by caliche which could be a problem at times, such as digging a cellar, or a post hole.

The doors to the barn slid to either side along a steel rail which had been damaged at some point prior to my becoming acquainted with the old barn which must have been built some time in the early 50's.  Because of that damage and subsequent repair, the doors didn't move smoothly and because of their very nature of hanging from rollers that ran along the rail, tended to move in and out rather than stay in the sparse guides along the bottom.  They didn't run in a track on the bottom, but Grandpa had welded a couple of metal guides, the middle one having been reinforced with a small amount of hand-mixed concrete which kept it steady and I suspect was designed to make it difficult for a thief to get in by prying out the doors.

In the middle, an old chain ran through two holes, one on each side, which had been punched through the tin with some tool that left the holes with jagged edges.  They had been worn smooth by the chain which had the patina of continual use running through them.  When closed, the doors were secured by a Master padlock through the chains.  I recall Grandpa's keychain having many Master padlock keys upon it but, he knew which one was correct for the barn by the number.  As I grew older I was proud to be entrusted with a duplicate of that key so that I could access the barn any time I needed.

To the left of the sliding doors as you faced the barn, was a normal entry door which would have gone directly into the shop had it not been secured on the inside in a manner that was semi-permanent in nature.  It ended up behind the sliding door on that side when the main doors were open.  The only other thing of interest on the front of the barn were the electrical wires leading in from the utility pole which sat near the corner and the insulated wire coming out below them that ran to the electric fence which ran over the old gate to the corrals which was at the corner of the barn on the left.  It was the only opening into the corrals between the barn and the old loafing shed which provided shelter for the livestock housed therein.

As you entered the barn, the smell of dust and hay filled the air.  There was the hint of rodent smells and oil as well.  To the left sat the shop which was a wooden sided structure built into the corner of the barn.  To the right of the door leading into the shop was a wooden ladder which led up top where sat an air compressor.  There was also old junk stored there.  That junk varied through the years, but my earliest memories were of an old propane stove and a few pieces of old harness.

To the right of the ladder, tacked to the wooden side of the shop were the deer antlers and turkey beards and at one time a full turkey tail and a deer skin.  Suspended from the antlers were bridles and bits and hackamores and spare reins and other pieces of tack.

Behind the shop on the left side of the barn ran a slab of concrete.  The rest of the barn had a dirt floor which was permanently powdered from the lack of moisture and the continual traffic which pounded it to a consistency much finer than flour.  On that slab at one time had been a couple of grain bins.  Through the years they had fallen into disrepair and eventually were torn out.  My earliest memories include a time when the first of the bins contained shelled corn which was used for the cattle.  Sometimes the chickens laid eggs inside those old bins.

Prior to my coming along, Grandpa had a number of milk cows.  He no longer had any except an old Jersey cow which he kept for the milk or as a nurse cow for orphaned babies from his beef herd -- at least within my span of memory.  I have herd many stories from my mother of having to milk those cows when she was growing up.  I had the experience of helping my uncle milk the Jersey a few times.  She was kept up in the lots and we milked her under the shed.

Continuing beyond the grain bins on the slab, there were a few pieces of old equipment stored.  They were covered by a fine coating of dust and many were from a time before automation.  There were quite a few pieces of chicken related equipment.  I don't know what you call them but, they were for the chickens to build their nests in which made it convenient to gather eggs.

The barn also had double sliding doors at the back which were permanently chained and very difficult to open due to the accumulation of dirt and weeds behind the barn which required clearing if they were to be opened.  The back of the barn was to the west from which prevailing winds continually added to the stockpile of dirt and weeds.

In front of those doors sat an old silage cutter.  I recall it being used when I was very young.  Grandpa used to always cut silage which was put into a pit out behind the corrals.  It was quite an event when during silage harvest everyone helped either running the cutter, the wagons which caught it, or the tractors which packed it into the pit.  I also recall riding on the old ford tractor with one of my uncles feeding silage.  The tractor had a large scoop on the back which was used to move the silage to the feed troughs for the cattle.  It was very heavy when full and he would have me sit on the front of the tractor as added weight to help hold it down where he could see where he was going.  The front of the tractor would come completely off the ground and he would have to steer by using the brakes on the tractor.  I always thought it was a lot of fun.

In the back right corner (northwest part of the barn) there was almost always a large stack of hay.  I helped stack that hay a few times and helped feed it many times.  It was almost always alfalfa hay in small square bales.  Grandpa kept top quality hay.

Along the north side of the barn was other equipment including old irrigation motors and various small implements.  There was more old harness suspended from baling wire along the inside of the wall and even an old cotton scale and a balance scale and other items from days past.  Near the front, just inside the door was a huge pile of re-bar electric fence posts and in front of that were many oil cans.  The oil cans were generally Amalie oil in 5 gallon cans used for the irrigation motors.  There were also a couple of 55 gallon drums of oil for the gearheads on the irrigation pumps.

Also on the north side sat a couple of racks with saddles on them.  The straps were always neatly placed up over the seats and the blankets laid on top.  A couple of curry combs and brushes were tucked into the boards on the wall which were attached to the frame of the barn.

There are lots of good memories tied to that old barn....

My First Quail Hunt and a Rattler

The ranch at Muleshoe was a great place to go hunting.  As we enter November I am reminded of quail hunting there.  Since the ranch was mostly in Bermuda grass, the only places to hunt were on a couple of the corners that had not been leveled and under irrigation -- and the neighboring ranches.

The ranch was situated in the sandhills to the southeast of town and south of U.S. 84.  In the summer it was an oasis of green surrounded by sand hills covered in sage, skunk brush and other plants common to the environment.  The surrounding ranches were large -- one in particular covered many square miles of land.  They were havens for wildlife and the windmills situated periodically to provide water for cattle, also drew deer, dove and quail.

We had permission to hunt on Melvin Berry's land which adjoined Grandpa's place.  It was the first place I was allowed to go quail hunting with the men and to carry a shotgun.  It was likely at the age of 8 or 9.  When I was 8 my father first allowed me to hunt on a very limited and highly supervised basis.  I carried my mother's old .410 shotgun.  To the best of my recollection, I was carrying that .410 to hunt quail.  For those of you who have shot a .410, you will know that it is not the ideal quail gun.  The pattern is small and tight and the reach is fairly short.  It takes a highly skilled shooter to be successful with it.  I was not highly skilled at that age, but the difficulties it posed may have aided me through the years as I obtained shotguns of my own that were better designed for the sport.

It was early in quail season of whatever year it was when I participated in that hunt.  We spread out in a reasonably even line with a fair amount of distance between us and began to walk across the pasture.  My short legs made it difficult to keep up with the longer steps of the older men.  I was probably more focused on staying in line with them as we moved across the pasture than I was on spotting quail that would hopefully fly up in front of me.

As I struggled through the sand and sage and skunk brush I was surprised by a prairie rattler that decided to warn me of his presence.  I quickly raised my shotgun and proceeded to obliterate its head.  My dad quickly walked over to see what was going on and saw the dead snake lying there and joked that it probably wasn't much of a threat at that distance to me.  He asked me how I saw it and I told him it was rattling.  He again made light of it and said I must have just heard it rattling leaves as it squirmed through the undergrowth on that warm, early November day.  He was surprised that it was out, but apparently the warmth had drawn it from its den.

He had me take out my pocket knife and remove the rattles from its tail.  I probably still have them in a small medicine bottle stuffed with cotton balls.  I would be hard pressed, though, to lay my hands on it very quickly.

Just a few short years ago, we were cleaning out my grandfather's barn after his death and getting his farm ready to sell.  There was a shop in the front corner that had a pile of scrap iron piled in the corner at the end of the work bench.  Throughout my life I had known there was at least one rattlesnake living in that junk pile.  As we were cleaning out the shop I warned everyone to be aware of the possibility and so took on the task of pulling that pile of scrap metal out, piece by piece, and tossing it out the door to be loaded into the front end loader of the tractor we were using.

After awhile, the bucket was full and my uncle tried to get the tractor to start and it wouldn't.  He climbed down and commented about his difficulty and I said, "Let me try it.  It has a trick to it."

I quickly started it and was about to climb off when he said for me to just go ahead and dump it into the trailer and bring it back for more.  In the mean time, he went into the shop and proceeded to take my place removing metal scraps from the pile in the corner.

When I returned to the barn with the tractor, my dad was headed to the pickup for a pistol and my uncle was "squealing like a girl" that there was a rattlesnake in the corner of the shop.  I just laughed at them and looked in to where, sure enough, there was a prairie rattler coiled in the corner and rattling to beat the band.  It was barely visible behind the scraps of steel which partially obscured it.

Dad walked in about that time with the pistol and stood just inside the door, over 20 feet away from the snake, and started shooting at it.  I didn't really think that was a particularly good idea since the floor was concrete and he was shooting into a pile of metal and his eyesight wasn't what it had once been.

I said, "Dad, get closer."

"I'm not getting closer to that snake!"

"He can't strike further than the length of his body."

"I don't care, I'm not getting any closer!"

I said, "Well at least let me make it easier for you to shoot him."

So, I walked over to the snake and took an old piece of antenna and drug him out where he was clear of all of the metal and then walked back to Dad and said, "Try that."

By then he had taken a couple of steps closer and shot the snake in the head.  It truly was a big prairie rattler.

We carried it out into the driveway in front of the barn where it could be admired and I went back to chunking metal out of the corner where it had been for many years.

I suppose you can figure out why the two events are connected in my mind.  I smile as I think about it.

The Ranch at Muleshoe

For many years my grandfather, Aubrey Oursbourn, owned a small ranch just outside of Muleshoe, Texas.  It wasn't large, only a quarter-section, but it was planted in Bermuda and had one of the first water-drive Valley pivot sprinklers in the middle of it.  He could run about 300 pairs of cattle on it through the summer months.

Grandpa would buy cows at Muleshoe Livestock Auction early in the spring that had either just had a new baby or, were about to have one.  He would then take them to the ranch and turn them out on the irrigated Bermuda to graze.  Cows at that time of year were usually a bit thin due to poor forage in the winter months and they would put on lots of weight through the summer months.  He would also turn out bulls with them so that he had a 3-in-1 package to sell in the fall.

Some of my favorite memories of growing up were of going over to the ranch with Grandpa.  Usually, at least in the fall of the year, I would spend the night with my grandparents at the farm north of Olton on Friday night because I didn't care about going to the football game with my parents, and then early on Saturday morning we would make the 35 mile drive to the ranch to work.  Around Noon we would head into Muleshoe to eat at Leal's Restaurant which is where most of the cattlemen ate prior to going to the sale.  We would often run into people like Gerald Allcorn, or Joe Rhodes, or one of the Norfleets.  Then we would spend the afternoon at the auction until time to go change water on one of the side-rolling sprinklers or ground lines Grandpa used to water the grass before getting the Valley pivot.

We then would spend Saturday night at the ranch and get up early on Sunday to turn off the water sprinkler, check the cows and make the drive back to the farm to arrive in time for Sunday lunch.  Mom and Dad would be there for lunch along with my younger brother and then sometime late Sunday evening we would go back to our home in town.

Each year we also would have to work the calves.  Working time was a big event and all of the family and sometimes friends would be involved.  We would gather the cattle into the corrals and then separate the calves.  Grandpa would be in charge of castration, my Dad usually vaccinated and my uncles would catch the calves and throw them for branding and other operations.  It was mostly done on foot rather than horseback, although there were times that larger calves were roped.

I usually would have the job of sitting in the flank of a calf that one of my uncles had thrown, or in the case of some of the smaller calves, that I had thrown.  I would sit in their flank as they lay on their side and my left foot would pin the bottom front leg of the calf while I held the top leg.  Someone else would be holding the rear legs.  I was sometimes a little nervous when the branding iron was applied while the calf squirmed beneath me.  I had a fear of ending up with a circle on my backside rather than on the calf where it was intended.

Grandpa had an old trailer house there at the ranch and the women would prepare lunch for all of us.  We would stand, or sit around and eat and visit as we rested before going back to finish the job. It was hard, hot, dirty work, but something I remember with fondness.

Red Sox Win the Series

Dad was a huge baseball fan.  He loved the sport and knew the intricacies of it inside and out.  It probably came from growing up in a tiny southwestern Oklahoma town where he attended a school so small they only had baseball and basketball for sports.  He, along with his siblings and cousins, all played and made up the majority of the team.

At some point in his life Dad came to love the Boston Red Socks.  They were his team even though one of his brothers pitched for a farm club of the St. Louis Cardinals.  I never knew why he was such a Red Sox fan unless it was because of some of their players who were among his favorites.  The Red Sox boasted of Babe Ruth, Cy Young and Bobby Doerr.  Later there was Carlton Fisk, Roger Clemens and Carl Yastrzemski.  But, Dad's all-time favorite was Ted Williams.

Dad tried to pass on his love of baseball to his sons.  We spent many hours playing catch in the back yard and then as we grew older, participating in Pee Wee, Little League and Babe Ruth baseball programs.  Dad always coached and his teams frequently won their league.  Not long before he died he was honored by induction into the local baseball hall of fame for his years of devoted service to keeping baseball alive in our small town.

My brother was a good baseball player.  I was not.  I never developed a love for the game, but I continued to play off and on through the years.  I also kept score for the teams Dad coached, or later when in High School, I kept the official score book or, announced the games from the press box behind home plate.  I was much better at those tasks than at standing out in right field trying to pay attention.

Dad would have been pleased that his Red Sox won the World Series last night.  I suspect he was watching from on high and cheering them on.

A Grand Visit

When grandkids come to visit us
It's always a good time;
They truly are a joy in our lives.

We read and we watch movies
And we go to check the cows,
Pick flowers and chase bugs

Around the pasture or the lawn
Or, play with trucks and buckets
In the dirt until it looks like

A major construction project
Is underway in the backyard.
There's helping Nana cook

Something special for a treat
And cleaning up the mess when all is done.
When the day has wound away

And the tiredness starts to hit,
After baths and brushed teeth
And super hero pajamas are donned,

There's time for one more book
And lots and lots of hugs
Then peaceful dreams until the coming day.

Some Childhood Memories

Way back in the day when I was just a kid
We lived on the east side of our town.
The house, it wasn't large, but
I didn't know it then
'Cause I had everything that I could need.

The driveway was of dirt and there was no garage
But, beyond it was a big old empty lot
Where we had dug a hole that
Was the perfect place to spend
Hours and hours just digging in the dirt.

We had a great big garden that Dad kept oh, so neat
With not a single weed there to be found
And Mom planted flowers
In a bed around the house
With the prettiest blooms there were around.

In the back were willow trees grown from cuttings
Off of trees that were to be found
North of town out on the Draw
And in the front were two Pecans
That were dug up near a well

Off the Curry place where they were grown from seed.
We had a cellar too, there in that big back yard
That Dad and Grandpa and my uncles
Had hand dug and lined with cinder blocks
Because Dad didn't like the storms.

He was raised in Oklahoma and he knew what they could do
'Cause he'd seen so much damage they had done
Since he was raised in the heart
Of Tornado Alley where they saw so many
Dancing across the Plains.

I remember in the mornings on every Saturday
I would wake up early in the winter time
And lie upon the floor in front
Of the old propane wall heater
And watch Roy Rogers on the black and white T.V.

Yep, we had everything that we could need.

Grandpa's Hands

I remember as a child,
Taking Grandpa's hand
And feeling all the calluses it bore
And seeing all the cracks
That held a little grease
Left over from some
Mechanical chore.

His fingers were quite twisted
With knuckles very large
From arthritis that he
Tried hard to ignore
Although it was quite painful
And his hands were always sore
He never failed to reach out to me

When I came to visit him.
As years passed by and I had grown
And Grandpa had retired
He'd often sit within his chair
To smoke a pipe that sat
Within his twisted hand
And I admired

The fact that he always would
Reach out to me to shake my hand
Although it often was his left
Because the right one hurt
So badly and was stiff
With pain so bad his pipe
He could not heft.

Too many years of labor
On the farm and with the cows
While rheumatoid arthritis
Slowly destroyed those hands
That had worked and scraped
And built for his family.
Those hands are something that I miss.

A Christmas Memory

Once upon a long time ago -- more years in fact than I care to count -- I received a shotgun for Christmas.  It was my first shotgun.  It was the first firearm that I ever owned.

I was taught the proper use and care of firearms from an early age.  I have hunted about as long as I can remember.  In fact, some of my earliest memories are of hunting with my Dad or my Grandfather (my Mother's father) or, hunting in the pasture in the company of my dog, a Beagle-Bassett cross named Daisy.  Dad wouldn't let me go without the dog because he knew she would discover any rattlesnakes before I did.

Although I was able to carry a gun and hunt, I was not allowed to own one until I turned twelve.  So, you know what I asked for on the Christmas just before I turned twelve -- a shotgun.

We had travelled to Tahlequah, Oklahoma, to have Christmas with my Grandmother ( my Dad's Mother) that year.  Her house wasn't very big and my Dad's family was large so there were lots of us crowded into the tiny living room for opening presents.  I had decided that I probably wasn't going to get my wish but sure enough, from behind the door, my Dad brought out a brand new single-shot 20-gauge shotgun for me.  I couldn't believe it.

I suffered for the next couple of days because I wanted desperately to go out and try my new shotgun but my Grandmother lived in town and there was no place to go hunting.  Fortunately, we were travelling on to Missouri to visit my Mother's grandparents and some other relatives as well.  They lived in the country at a place called "Swamp Holler."  It was just below "Jake's Knob."

Shortly after we arrived in Missouri to stay with one of my Aunts, it began to snow.  It snowed and snowed.  All of us kids sat in the house staring out the windows wanting to go out but it was snowing too heavily.  Finally it quit and we all went out in the country to Swamp Holler.  It was my first clear memory of going to my Great Grandparents house.  We weren't able to go there very frequently and so I had been very young the previous trips.

Dad let me take the shotgun with me.  I didn't realize it, but he and my Grandfather had a hunt planned.

The hunt began shortly after we arrived at my Great Grandparent's.  My Dad, my Grandfather and I headed down into the "holler" to shoot squirrels.  They were each carrying a .22 and I was carrying my brand-new shotgun.  We were planning on having squirrel for supper.  I'd never eaten squirrel and was a little unsure that it was something I wanted to do.  But, since the rule was that if you shoot it you eat it, I planned on having squirrel for the first time.

The snow was 10 or 12 inches deep as we traipsed through the fields and the woods.  I learned why the place was named Swamp Holler when my boots broke through the crusted snow and I found myself standing in the swamp bordering the creek which crossed the farm.  I was in heaven walking through the woods of Missouri with my brand-new 20 gauge shotgun looking for squirrels.  After awhile I began to wonder if we were ever going to see any squirrels.  In fact, I was getting a crick in my neck from looking up into all of the trees in an effort to spot the elusive fur-balls.  I think they must have had better eyesight than me because I don't recall ever seeing a single one.

Since the squirrels seemed to have left that part of the world, my Grandfather decided we might jump a rabbit if we would head toward my Great-uncle's place which adjoined.  He had some corn stubble that he felt sure would contain a conttontail or two.  Sure enough we jumped a rabbit.  I was excited that we finally saw game and brought the shotgun to my shoulder and let fly a blast of No. 7 shot that should have dispatched my target.  The only trouble was that it kept on going.  I just stood there in disappointment that my perfect aim had somehow missed and was beginning to doubt the quality of my new Christmas present.

My Grandfather saw me standing there and said, "Reload, he'll circle around and be back by in a minute.  Cottontails run in a circle."

I quickly took his advice and chambered another shell and strained to see where the cottontail might be.  Sure enough, I could see him bounding over the drifts and fallen corn stalks making a wide circle that looked like it might lead back my way.  Dad kept saying, "Hold on, don't shoot until he gets back in range."

I held my fire and watched until I couldn't wait any longer.  BOOM!  I let fly again and sure enough, that rabbit went somersaulting through the snow and lay in a heap.  Grinning ear-to-ear I ran to pick him up.  I had bagged my first game with my brand new shotgun.

We called it a day after that.  It seems the only purpose of the hunt was to give me the chance to try out my new shotgun.  We headed up the hill to my Great Uncle Bill's house where Aunt Lizzie was cooking biscuits in their wood-fired cookstove.  They still had a pitcher pump in the sink in the corner of the kitchen as well. 

The year was 1970.  It was a year I'll never forget.  That rabbit tasted pretty good but I still haven't eaten any squirrel.  Family and memories -- important parts of Christmas.  We must never forget however, what it is really all about.

But the angel said to them, "Do not be afraid. I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is Christ the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger."  __ Luke 2:10-12 (NIV)

Family Reunion After-thoughts

We survived the family reunion! It was great. Some started arriving as early as Monday evening of last week -- and they kept arriving throughout the week. We had 68 members of my mother's family at my house. All of her brothers and sisters were there (8 siblings total) along with some of their children, grandchildren, great grandchildren, nieces nephews and cousins. We hope that in the future, more of the second and third generation will be able to attend. Only a handful of the first-cousins were there.

The memories of course were stimulated. The stories of growing up on the farm was a common thread. My mother and her siblings told of milking cows, feeding chickens, hoeing cotton, rattlesnakes, tornadoes, family and neighbors. It seemed that most of the memories were good. A common theme was that they seemed to be happy growing up as they did. More than once I heard something along the lines of "we didn't have much but there was always plenty." Kids today don't usually see things that way. They feel abused if they don't have the latest computer game. My aunts and uncles were referring to food on the table and clothes to wear -- for the older sisters (the 4 girls came first) it might be dresses made from chicken feed sacks.

Today the kids want $100 tennis shoes (or higher) and my aunts were thrilled to have new dresses made from feed sacks. Hmmm -- do you think we might ever go back to that? There are parts of the world that would love to have feed sacks from which to make dresses. You never know.

It is a good reminder that we need to cherish the moments that we have. We especially need to be thankful for family. It is important to keep the connections alive.

Family Reunion Week

This week is family reunion week at our house. My mother's family is coming in from all over the country. Since my parents live in the same community as we do, we are both pitching in to provide accommodations for everyone. The events will culminate on Saturday with a big cookout and get together in our back yard. Let's hope it isn't raining. We are expecting 50 to 60 or possibly more for Saturday.

Family. I am privileged to be part of both an immediate family and an extended family that believes in the importance of family. Family is a place of safety and nurture. It is a network of support. It is a tie to values that run more deeply than the history of our country. I am thankful to have family. My heart and prayers go out to those who do not.

Father's Day

I'm a little late in the day posting about Father's Day, but better late than never -- right?

Some things that I learned from my Father:

The difference between a weed and cotton (or corn, or okra, or beans, or....).

It's time for supper when the work is finished -- not necessarily when you are hungry.

The animals get fed first.

You "fess up" when it was you that threw the baseball through the window.

"Licks" at school meant more at home.

Profanity was a sign of a weak vocabulary.

If you don't form an opinion, someone will form it for you.

If you get in a fight you had better not be the one that started it.

You ate what was on your plate whether you liked it or not.

Honesty is a given.

If you agree to do something you do it.

You bait your own hook and help any women that won't bait theirs.

You open the door for a lady.

You take your hat off in the house.

You shovel the sidewalk for the old couple across the street and you don't take any pay for it.

If you shoot it you eat it -- unless it's rabbits and then it's self defence. Five rabbits eat as much as a cow.

You don't quit.

You put in an honest day's work for your pay.

If you can read you can figure out how to do just about anything.

Spend time with your kids.

Family comes first.

It doesn't matter how much you make, it's how much you spend.

Don't talk back to your mother.

Some things you have to learn the hard way.

Keep what you own in good repair.

Kids need to know they're loved.

If you see a snotty nose, wipe it.

You're expected in church on Sunday morning.

Sometimes you seem a lot smarter if you keep your mouth shut.

Live your calling -- whatever it happens to be.

Give your time to your church, your community and your family.

The list goes on and on but I think you get the picture. That's what it was and is -- a picture of how to live your life through the example of his. Thanks, Dad.

Memories

When I was a kid I loved to go to my grandparents house out on the farm on Sundays. We would go out after church for lunch (we called it dinner). Lunch usually consisted of fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, corn, green beans, sweet iced tea, and chocolate cake for dessert. The table was large to accommodate a large family. We would gather around and dig in to the piles of delicious food until we were stuffed. There was usually enough left over to take care of supper also.

If I had been fortunate enough to spend the previous night with them, I often helped Grandma to kill the chickens that we had for lunch. I remember her catching them and wringing their neck in one swift motion. She wasn't very tall and she was quick. Then it was a matter of plucking and dressing them before taking them into the house where she completed the cutting up for cooking.

In the afternoons there was always plenty to do. Usually I would take the dog and a gun down in the pasture to hunt something -- anything. I loved the time alone exploring. Usually the only thing that I shot was a tin can or something. There was about a three mile stretch that I knew intimately. It reached from the Old Dugout on the east end to the feedlot on the north end. Now for you that aren't familiar with the place, I followed the Runningwater Draw which made a large curve in the middle of that stretch. Most of the area that I covered was visible from the house which sat on a hill overlooking the mid-point of my path of exploration.

During the afternoon, while I was out exploring, the adults would usually play dominoes. If there were enough, they would play eighty-four (some of you may know it as eighty-eight), if not enough people, they would play forty-two. The games would last until suppertime and then often would resume after the table had been cleaned. That's when I would stand next to my Dad to watch and learn to play.

When I would return from my trek, there would usually be a watermelon cooling in the shade under a large elm tree that stood in the yard. Grandma often would have mixed up some ice cream and have it ready for churning. One of my uncles would usually turn the crank while I sat on the top of the bucket to keep it still. It would get really cold in spite of the folded towels that covered the ice and the 100 degree temperatures. The churning usually took place on the back porch so the salt water that leaked from the hole in the side of the bucket wouldn't get on anything important.

As the evening approached, we would have leftovers for supper, or Grandma would come up with something else if there wasn't enough. Frequently there would be neighbors or family stop in to visit in the evenings. There was always enough food for everyone.

Sometimes, later in the evenings, my uncle and some of his friends would gather in the back room to play music. They would get out the guitars and play late into the night. That was also where I started learning to play the guitar. I would listen until I couldn't hold my eyes open any more.

Those were good times.