Looking back on my life, I knw now that I've been blessed by having a few really good mentors. Mr. Van, our scoutmaster was one of them. He was a wealth of outdoor wisdom and outdoor skills that a young boy could learn from. In our time with him, scout troop 469 learned to breach the gulf between boyhood and manhood.
Then there was my father. Being absent for alot of my childhood, we had a bit of a hard time bonding, but when dad was around, he really tried to be a dad. He took me fishing and walks in the woods when I was young, and in his own way, was the giver of some sage advise. Sometimes it was not what he said, but what he did on some occasions.
One such time was a fishing trip to the banks of the Potomac river not far from where we lived. At the time my age was a single digit, and we had set out in dads Pontiac for our adventure. We stopped by the grocery store for some chicken livers as our hope was for some nice catfish for supper. I had mixed feelings about this, as grandmom had made fried chicken livers and onions for dinner on occasion, and I had developed quite a tooth for it. But dad assured me that chicken livers made good catfish bait, so off we went.
There's still nothing quite as good as a nice shady spot on a river bank on a hot summer day, and the hope of a bite. We had a good spot, and by the beer cans left over, it must have been a popular spot. Dad cut some forked branches with his little Case, to set our rods in while we waited, cut some pieces of liver to put on the hooks. Dad got alot of milage out of that little bone handled peanut. I had an Imperial barlow at that time and I did my best to emulate dad's skill at making just the right size forked stick/rod holder. It came out okay. Sorta. But dad made no critical comment.
We settled down on the bank and talked about this and that. Small talk. I asked him if he liked his new Pontiac, and he told me it was okay, but he still missed his old Hudson Hornet. He thought it sad that Hudson had gone under. We kept watch on the bobbers with a sharp eye.
Dad's line went tought, and the bobber dipped, and dad reeled in a decent size cat. Onto the stringer it went, and I was hot to get one of my own. We both were standing there watching the lines when there was footfalls on the path behind us.
They say that you can't fool children and dogs. In spite of the smiles, I felt a sence of something bad behind the smiling faces of the three young men that walked out of the woods. They were the punks of the day, greesed back ducktail haircuts, pegged jeans with turned up cuffs, and black pointy shoes. Not to mention the snickering, hard staring mannor. Each of them had a can of beer in hand, and one had what appeared to be a small nickle plated revolver in the front of his jeans. I felt very uneasy. I don't know if my uneasy was picked up by dad, but I felt his hand on my shoulder for just a brief moment in a fast squeeze.
"Hey, old man, you got a few bucks you can loan us for beer? We're almost out!" the apparent leader said to dad.
At this point in time dad had a bit of premature grey at the temples, and looked a bit older than he really was. A family trait. Dad was calm, and looked at the young man who spoke, the one with the revolver in his pants.
"No, I'm running a bit light myself. Trying to catch supper." Dad said back, gesturing at the rod on the forked stick.
There was some snickering, and a few muffled exchanged words among the young men that I could'nt make out. I mentioned to dad maybe we should go, but he looked down at me and I'll never forget the look on his face. Calm, but with a set of determination I'd never seen before. He spoke very quiet to me.
"Do just exactly what I say and when!"
I just knodded my head, trusting to dad.
"Hey old man, what'd you think of my gun?" the lead punk asked, holding the revolver out. It was a short barrel nickle top break revolver, small, one of those that was turned out by the bushel basket durring the early part of the 20th century. Usually in .22 or a short .32 caliber. The nickle was pitted and pealing. It looked old and in worn condition.
To my surprise, Dad whistled and said " Hey, thats a nice one. Sure is a pretty piece of hard ware. What is it?"
"Its an Iver Johnson .32!" replied the lead punk.
My dad was springing one surprise after another this day. I knew dad and grandad knew guns, and I knew that dad did'nt really think the cheap top break gun was a good one. But he was acting kind of innocent in front of the young men there on the river bank.
Suddenly dad took a step back from the river bank and looked alarmed down at the edge of the water. The young men looked to see what dad was staring at.
"Aw jeez, I thought that was another water mocasin" said dad.
"Another water moccasin?" asked one of the punks alarmed. They all stared at the water at the rivers edge. "You mean you already saw one?"
I don't know when he got it, I was staring at the spot where he thought he saw a snake, but I became aware that somehow dad had his old Colt Woodsman in his hand. He usually carried it on outdoor outings. It was just sort of there, all of a sudden. It was'nt pointed at anything, just held in his hand pointing in the middle distance between the two groups there on the river bank, them and us.
"Uh, whats that!?" asked the lead punk, alarmed that dad suddenly had a gun in his hand.
"Oh, its just something I carry for snakes, and such." dad said in an offhand mannor. "But its not as nice as that little gun you've got. "Hey, are you up for some plinking?
The young men seemed to be off ballence now, and stuttered. "Plinking? You mean like target shooting or something?"
Dad told me to go get three of the old beer cans that were laying around and set them up on a log that was about a dozen yards away. "Only three cans" he told me in a quiet tone that only reached me. I did as I was told and went back to his side where he motioned me to stay put. He told the young guy with the nickle revolver to go ahead and shoot the cans. The young man seemed to hesitate.
"If you want to move closer, thats okay" said dad.
"No I don't have to move closer!" replied the young punk, almost angry. He took carefull aim and pulled the trigger without cocking it first. I started to ask dad why he would shoot double action with one hand but dad's hand on my shoulder gave another fast squeeze. I kept my mouth shut.
The punks first shot hit the dirt in fron of the log, the second disappeared with no trace of where it went, the third shot hit dirt again. Forth and fifth shots disapeared. All five shots in the revolver missed. Apparently five was all it held.
Suddenly with a fluid movement that did'nt look as fast as it was, dad pointed the woodsman and fired three shots in quick sucsession. All three beer cans went flying off the log. There was a sudden silence in the little clearing by the river bank, that made the slight ringing in the ears louder than it may have been, but not loud enough to cover the faint metalic snicking sound. Dad had put in a fresh magazine in a flash, and now stood there with a fully loaded woodsman in his hand.
"Maybe you boys should go and rethink what you had on your mind this afternoon." Dad said in a quiet not unkind voice. "And keep in mind, there are some out there that are not forgiving!"
Dad never raised his voice, never threatened, just gave them an out, and a warning. The young men were quiet and subdued in behavoir compared to the way they had come. "Yes sir" was all they muttered as they started to leave.
"Just a minute" dad said, and he took a step closer to them "That gun is going to get you into trouble son, and its no skin off my nose. You came down here with trouble on your mind, and flashing a gun around. Keep it up and your going to land in prison or a grave. Think about what that will do to your family, it you don't care about yourself. Now you can leave here with that gun and go to hell your own way, or you can toss it in the river and straiten up here and now. The choice is yours."
The young man hesitated, seemingly torn with indecision. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth a couple of times, and struggled with something inside. Then looking at my dad, he walked to the rivers edge, and tossed the nickle revolver out in the water. He turned and walked to the path leading back to the dirt parking area, then stopped for a moment.
"Thank you, sir." he said to dad.
Dad just knodded at him and went back to fishing. Dad again seemed awfully interested in the line going into the water. By and by we cought a few more catfish, and I watched dad out of the corner of my eye. He simply fished, and we shared a ham sandwich out of a paper bag. The incident may never have occured to see my father peacefully fishing for catfish on the rivers edge. Finnaly I could stand it no longer.
"Dad, why did you do that? "
"Do what, son"
"Just let him go like that" I asked. "He was going to rob you"
Dad was quiet for a moment.
"Sometimes people, especially young men, make a mistake. They may not realize they're making a mistake untill someone points out the error of thier way to them. It says in the good book that a mild answear turns away the wrath. Thats all that young fella needed, a mild answear. I just gave him a choice, after showing him that sometimes things don't go the way you think they will.
Sometimes thats all thats needed, just to show them that the way they have chosen can lead to a bad thing. Now that boy has something to think about for awhile. He just needed to be shown his error, and be given a chance to change his mind."
Dad went on with his fishing, with the old woodsman stuck back under his shirt tail, as if nothing had happened.
Then there was my father. Being absent for alot of my childhood, we had a bit of a hard time bonding, but when dad was around, he really tried to be a dad. He took me fishing and walks in the woods when I was young, and in his own way, was the giver of some sage advise. Sometimes it was not what he said, but what he did on some occasions.
One such time was a fishing trip to the banks of the Potomac river not far from where we lived. At the time my age was a single digit, and we had set out in dads Pontiac for our adventure. We stopped by the grocery store for some chicken livers as our hope was for some nice catfish for supper. I had mixed feelings about this, as grandmom had made fried chicken livers and onions for dinner on occasion, and I had developed quite a tooth for it. But dad assured me that chicken livers made good catfish bait, so off we went.
There's still nothing quite as good as a nice shady spot on a river bank on a hot summer day, and the hope of a bite. We had a good spot, and by the beer cans left over, it must have been a popular spot. Dad cut some forked branches with his little Case, to set our rods in while we waited, cut some pieces of liver to put on the hooks. Dad got alot of milage out of that little bone handled peanut. I had an Imperial barlow at that time and I did my best to emulate dad's skill at making just the right size forked stick/rod holder. It came out okay. Sorta. But dad made no critical comment.
We settled down on the bank and talked about this and that. Small talk. I asked him if he liked his new Pontiac, and he told me it was okay, but he still missed his old Hudson Hornet. He thought it sad that Hudson had gone under. We kept watch on the bobbers with a sharp eye.
Dad's line went tought, and the bobber dipped, and dad reeled in a decent size cat. Onto the stringer it went, and I was hot to get one of my own. We both were standing there watching the lines when there was footfalls on the path behind us.
They say that you can't fool children and dogs. In spite of the smiles, I felt a sence of something bad behind the smiling faces of the three young men that walked out of the woods. They were the punks of the day, greesed back ducktail haircuts, pegged jeans with turned up cuffs, and black pointy shoes. Not to mention the snickering, hard staring mannor. Each of them had a can of beer in hand, and one had what appeared to be a small nickle plated revolver in the front of his jeans. I felt very uneasy. I don't know if my uneasy was picked up by dad, but I felt his hand on my shoulder for just a brief moment in a fast squeeze.
"Hey, old man, you got a few bucks you can loan us for beer? We're almost out!" the apparent leader said to dad.
At this point in time dad had a bit of premature grey at the temples, and looked a bit older than he really was. A family trait. Dad was calm, and looked at the young man who spoke, the one with the revolver in his pants.
"No, I'm running a bit light myself. Trying to catch supper." Dad said back, gesturing at the rod on the forked stick.
There was some snickering, and a few muffled exchanged words among the young men that I could'nt make out. I mentioned to dad maybe we should go, but he looked down at me and I'll never forget the look on his face. Calm, but with a set of determination I'd never seen before. He spoke very quiet to me.
"Do just exactly what I say and when!"
I just knodded my head, trusting to dad.
"Hey old man, what'd you think of my gun?" the lead punk asked, holding the revolver out. It was a short barrel nickle top break revolver, small, one of those that was turned out by the bushel basket durring the early part of the 20th century. Usually in .22 or a short .32 caliber. The nickle was pitted and pealing. It looked old and in worn condition.
To my surprise, Dad whistled and said " Hey, thats a nice one. Sure is a pretty piece of hard ware. What is it?"
"Its an Iver Johnson .32!" replied the lead punk.
My dad was springing one surprise after another this day. I knew dad and grandad knew guns, and I knew that dad did'nt really think the cheap top break gun was a good one. But he was acting kind of innocent in front of the young men there on the river bank.
Suddenly dad took a step back from the river bank and looked alarmed down at the edge of the water. The young men looked to see what dad was staring at.
"Aw jeez, I thought that was another water mocasin" said dad.
"Another water moccasin?" asked one of the punks alarmed. They all stared at the water at the rivers edge. "You mean you already saw one?"
I don't know when he got it, I was staring at the spot where he thought he saw a snake, but I became aware that somehow dad had his old Colt Woodsman in his hand. He usually carried it on outdoor outings. It was just sort of there, all of a sudden. It was'nt pointed at anything, just held in his hand pointing in the middle distance between the two groups there on the river bank, them and us.
"Uh, whats that!?" asked the lead punk, alarmed that dad suddenly had a gun in his hand.
"Oh, its just something I carry for snakes, and such." dad said in an offhand mannor. "But its not as nice as that little gun you've got. "Hey, are you up for some plinking?
The young men seemed to be off ballence now, and stuttered. "Plinking? You mean like target shooting or something?"
Dad told me to go get three of the old beer cans that were laying around and set them up on a log that was about a dozen yards away. "Only three cans" he told me in a quiet tone that only reached me. I did as I was told and went back to his side where he motioned me to stay put. He told the young guy with the nickle revolver to go ahead and shoot the cans. The young man seemed to hesitate.
"If you want to move closer, thats okay" said dad.
"No I don't have to move closer!" replied the young punk, almost angry. He took carefull aim and pulled the trigger without cocking it first. I started to ask dad why he would shoot double action with one hand but dad's hand on my shoulder gave another fast squeeze. I kept my mouth shut.
The punks first shot hit the dirt in fron of the log, the second disappeared with no trace of where it went, the third shot hit dirt again. Forth and fifth shots disapeared. All five shots in the revolver missed. Apparently five was all it held.
Suddenly with a fluid movement that did'nt look as fast as it was, dad pointed the woodsman and fired three shots in quick sucsession. All three beer cans went flying off the log. There was a sudden silence in the little clearing by the river bank, that made the slight ringing in the ears louder than it may have been, but not loud enough to cover the faint metalic snicking sound. Dad had put in a fresh magazine in a flash, and now stood there with a fully loaded woodsman in his hand.
"Maybe you boys should go and rethink what you had on your mind this afternoon." Dad said in a quiet not unkind voice. "And keep in mind, there are some out there that are not forgiving!"
Dad never raised his voice, never threatened, just gave them an out, and a warning. The young men were quiet and subdued in behavoir compared to the way they had come. "Yes sir" was all they muttered as they started to leave.
"Just a minute" dad said, and he took a step closer to them "That gun is going to get you into trouble son, and its no skin off my nose. You came down here with trouble on your mind, and flashing a gun around. Keep it up and your going to land in prison or a grave. Think about what that will do to your family, it you don't care about yourself. Now you can leave here with that gun and go to hell your own way, or you can toss it in the river and straiten up here and now. The choice is yours."
The young man hesitated, seemingly torn with indecision. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth a couple of times, and struggled with something inside. Then looking at my dad, he walked to the rivers edge, and tossed the nickle revolver out in the water. He turned and walked to the path leading back to the dirt parking area, then stopped for a moment.
"Thank you, sir." he said to dad.
Dad just knodded at him and went back to fishing. Dad again seemed awfully interested in the line going into the water. By and by we cought a few more catfish, and I watched dad out of the corner of my eye. He simply fished, and we shared a ham sandwich out of a paper bag. The incident may never have occured to see my father peacefully fishing for catfish on the rivers edge. Finnaly I could stand it no longer.
"Dad, why did you do that? "
"Do what, son"
"Just let him go like that" I asked. "He was going to rob you"
Dad was quiet for a moment.
"Sometimes people, especially young men, make a mistake. They may not realize they're making a mistake untill someone points out the error of thier way to them. It says in the good book that a mild answear turns away the wrath. Thats all that young fella needed, a mild answear. I just gave him a choice, after showing him that sometimes things don't go the way you think they will.
Sometimes thats all thats needed, just to show them that the way they have chosen can lead to a bad thing. Now that boy has something to think about for awhile. He just needed to be shown his error, and be given a chance to change his mind."
Dad went on with his fishing, with the old woodsman stuck back under his shirt tail, as if nothing had happened.
.
