Note: some have objected to my posts of this type here. Others have appreciated them.
When a moderator or a Busse tells me to stop it, I will, with no bad feelings.
My now deceased dad was a wonderful man. A cotton mill hand and an uneducated child of the Great Depression, he had resolved that his children would not ever go hungry or lack any educational opportunities. He was also a consummate outdoorsman of the kind that grew up a sustenance hunter and fisherman. He turned me loose with a small sheath knife in 1948 on my 2nd birthday and I have carried some kind of real knife constantly since. In that 69 years I have never injured myself or anyone else with knife or gun. The large wooden "Tarzan' knives he used to carve for me may be the origin of my love for big Busse knives. He also would make for me in the mill tool shop metal spear points which I would put on lengths of hickory saplings. I must have stabbed a thousand dirt crocodiles and lions with those wooden knives, and speared a lot of dirt big game of all types. By today's liberal thought I should have grown up a serial killer, I suppose, especially since starting at age 10 I was allowed to roam at will alone in fall and winter with a single shot Iver Johnson 12 gauge. I was large and mature for my age and he always trusted me. I would have died before letting him down.
There was one thing, however, that would infuriate him. A boy or man wasn't ever supposed to cry.
It is ironic, then that in my old age he makes me do just that, especially around the Christmas season. You see, he had a wonderful tenor voice and used it joyfully, leading singing at our church for many years. There are certain Christmas songs that will make me tear up every single time we sing them at church because I hear a voice no one else does. Joy to the World, for instance, which seemed made for his high, ringing tenor, gets to me every time. I walk temporarily out of the service, to compose myself. It is a reminder of the man who was my true hero, and I am not ashamed of tears anymore. I pray that I will leave my children with some memories of me at least half as good.
When a moderator or a Busse tells me to stop it, I will, with no bad feelings.
My now deceased dad was a wonderful man. A cotton mill hand and an uneducated child of the Great Depression, he had resolved that his children would not ever go hungry or lack any educational opportunities. He was also a consummate outdoorsman of the kind that grew up a sustenance hunter and fisherman. He turned me loose with a small sheath knife in 1948 on my 2nd birthday and I have carried some kind of real knife constantly since. In that 69 years I have never injured myself or anyone else with knife or gun. The large wooden "Tarzan' knives he used to carve for me may be the origin of my love for big Busse knives. He also would make for me in the mill tool shop metal spear points which I would put on lengths of hickory saplings. I must have stabbed a thousand dirt crocodiles and lions with those wooden knives, and speared a lot of dirt big game of all types. By today's liberal thought I should have grown up a serial killer, I suppose, especially since starting at age 10 I was allowed to roam at will alone in fall and winter with a single shot Iver Johnson 12 gauge. I was large and mature for my age and he always trusted me. I would have died before letting him down.
There was one thing, however, that would infuriate him. A boy or man wasn't ever supposed to cry.
It is ironic, then that in my old age he makes me do just that, especially around the Christmas season. You see, he had a wonderful tenor voice and used it joyfully, leading singing at our church for many years. There are certain Christmas songs that will make me tear up every single time we sing them at church because I hear a voice no one else does. Joy to the World, for instance, which seemed made for his high, ringing tenor, gets to me every time. I walk temporarily out of the service, to compose myself. It is a reminder of the man who was my true hero, and I am not ashamed of tears anymore. I pray that I will leave my children with some memories of me at least half as good.
