Kabobs. A meal of meat and other ingredients roasted over a fire on a skewer. Usually referred to as Shish kabobs. I think the Webster definition is something like that, and most folks think of a meat on a stick kind of thing. It's become a popular meal, and most neighborhoods have a kabob place around. There's one up the street from me, and Karen and I have eaten there. It was okay. But for me, I'll always think of Mr. Van and his Remington scout knife, when it comes to kabobs.
It was a beautiful spring weekend for a campout, and the scout troop was loaded into various family station wagons for the great migration. Of course, Mr. Vam being Mr. Van, it was unthinkable for us to simply ride to the place of encampment, but a march was required to get the weekend off right. This time it was to our favorite place, Gun Farm. At least that was what it was called by us. A farmer had some woodland to use, and he'd taken a back hoe and scooped out a nice 50 foot range for the scouts to use .22 rifles on. I guess it's a sign of the times that back then they even had a merit badge for marksmanship. Our .22 rifles had been loaded into the assistant scout masters car and were driven right to the camp area, while we made our forced march. With a career Marine for a scout master, we never did anything the easy way. But with an early start, and we arrived at the camp by mid morning. As Gun Farm was a favorite of the scouts, full attendance was the order of the day. No colds, sore throats, sprains, broken bones, small pox epidemic or doomsday would stop a scout from being there.
Of course, in one single hour, tents were pitched, drainage around the tents dug, latrine dug, garbage pit dug, and the whole place looked like a picture out of the Official Scout handbook. Mr. Van always expressed how much faster things got set up at Gun Farm versus the other places we camped out. Of course, the other places didn't have the shooting range, and there was no range time until the camp was squared away. So a quick lunch was gulped down, it didn't really matter what it was, just get it down so we could go shooting. They could have fed us Kennel Ration and I doubt we'd notice. We would line up behind the car, and Mr. Stevens the assistant scout master handed out our rifles. All the cases had our name on them, and he'd zip open the case, open the action, and hand the gun to the scout. Of course, Mr. Van was watching with a eagle eye, and all muzzles up, no fingers anywhere near a trigger. Then it was the time. Ammo issued out, rifles set on the mats, targets stapled up. One scout troop ready to commence firing. We'd get the lecture about the holy trinity of sight picture, breath control, and trigger pull. To this day, so many decades later, the sweet distinctive smell of .22 powder gets me nostalgic.
Later, after a full afternoon of shooting, scores recorded, and some plinking at tin cans done, the rifles got cleaned. Patches run down the bores, and a light coat of oil, and back in the cases and into the car truck for safe storage. Then it was time for campfire dinner. This was always an adventure in itself, as we'd have prior instructions what to bring for an experiment. One time it was a list of ingredients in a coffee can for hobo stew. This time, it was going to be shish kabobs. Each scout brought out the ingredients he'd brought from home, and we built up a nice campfire. Skews were carefully selected with much discussion over what kind of wood was best. Some held out for hickory, some didn't think it would matter. Billy Yates got a pine stick, and then complained that his kabobs tasted a bit like turpentine.
We watched Mr. Van carefully. He walked around the woods, looking at this branch and that. Hickory, oak, poplar, he gazed at them all. He finally selected a nice straight green hickory branch, and within two minutes, all nearby hickory trees were raided for branches. By the campfire, we started to impale our meals, but froze at the sight of Mr. Van taking out his Remington scout knife. I wonder to this day, if the weather bureau recorded a sudden drop in barometric pressure that day as all the scouts drew in a sudden breath.
We were all use to scout knives like we all carried on our official scout belt hooks. Most of us had Camillus, some Imperial, even a few old Schrade's or PAL's handed down. Maybe even an Ulster or two. But there was only one Remington. Even at the tender age of 12, we knew the Remington was something so cool from the past that would never be again. Let alone that Mr. Van had carried that knife across the Pacific on the island hopping campaign. That the Remington had gone with Mr. Van to Guadalcanal, Saipan, and later at Luzon. I truly don't know if Arthur had materialized with Excalibur if we'd have been as interested. We had watched Mr. Van win a whittling contest at the Jamboree with that Remington, and knew how razor sharp he kept that old gray blade. He could slice a wood chip so thin that you could read a newspaper through it. To us young scouts, it was magic. Big mojo. Huge mojo.
So there we were, all set to lay out our meal, and Mr. Van had plopped a big piece of sirloin down on a split log to slice up to make his kabobs. Then it happened. There's always one guy who has to be the wise guy. We had Billy Yates.
"Hey Mr. Van, do ya think you can slice the meat with one hand? Like hold it up and take a swipe with that Remington?"
Mr. Van looked up and stared at Billy with those pale gray blue eyes that penetrated to your soul. Then he smiles.
"I don't know, Mr. Yates. Why don't we find out?" he said.
With that, he picked up his chunk of sirloin, and held it hanging down vertically. He took his Remington, eye'd the angle with a critical look, and suddenly swiped down at the meat at a 45 degree angle. A piece of raw sirloin plopped down on the log. A stunned silence fell over the crowd of scouts watching, and Mr. Van again took a swipe at the sirloin. Again a piece plopped on the log. With each flick of his wrist, the blade of the Remington dropped a slice of raw beef on the log. When it got down to a small piece, he held the blade just touching the meat, and with a flick of his wrist, sliced it in half. Then it was time for the onion.
None of us had ever seen an onion whittled free hand before, but Mr. Van held the onion over his tin mess kit, and again, every flick of his wrist and a chunk of onion fell. Then he carved a green bell pepper the same way. Flick, flick, flick. Plop, plop, plop. The old gray Remington made it seem effortless, and Mr. Van seemed to enjoy himself. I didn't see anything of it's like, until many many years later at a Japanese restaurant when a chef did some amazing things with a very sharp knife. The people I was with were very impressed, but I remembered seeing Mr. Van in the woods with a scout knife do some amazing cutting too.
That night, we enjoyed our kabobs, cooked over the campfire. I don't know why, but even the finest meal in a restaurant sometimes pales next to the memory of meat cooked over a wood fire out in the boonies. Or maybe it's the memories that go with it. The company we keep, the adventures shared.
It was a beautiful spring weekend for a campout, and the scout troop was loaded into various family station wagons for the great migration. Of course, Mr. Vam being Mr. Van, it was unthinkable for us to simply ride to the place of encampment, but a march was required to get the weekend off right. This time it was to our favorite place, Gun Farm. At least that was what it was called by us. A farmer had some woodland to use, and he'd taken a back hoe and scooped out a nice 50 foot range for the scouts to use .22 rifles on. I guess it's a sign of the times that back then they even had a merit badge for marksmanship. Our .22 rifles had been loaded into the assistant scout masters car and were driven right to the camp area, while we made our forced march. With a career Marine for a scout master, we never did anything the easy way. But with an early start, and we arrived at the camp by mid morning. As Gun Farm was a favorite of the scouts, full attendance was the order of the day. No colds, sore throats, sprains, broken bones, small pox epidemic or doomsday would stop a scout from being there.
Of course, in one single hour, tents were pitched, drainage around the tents dug, latrine dug, garbage pit dug, and the whole place looked like a picture out of the Official Scout handbook. Mr. Van always expressed how much faster things got set up at Gun Farm versus the other places we camped out. Of course, the other places didn't have the shooting range, and there was no range time until the camp was squared away. So a quick lunch was gulped down, it didn't really matter what it was, just get it down so we could go shooting. They could have fed us Kennel Ration and I doubt we'd notice. We would line up behind the car, and Mr. Stevens the assistant scout master handed out our rifles. All the cases had our name on them, and he'd zip open the case, open the action, and hand the gun to the scout. Of course, Mr. Van was watching with a eagle eye, and all muzzles up, no fingers anywhere near a trigger. Then it was the time. Ammo issued out, rifles set on the mats, targets stapled up. One scout troop ready to commence firing. We'd get the lecture about the holy trinity of sight picture, breath control, and trigger pull. To this day, so many decades later, the sweet distinctive smell of .22 powder gets me nostalgic.
Later, after a full afternoon of shooting, scores recorded, and some plinking at tin cans done, the rifles got cleaned. Patches run down the bores, and a light coat of oil, and back in the cases and into the car truck for safe storage. Then it was time for campfire dinner. This was always an adventure in itself, as we'd have prior instructions what to bring for an experiment. One time it was a list of ingredients in a coffee can for hobo stew. This time, it was going to be shish kabobs. Each scout brought out the ingredients he'd brought from home, and we built up a nice campfire. Skews were carefully selected with much discussion over what kind of wood was best. Some held out for hickory, some didn't think it would matter. Billy Yates got a pine stick, and then complained that his kabobs tasted a bit like turpentine.
We watched Mr. Van carefully. He walked around the woods, looking at this branch and that. Hickory, oak, poplar, he gazed at them all. He finally selected a nice straight green hickory branch, and within two minutes, all nearby hickory trees were raided for branches. By the campfire, we started to impale our meals, but froze at the sight of Mr. Van taking out his Remington scout knife. I wonder to this day, if the weather bureau recorded a sudden drop in barometric pressure that day as all the scouts drew in a sudden breath.
We were all use to scout knives like we all carried on our official scout belt hooks. Most of us had Camillus, some Imperial, even a few old Schrade's or PAL's handed down. Maybe even an Ulster or two. But there was only one Remington. Even at the tender age of 12, we knew the Remington was something so cool from the past that would never be again. Let alone that Mr. Van had carried that knife across the Pacific on the island hopping campaign. That the Remington had gone with Mr. Van to Guadalcanal, Saipan, and later at Luzon. I truly don't know if Arthur had materialized with Excalibur if we'd have been as interested. We had watched Mr. Van win a whittling contest at the Jamboree with that Remington, and knew how razor sharp he kept that old gray blade. He could slice a wood chip so thin that you could read a newspaper through it. To us young scouts, it was magic. Big mojo. Huge mojo.
So there we were, all set to lay out our meal, and Mr. Van had plopped a big piece of sirloin down on a split log to slice up to make his kabobs. Then it happened. There's always one guy who has to be the wise guy. We had Billy Yates.
"Hey Mr. Van, do ya think you can slice the meat with one hand? Like hold it up and take a swipe with that Remington?"
Mr. Van looked up and stared at Billy with those pale gray blue eyes that penetrated to your soul. Then he smiles.
"I don't know, Mr. Yates. Why don't we find out?" he said.
With that, he picked up his chunk of sirloin, and held it hanging down vertically. He took his Remington, eye'd the angle with a critical look, and suddenly swiped down at the meat at a 45 degree angle. A piece of raw sirloin plopped down on the log. A stunned silence fell over the crowd of scouts watching, and Mr. Van again took a swipe at the sirloin. Again a piece plopped on the log. With each flick of his wrist, the blade of the Remington dropped a slice of raw beef on the log. When it got down to a small piece, he held the blade just touching the meat, and with a flick of his wrist, sliced it in half. Then it was time for the onion.
None of us had ever seen an onion whittled free hand before, but Mr. Van held the onion over his tin mess kit, and again, every flick of his wrist and a chunk of onion fell. Then he carved a green bell pepper the same way. Flick, flick, flick. Plop, plop, plop. The old gray Remington made it seem effortless, and Mr. Van seemed to enjoy himself. I didn't see anything of it's like, until many many years later at a Japanese restaurant when a chef did some amazing things with a very sharp knife. The people I was with were very impressed, but I remembered seeing Mr. Van in the woods with a scout knife do some amazing cutting too.
That night, we enjoyed our kabobs, cooked over the campfire. I don't know why, but even the finest meal in a restaurant sometimes pales next to the memory of meat cooked over a wood fire out in the boonies. Or maybe it's the memories that go with it. The company we keep, the adventures shared.
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