memories from childhood

Out behind my house it was swampy and a small creek ran through it to the bay across the street .It was only a couple of feet deep but very overgrown around the banks.

We used to play back there all the time and one time when I was around 9 I crossed over to the other side and was walking through the brush along the bank. I just happened to glance down and I saw what looked like a snake body sticking part way out from a palmetto bush.

I backed out and crossed back over and told my cousin who i was playing with. we decided the only proper thing to do was go gather a bunch of rocks to throw at the spot I had seen it.

Well that's what we did and eventually we hit it, or at least close enough to it. the biggest water moccasin i had ever seen dropped into the water. The thing had to be 5' long and it swam right across the creek to our side.

We screamed like little girls and hauled ass up the hill to my house where we told my mom what happened. She got my dads pistol 922 revolver) and we headed into the back down the hill.

the cottonmouth had left the water and was actually in the yard, my mom took the pistol and fired off 5 or 6 shots. Not a single one came close the damn snake
, but it was enough that the snake took off and moved back into the water and swam off.

that day I leaned to look out for snakes, that my mom was a bad shot, and that in the neighborhood we lived in people didn't call police when they heard gun shots.
 
Man, you youngins' don't know how good ya had it. When I was a kid, we had to walk five miles to school, in the snow, while a hurricane was blowin' through town. Took whippins' from neighbors and teachers just for general principal, not because we did nothin' wrong. Had no runnin' water, and an old windmill generated just enough electricity to do our 2 hours of homework by every night.

Eh, who am I kiddin'. Grew up in the best time and in one of the best places a kid could want in those days. It's a pimple on the ass of America today that I'd never go back to to live, but LA County, Redondo Beach specifically, was a great place to be a kid back in the '60s. People were planted back then. The gang that I met in my first day of Kindergarten, probably 90% or better graduated the same high school I went to. A "small" surfboard was a 9 footer, skateboard wheels were made out of steel, and the only bike to have was a Schwinn Stingray. If your family was well off you had a "Varoom" attached to your bike. If you were hurtin' for money, you had playing cards clothes-pinned to your spokes.

Mom was single, Dad was a stranger who came around once or twice every couple of years, and Granny filled in as Mom when Mom was working, and as Dad when me and Big Sis needed some discipline. Granny was always hard of hearing for as long as I could remember, but went completely deaf by the time I was 12 or 13. She'd watch her soaps until 1:00 and then take a nap. Every day, 1:00 to 3:00, she took a nap. A kid can get in a lot of trouble with two hours to kill every single day of his life when the only grown-up around is stone deaf. Hell, he might cut school with his buds and steal Mom's smokes and be a fully-addicted smoker by age 9. He might not go to school for days on end and just hang at the beach with his older cousins and get into all kinds of mischief, like drugs, alcohol, older women.
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He could probably knock off a piece o' tail or two with his little girlfriends before Granny got up. :thumbup:

I could do pretty much what I wanted because if school tried to call, Granny couldn't hear it, and she was always asleep when the mail came, so Big Sis or I was always there to check and make sure nothing got through to Mom. Sis was only a year older than me, and just as rebellious and wild. So we did exactly what we wanted. To excess. Excess to the extreme.

We saw the birth of Rock 'n Roll, at least the kind that filled up stadiums. We went through stages of being Hippy kids, to being lowriders, to being racers, surfers and I finally settled on biker, but that was later, after I'd already been to Nam and come home.

In '69 my cousin came home from college in GA and told me about this band that was gonna be stars soon. Said they played at a park for free in Atlanta every weekend, and had just cut their first album. I had started playing guitar when I was 12, and my cousin is a fantastic player and kinda took me under his wing, even though I was 8 years younger than him. When this band came to So Cal that summer, they were playing the Whiskey-A-Go-Go in Hollywood, and Cuz tells me he's taking me up there and is gonna sneak me in (you had to be 18 to get in). Cool man, I'm game, what's this band again? "The Allman Brothers Band" he says. Cool, let's go.

Long story short, we go, he gets me in, I hide behind the curtains that are strewn across all the walls and peeking through a seam, watch in awe as Duane and Gregg Allman, Dickey Betts, Berry Oakley, Butch Trucks and Jaimoe Johanson just take me to the moon, kick my ass, and drop me back on Planet Earth in a whimpering pile of orgasmic, knee-knockin' flesh, and that was just from the first song!

A couple of songs into the set a bouncer caught me. Dragged me by the ear and tossed me out the back door in the alley behind the joint. I'm like, SHIT! I want me some more of that! The door I just got tossed out of opens again, and this skinny, long-haired guy sticks his head out, spots me sittin' there, and says, "Hey kid, you OK?" I'm like, yeah, I'm fine, but my ride's still in there so I'm kinda stuck here for now. The guy asks me why I'm there. I tell him about my cousin being in Atlanta a couple or three months ago and seeing the Brothers at a park. He goes, "Yeah, Piedmont Park. We'll probably be there again when we get off tour. These guys just wanna play, doesn't matter if it's for free, gotta hit that note!" I ask if he's in the band and he says no, he's their roadie. "They call me Red Dog man." A few minutes later I was back inside, only back stage with a pass and the bouncers couldn't touch me. :D

Thus began a life-long friendship with the only roadie to ever be nominated for induction into the Rock 'n Roll Hall of Fame, Joseph "Red Dog" Campbell, may he rest in the hectic life of a rock 'n roll roadie that he loved. The Crimson Hound just joined his Original Brothers, Duane and Berry, a couple of months ago in that great jam session in the sky that includes them, Stevie Ray, Janis, Jimi, Duane's friend and fan, Jerry Garcia, and all the blues masters that inspired Duane and the Brothers when they were my age, and I got inspired by them at 14. The blues and the Brothers have been the soundtrack to my life. The name "BluesStringer" comes from a line in a song that Jimmy Vaughn, Bonnie Raitt, BB King, Robert Cray, Buddy Guy, Eric Clapton and Stevie's old band, Double Trouble, played at his memorial concert called "Six Strings Down." The line goes, "Heaven done called - Another Blues Stringer back home." I'm still here, but I've had such a full life that if I died tomorrow, this BluesStringer would gladly answer the call back home.

So there ya go. I come from man's first orbit in space to his landing and walking on the moon. I've led a life like those depicted in movies like The Endless Summer to Easy Rider to Woodstock. I even attended the first concert to break the Woodstock attendance record, Watkins Glen, with 600,000 of my closest friends, and spent 3 days back stage rubbin' elbows with my friends, The Allman Brothers Band, as well as The Grateful Dead and The Band. In fact, here's a picture of me there:

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No man, not the guy facing the camera, the guy back stage where that "X" is! LOL

Hitch-hiked there and back, as well as hitched across this great nation 3 other times, making a living selling Indian jewelry that I learned how to make apprenticing under some of the best Navajo artisans of the day. So many of those artisans and Brothers of the Road, whether musicians, Army buddies or my biker Brothers, are dead and gone now. I have a love/hate relationship with nostalgia anymore because of that fact, but I have enjoyed writing this post. I hope you enjoyed reading it. Thanks for the thread. Good night.

Blues
 
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I was in the city until I was about 12yrs old. Then we moved to the country. I still had my city buddies through the years but slowly became more interested in the rural scene. I fished the major rivers\creeks from their mouth in Lake Ontario through many miles up and along these water bodies. I ran the country side with a .22, 410, 12 gauge, .303, air pistols\rifles, you name it. I found wild asparagus in fields and trout in the streams. What I saw, smelled, experienced in those years left a deep impression on me to this day. I will always love the outdoors and the many wondrous things to do in it. Hell I was on a fox hunt through the bush as a teenager once. The old black and tan hound was howling as he chased the fox close enough for a 12 gauge blast from my buddys father. I still remember that old hounds voice coming and going away, ba-woooo, ba-woooo. So many stories, so many great memories.... I often went off by myself and it didn't bother me in the slightest. I was always fascinated by what was coming next. I still need\want that alone time here and there. A walk through the fall woods is truly a gift and one that I always appreciate immensely till the end of my days.
 
Here's something I wrote down for my mom about her dad.


First Quail Hunt...

I'm glad I knew my grandfather or "grandiddy" as I called him in my youthful Southern drawl. I'm even happier that I had the opportunity to fish with him and hunt birds with him, even it was only one trip to the lake and one trip to the field. A fisherman all my life, I have taken up hunting again some twenty-odd years later. And now, when I traipse about the Southeastern woods in search of turkey or deer or when I raise my shotgun towards a speeding dove in a hot September field, I often hearken back to the one time I hunted quail with Grandaddy Red, and I smile.

My grandfather cut a proud figure even late in life. By the time I knew him, his shock of red hair was long gone--replaced by an ever-present white painter's cap when he was outdoors. Yet his figure remained lean and hard, chiseled by years of labor in plaster and stucco work. His lightning reflexes never left him either, and I still recall the uncanny efficiency with which he moved. He could have been a fine athlete and even played a bit of sandlot ball in his youth. But faced with lean economic times, Red had to find ways to feed his family and had less and less time for baseball.

I was nine when I was told I could accompany Grandaddy Red and my father on a quail hunt near our home. It was to be my first hunt, and the mix of emotions at the time were near overwhelming. The news sparked pride, eagerness, anticipation, anxiety, and even a bit of fear. I knew that the trip meant an important recognition of my male status, but I was worried that somehow I might not live up to the expectations put upon me. I could barely eat or sleep for a week.

The day before the hunt, my granddaddy arrived at our home with his bird dogs, took one look at my sneakers, and proclaimed, "You can't hunt in those." My world crashed around me. I was devastated, and I'm sure my face showed it because Red quickly added, "Let's go get you some boots." As suddenly as my heart had dropped into my stomach, it rebounded with an elation that still elicits a grin when I remember the scene. New boots. To me, an extravagance and a gift that somehow marked my place in the brotherhood of men. I doubt that Red ever truly knew how much those boots meant to me. On the way home from the store, the unoiled leather of those boots was stiff and unyielding, but they made me feel like Zeus trodding on the clouds.

The day of the hunt began early, and I slept little if any the night before, fearful that I would doze off and be left behind. As the dawn broke on a beautiful, crisp Alabama morning and the fog lifted beneath the sun's emergent rays, we drove out to a nearby field, released the dogs, and followed them in. I lugged an old single-shot .410 that in all likelihood, offered no threat to the bobwhites, but that mattered little to me. I was hunting in the company of men, and I was determined to keep pace, which for me meant about two steps to their one.

The action was slow at first. A great deal of walking and watching the dogs work. The sounds of commands and whistles. I was silent--listening, watching, determined not to be a burden. But about mid-morning, my dad's old lemon froze into a classic point--front leg raised, tail twitching straight up. Red uttered a low "hold" command as we eased up behind the quivering dog, and before I knew what was happening the birds exploded into a cloud of sound and motion. My father's over-under emitted a sharp report just a second before my grandfather's first shot with his old double-barrel. As soon as I lifted my gun, I knew I was out of position to shoot, for the bird I'd chosen swept sharply to my right--placing my granddaddy between me and the bird. His gun boomed again, and the bird went down sharply. A single for my father, and a double for my grandfather whose reflexive shooting had been honed through years of hunger and need. Simple efficiency. Purity of motion. Call it what you will, but there was little doubt as to outcome when he raised his gun.

"Why didn't you shoot?" was his first question after the remnants of the covey had disappeared. The tone wasn't accusatory or belligerent. Simply curious. But I was at a loss for words. I had failed. The test had come, and I had somehow let it slip past. I didn't deserve the boots on my feet. Finally, red-faced and humiliated, I was able to stutter out what had happened. I had swung on a bird, but I didn't have a safe shot. I felt like crawling home and hiding.

"You did the right thing." The simplicity of Grandaddy's words worked miracles for my deflated soul, and the look in his eyes was one of pride rather than disappointment. "If you take a shot, it should be a safe one," my father added with a finality that affirmed my choice beyond doubt. Having put the matter to rest with little fanfare, the two men went about the business of retrieving the downed birds and left me to steady myself in a sea of conflicted emotion.

I didn't take a bird that day. But I still became a hunter. In the instant that distinguishes a hunter from a shooter, I made a choice that I will remember all my life. Yet, what I will remember more is the respect my decision evoked from two men who were already hunters. Maybe those boots did fit me after all.
 
Beautiful story, Guyon.

I was lucky to grow up at the edge of Berlin, within walking/biking distance from the Grunewald with its huge expanse of woods and small lakes (huge for being 45 minutes away from the center of a 3.5mil city). The Krumme Lanke lake played a big role in my process of growing up. I lit my first fire there, spent my first night outside, drank my first beer (and hated it at the time :D) and had my first kiss :eek:. Looking back I had an incredibly nice childhood, I think the fact that my parents had the idea to put me into a scouts group at 9 years added a lot to that. Thanks, mum and dad.
 
I still live in the town where I grew up. In the 50's there was always a baseball or a football game going on. Fishing and hunting were big seasonal pastimes so were bike riding and sledding . We fought the battle for Iwo Jima with amphibious assaults countless times on the shores of the lake. Good practice for those of us who wound up in Vietnam. Beach parties, wild berry picking, building model airplanes and flying them with my dad and brothers, Mom's grilled cheese and homemade lemonade summertime lunches, beefsteak tomatoes eaten right in the garden, my first knife, a time when people were quite a bit friendlier, a very special girl named Marylou in a black two piece bathing suit in 1958 and lots of other good things too numerous to mention.
 
There's an undercurrent in this thread about "kids these days", something I worry about too. But I was pleased last night; my kids were so inspired about my sleeping on the ground the last few weekends that they decided to sleep outside in the yard. Future bushcrafters for sure.

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Im 15, so I guess I fall under the category that you're all talking about. I played video games (as almost everyone at my school does) for a while, but it just got boring. I live in the suburbs, so there really isnt much for me to do. My dad always tell me stories, and sounds very similar to some I have read on this thread. For me, I probably wont have many stories. It doesnt really hurt me to say it, but I dont have any friends. Although im 15, I have found other things to do than do drugs and play video games. I am an intern for a marketing consultant, who I guess you can say, is my only friend. I have a great interest in survival skills and the wilderness, I read the blade forums a lot, and I am begging to collect knives. I guess thats my childhood story. :)
 
andrew132 said:
Im 15, so I guess I fall under the category that you're all talking about. I played video games (as almost everyone at my school does) for a while, but it just got boring. I live in the suburbs, so there really isnt much for me to do. My dad always tell me stories, and sounds very similar to some I have read on this thread. For me, I probably wont have many stories. It doesnt really hurt me to say it, but I dont have any friends. Although im 15, I have found other things to do than do drugs and play video games. I am an intern for a marketing consultant, who I guess you can say, is my only friend. I have a great interest in survival skills and the wilderness, I read the blade forums a lot, and I am begging to collect knives. I guess thats my childhood story. :)
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I'm sorry I have to say somthing this is not all the kids fault look at andrew132 this kid is 15 years old and is begging for knives when I was around 8 or 9 I had a very large hunting knife it was beautiful,I don't know what ever happened to it I will always remember that thing.Some of this has to be atributed to overprotectiveness by one parent or the other.
 
Great to see BRL

My daughter has her own tent and several weeks ago i took and a couple of her friends camping. I gave her her first knife ( a vic classic) and taught them how to shave wood for tender, baton, start a fire using a firesteel and cotton ball (my daugter actually started the fire for us by shaving some flakes off the mag block and striking the firesteel)

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Andrew you don't need many friends just 1 or 2 is plenty enough. You are still young and have time to make memories, you just have to get out of the house to do it.
 
I'm 16; I spent my (Even) younger years doing much the same thing; always being outside. Problem is, I've lived in the suburbs my whole life, so the going out in the woods sort of stuff was a bit limited. My area has skyrocketed with building development since then, so now the even the campgrounds I went to as a boyscout are now nothing more than gravel lots you set up your tent on, with a bathhouse 200ft away.
 
hughewil said:
My daughter has her own tent and several weeks ago i took and a couple of her friends camping.
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Good stuff buddy, getting the kids to respond to high-value activities is a major parenting pleasure. And watching their face light up when they hold one of your new knives: that's up there too :P
 
Andrew and TheUSMC2017:

Are you allowed to start getting out on your own a bit, either via bike or friends' cars or the bus? I was lucky when I was your age and I lived out in the boonies; it was as simple as packing a sleeping bag and a sandwich and walking out the door after waving goodbye to my parents. But lots of other adventures required covering serious distance, and I did whatever it took. Sometimes this meant walking my skateboard down the mountain, riding a pretty long way, then hopping a bus to where all the good concrete (or beach) was.

I'd be real interested to know how your situation compares... my parents welcomed me getting as independent as I could, as fast as I could (first job at 12, first driving at 13, etc) but I know not all parents have the same opinion!
 
These things these young people have said reminds me of a lot of the reason why I moved my young family from the cities of Cali to the mountains of Idaho almost 16 years ago. My kids grew up on a large mountain lake (110 mi shore line) 20 mins from a ski hill with almost 3000 feet of vertical. All this surounded by wilderness for as far as you can see. Food for thought for young families ;)
 
To the young folks here (although I am merely 5 years older than you are)...

Get out there. Simply that. Probably join the boy scouts, or take your overprotective parents out with you. Show them why you want to go where you want to go. What can parents worry about when their son is venturing into the woods on his own instead of playing video games or doing drugs as many of the people that are your age probably do?

I was pretty lucky to have very "liberal" parents. They never worried too much (although my mum was pretty harsh/unreasonable back in the day), and my father often encouraged me to come out with him. We often had picnics or just hikes through or local woods. I guess, looking back, my childhood was a lot better than I thought it was at the time.
 
BRL said:
Andrew and TheUSMC2017:

Are you allowed to start getting out on your own a bit, either via bike or friends' cars or the bus? I was lucky when I was your age and I lived out in the boonies; it was as simple as packing a sleeping bag and a sandwich and walking out the door after waving goodbye to my parents. But lots of other adventures required covering serious distance, and I did whatever it took. Sometimes this meant walking my skateboard down the mountain, riding a pretty long way, then hopping a bus to where all the good concrete (or beach) was.

I'd be real interested to know how your situation compares... my parents welcomed me getting as independent as I could, as fast as I could (first job at 12, first driving at 13, etc) but I know not all parents have the same opinion!
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Im taking drivers ed right now, but I dont think I will get a car for a while. There really isnt anything for me to ride a bus to, or even drive. There is one state park that is about 10 miles away from me, but thats all.
 
Andrew, 10 miles is a nice bike ride for a day. Set up for an overnighter, go there by bicycle, sleep at the park and come back the next day. Probably the best way to spend a weekend.
 
maethor said:
Andrew, 10 miles is a nice bike ride for a day. Set up for an overnighter, go there by bicycle, sleep at the park and come back the next day. Probably the best way to spend a weekend.
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Id have to look into that, I might try that sometime. Though I wont be able to do it by bicycle. The roads are way too busy for me to ride on. My parents would have to drive me, but ill talk to them about that.
 
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