The Comfort of Losing
On an overlook atop the cliff, a man sat on the edge, staring into the distance. He gazed upon distant mountain peaks, beautiful in the evening light with occasional thunderstorms moving through the mountain passes, little juggernauts dominated by the peaks they slipped around. The random flash of lightning would from time to time light the shaded side of peaks, providing a show of God’s majesty on Earth.
What he couldn’t see lay in shadow below him. Not far below, but far enough for someone to die from the fall. The remains of two bodies lay tangled in the underbrush, their parts scattered by wild animals, scavengers from the forest. The man could not see the bodies, but he knew because he had caused them to be there.
“It was just too easy!”
Emerson Simmons shouted out his confession of guilt into an ignorant wilderness. Son of a successful immigrant, product of an Ivy League education, and beloved of his parents, he should have stood over the gulf of opportunity; instead he stood over a cliff with the two bodies of his own guilt staring back at him from below.
Standing a bit over six feet and considered attractive by women, he should never have come to this decision. His father had preached to his children about sin, condemnation, and judgment; he should have spoken more on grace and forgiveness. Emerson knew only the heavy burden of atonement for his own great sin; he prepared to make that sacrifice.
Laura Santangeline ran the steep trail to the overlook, breathing hard from the good exertion, and running with the confidence of experience… and ignorance of what stood in her way atop the cliff ahead of her. Laura enjoyed the freedom from a loneliness shoved aside whenever it chose to intrude upon her bliss. Like the man at the midpoint of her weekly trail run, she too enjoyed a good education, physical beauty, and what the world considers a successful life. Money had not purchased happiness for her; she found only temporary satisfaction at the spending end of her debit card.
Something about the man on the overlook platform caused her to slow. His attitude appeared out of alignment with the panorama behind the viewing platform. The ocean behind the mountain peaks glowed in the setting sun, now half obscured by the horizon. Laura noticed the slim, white needle of the Rangel’s Point lighthouse and watched as the light shone dimly at first, and then growing to a bright point before fading once again. A few scattered rain showers glided solemnly around the mountains; lighting the valleys below with the awe inspiring tongues of lightning.
This she took in at a glance while noticing the posture of a man prepared to end his life. The speed of reaction leaves no time for conscious decisions; as the man began his final run, Laura jumped on his back. The commitment made; both would fall or both would live; the sudden attack surprised the man and caused him to stumble, for a moment he almost carried both of them over the edge, but fell prostrate with Laura on top of him, just feet short of the edge.
“Will you talk for a while?” she panted, still winded from the climb.
“Yea, if you’ll get off me,” he appeared more surprised and impatient than anything else; as though she had interrupted a job he needed to finish.
The natural question came as she rolled off him, “Why are you trying to kill yourself?”
“I deserve death,” rising to stride about the platform, he left her lying on the ground.
“Usually I’m the one who decides that.” She had to keep him occupied. If he tried for the cliff again, she wouldn’t have the element of surprise and the man looked quite capable of throwing her aside in his quest to end his own life.
“You?” this with raised eyebrows and a slight smile brightening his face, “why not God?”
A religious nut, she thought, seeking punishment for some crime.
“I’m the county prosecutor; I get to decide what punishment based on the crime committed and how it was carried out.” More talk, and he appeared to be responding, ready to debate her.
“Not a religious nut, just a long tutelage from my father and mother. Exodus tells me I deserve death.”
She had him engaged now and hurried to keep him so, wondering if he had read her mind.
“Matthew’s Gospel tells you that all sins have been paid for, you deserve death but Jesus paid the price for it.” Her eyebrow went up this time; she could not help but be struck by the incongruity of an unbeliever, an atheist, such as herself speaking the very words a Christian might use to convert someone.
“Very good, my dad never emphasized the New Testament, always the Law, something you should be familiar with...”
She had him now; her study of the ancient laws had earned her special commendations in Law School.
“Your dad quoted you ‘an eye for an eye’ but did he also remind you of Isaiah 1:18, that verse should put a different light on your unforgivable sin.” She winced a bit; getting him back on the reason for his suicide wasn’t what she wanted to do.
“I enjoy reasoning together! There was a professor at Dartmouth who spoke on reasoning and used that verse to open his lecture; unfortunately it went downhill from there, no amount of coffee could keep the class awake.” This time a wider smile as he remembered the long ago lecture.
“Dr. Felton McSchwegle, that man could have cured insomnia with one lecture! You didn’t know I was in that same class did you?” They had a connection; no matter how remote or that neither knew the other had been there at the time. She could establish a rapport.
“No! All this time and you arrive just in time to witness my execution.” He turned toward the cliff.
She watched his face settle into that calm resignation, and then made one last attempt. “You do realize that God didn’t exempt the individual when he commanded, Thou shalt not commit murder. Murdering yourself will only add to your debt.”
He stopped and turned, apparently at a loss for words. Retreating from the edge; he looked at his hands, and the words finally came.
“It shouldn’t have been that easy, I didn’t plan it, never even thought about it. They stood right there holding each other and looking at the ring. The moment held a beauty I could not stand. And I pushed them, not hard… they went over without a sound. It shouldn’t be so easy…” he trailed off, “to kill someone…”
Their positions had shifted; the last rays of the sun caught him with her shadow. The monster stood right in line with her and the cliff edge, she thought suddenly. Her hair stood on end and her breathing quickened at the realization. Time really did slow at moments of heightened awareness, her clients had been right, but now what? From trying to save him, she now felt disgust, a desire to cleanse herself, and also a need to give him a clear lane to the edge. No need for a lengthy trial, he had just confessed, why not let him fulfill his intent.
“I cannot kill anymore.”
“Why stop now? Who did you kill and why not kill me too? No witnesses!” she yelled at him, losing control in her reaction to the near touch of that grim spectre. Shaking and sweating, she angrily swore at her body’s reaction to danger. She felt an urgent desire to relieve herself, but wasn’t about to drop her trousers in front of this man. How odd that she had begun to feel an affinity, even an attraction, for him just moments ago.
The target of her anger and hatred robbed her of the chance for retribution; he sobbed into his hands, crouched down with the pain of his emotions. Twilight fell at last, and she could no longer hate him, realizing that he really didn’t understand why he had committed the act.
Speaking tenderly, she led him over to a natural stone bench, kindly set there by Providence, seemingly just for the purpose of comforting the lost.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Monday, September 18, 2006
Pastor Bob #2
This one seems to end too soon, but again I'll go ahead and throw it out there. One good exercise after the writing class would be to take these first two stories and give them an update based on what I have learned.
Bucky
Pastor Bob
Somewhere back in the dim ages of time, Pastor Bob had taken up shooting to relax before his Sunday morning sermon. We often asked Pastor Bob how it was that someone so given to stage jitters would become a minister of a fairly large church. He would always say the same thing,
“We’re just called to it, we can’t stop,” he would intone.
The shooting group had never figured out which “we” the pastor was referring to, but this particular “we” would nod our heads gravely, just as though Pastor Bob had imparted some gem of wisdom to us and we had fully understood. Pastor Bob would then launch into some tale of hunting legerdemain, complete with stalking skill, camouflage and concealment, and racks. We cheerfully listened to his tales, each of us having a store of our own. However, we had one problem with Pastor Bob. His tales were the truth. If he stalked and shot a doe, it didn’t grow antlers over the years; it never ghosted through the woods, or shook leaves from the trees with its snorting. The pastor’s deer, remained deer and his skills were real. We just couldn’t compete with that. If a fellow added a point or two to his rack, or his deer grew in size and stealth over the years, we could compete on those grounds. But if a doe remained a doe over the years of retelling, how could a guy compete with that?
Pastor Bob was weird in other ways too; his house did not sport so much as a single antler. Our houses sprouted little antlers on the shed, a bit larger ones in the den, sometimes a truly magnificent set in the living room. Usually the truly magnificent set was found on the cover of the Cabela’s catalog, much as we would have liked to have it on the wall. There were no dead things in Pastor Bob’s house either. Stuffed deer heads, shiny dead fish, a former resident of the African plains; none of these manly decorations were to be found in the parsonage. Yet despite his lack of the manly characteristics of your normal hunter, Pastor Bob’s hunting skills stood head and shoulders above our own.
This of course led to more than a few jokes about the ‘homicidal’ tendencies of the clergy. Pastor Bob took these well, often laughing along, for the first 473 times. After that a pained expression could sometimes be seen on the pastor’s face as though he were engaged in another battle for his soul with the powers of darkness. Sometimes he got this same expression after dinner at our favorite roadside diner, but we put that down to coincidence. Somehow the rumor spread that the pastor, a Marine Recon combat veteran, had several confirmed kills on his service record. The pastor for his part neither confirmed nor denied the rumors, but seemed pleased when the homicidal jokes suddenly died out.
Another fine day at the shooting range dawned and Ed Monson and I met Pastor Bob at the range. Ed, short for Edmund, possessed a rather sarcastic sense of humor that could be fun at times but was mostly just irritating. Ed was the wisest of the wiseacres and the smartest of the smart-aleks. Taking him to a fine restaurant was a sure way to cut your stay short and experience at least one embarrassing apology. Ed had a smart mouth and he couldn’t keep it shut.
“Morning pastor, killed anything yet today?” Ed asked in place of a pleasant greeting.
Alarmed, I reached over to remind Ed of his manners with a playful tap to the back of his head.
“Easy brother, you don’t know your own strength at times,” Pastor Bob gently scolded me, “You might apologize for that, his eyes are still crossed.”
“Sorry Pastor, please forgive me, but don’t worry about his eyes they always look that way,” I replied.
“No doubt after one of your ‘playful taps’. However, sometimes it is better to apologize to the victim and not the bystander, Brother Buck”
Ouch, I checked to see if Ed had said that, but it seemed to have come from the Pastor.
“Sorry Ed, please forgive me!” I said to Ed who had recovered enough to have both eyes focused somewhere in the distance. Perhaps I had over-reacted a bit. I gently removed Ed’s rifle from his hands, just as a precaution.
“Generally the good Lord would have us wait until the victim is fully conscious to apologize,” Pastor Bob said gently.
“Yes, Pastor,” I responded meekly, fingering a scorch mark somewhere around my ear. I could see that Ed was a rank amateur in the verbal skewering arts. I wouldn’t want to catch Pastor Bob on a day he was feeling mean.
Bucky
Pastor Bob
Somewhere back in the dim ages of time, Pastor Bob had taken up shooting to relax before his Sunday morning sermon. We often asked Pastor Bob how it was that someone so given to stage jitters would become a minister of a fairly large church. He would always say the same thing,
“We’re just called to it, we can’t stop,” he would intone.
The shooting group had never figured out which “we” the pastor was referring to, but this particular “we” would nod our heads gravely, just as though Pastor Bob had imparted some gem of wisdom to us and we had fully understood. Pastor Bob would then launch into some tale of hunting legerdemain, complete with stalking skill, camouflage and concealment, and racks. We cheerfully listened to his tales, each of us having a store of our own. However, we had one problem with Pastor Bob. His tales were the truth. If he stalked and shot a doe, it didn’t grow antlers over the years; it never ghosted through the woods, or shook leaves from the trees with its snorting. The pastor’s deer, remained deer and his skills were real. We just couldn’t compete with that. If a fellow added a point or two to his rack, or his deer grew in size and stealth over the years, we could compete on those grounds. But if a doe remained a doe over the years of retelling, how could a guy compete with that?
Pastor Bob was weird in other ways too; his house did not sport so much as a single antler. Our houses sprouted little antlers on the shed, a bit larger ones in the den, sometimes a truly magnificent set in the living room. Usually the truly magnificent set was found on the cover of the Cabela’s catalog, much as we would have liked to have it on the wall. There were no dead things in Pastor Bob’s house either. Stuffed deer heads, shiny dead fish, a former resident of the African plains; none of these manly decorations were to be found in the parsonage. Yet despite his lack of the manly characteristics of your normal hunter, Pastor Bob’s hunting skills stood head and shoulders above our own.
This of course led to more than a few jokes about the ‘homicidal’ tendencies of the clergy. Pastor Bob took these well, often laughing along, for the first 473 times. After that a pained expression could sometimes be seen on the pastor’s face as though he were engaged in another battle for his soul with the powers of darkness. Sometimes he got this same expression after dinner at our favorite roadside diner, but we put that down to coincidence. Somehow the rumor spread that the pastor, a Marine Recon combat veteran, had several confirmed kills on his service record. The pastor for his part neither confirmed nor denied the rumors, but seemed pleased when the homicidal jokes suddenly died out.
Another fine day at the shooting range dawned and Ed Monson and I met Pastor Bob at the range. Ed, short for Edmund, possessed a rather sarcastic sense of humor that could be fun at times but was mostly just irritating. Ed was the wisest of the wiseacres and the smartest of the smart-aleks. Taking him to a fine restaurant was a sure way to cut your stay short and experience at least one embarrassing apology. Ed had a smart mouth and he couldn’t keep it shut.
“Morning pastor, killed anything yet today?” Ed asked in place of a pleasant greeting.
Alarmed, I reached over to remind Ed of his manners with a playful tap to the back of his head.
“Easy brother, you don’t know your own strength at times,” Pastor Bob gently scolded me, “You might apologize for that, his eyes are still crossed.”
“Sorry Pastor, please forgive me, but don’t worry about his eyes they always look that way,” I replied.
“No doubt after one of your ‘playful taps’. However, sometimes it is better to apologize to the victim and not the bystander, Brother Buck”
Ouch, I checked to see if Ed had said that, but it seemed to have come from the Pastor.
“Sorry Ed, please forgive me!” I said to Ed who had recovered enough to have both eyes focused somewhere in the distance. Perhaps I had over-reacted a bit. I gently removed Ed’s rifle from his hands, just as a precaution.
“Generally the good Lord would have us wait until the victim is fully conscious to apologize,” Pastor Bob said gently.
“Yes, Pastor,” I responded meekly, fingering a scorch mark somewhere around my ear. I could see that Ed was a rank amateur in the verbal skewering arts. I wouldn’t want to catch Pastor Bob on a day he was feeling mean.
Pastor Bob #1
The Pastor Bob stories are also in their infancy. I decided to go ahead and post the first two, written before the creative writing class, to illustrate a before and after. The third will come later this month and I will leave it up to you to decide if the creative writing class was worth my time.
Bucky
Breakfast with Pastor Bob
One Saturday morning as the dawn’s breaking was still an hour or so away, I felt the whispers of memory begin tugging at my consciousness. Something about pheasants and hunting in the countryside, hours of hiking through thick weeds, dogs barking excitedly ahead of us. Sore aching joints and muscles, why had I ever agreed to such insanity? Oh, yes… Pastor Bob, the rugged, outdoorsy pastor of our little church in town was coming over to breakfast before the usual misfits headed out to the overgrown weed patches we called our hunting grounds.
I looked to see if the dawn had yet cracked and suddenly noticed that the floor was a lot closer than it had been when I went to bed last night. What in the…? I rolled all the way over to the armoire, still in my pajamas, with the blankets now wound around me like a modern day mummy.
“IT’S TIME TO RISE AND SHINE, MARINES! LET’S ENJOY ANOTHER DAY IN THE CORPS!”
The mad pastor was in my very bedroom! Not only that, he had thrown me out of my own bed, for goodness sakes! Where was my faithful guard dog? Where was the treacherous wife who had no doubt let the fiend into my home? Was nothing sacred in my own house?!
“Good morning, Pastor Bob. What brings you here so early in the morning?” was all that I could think of to say.
“Your lovely wife invited me to breakfast before we head out to the fields,” he said, while upending a chair, putting the mattress back on the bed and dumping my clothes on top of me. I noticed that he touched none of my wife’s stuff, proving once again that wisdom grows from serving the Lord.
“Lovely? You should see her first thing in the morning,” I shot back, knowing that I would pay dearly for that remark as the lovely creature had come to the bedroom door just then.
“Oh, I did, but she was too quick for me to dump out of the sack, unlike your laggardly arse!”
Did the fiend have no shame? In our very bedroom without knocking, I was definitely getting a new guard dog; the shameless beast was there even now, licking Pastor Bob’s hand.
“Breakfast is ready Pastor, let’s leave my prince to get himself sorted out… and clean up my bedroom before his breakfast,” my wife said.
“I shall rush to do your bidding my princess,” I tried to reverse the damage.
“Too late there mummified one, I heard the first remark, which we will discuss later,” my morning flower said in return. I winced, our “discussions” were usually one sided and only occurred after I had shot off my mouth without the proper safety precautions.
“Oho, may I stay for that? I could use some new material for my sermons!” The fiend known as Pastor Bob asked the Rose of my life as he picked me up, blankets and all and heaved me into the shower room. I wouldn’t have minded so much if he hadn’t turned all the shower heads on full cold as he walked away to his breakfast with my wife.
I dumped the sopping mess of our bed covers into the laundry room, Saturday was wash day anyway. Whatever else I thought about my rude awakening, I was fully awake now. Pastor Bob was sipping coffee in my chair and chatting with my lovely and radiant wife about my shortcomings, hunting, fishing, news around the town, and the economy. None of which was any worse than usual, with the possible exception of my shortcomings.
“You’re going to pay for that Pastor Bob,” I joked, trying to regain some of my lost dignity.
“I’m sure, a little light workout to get the blood flowing would be a good way to start the day,” Pastor Bob joked back.
Oh, well, I had never enjoyed much dignity anyway. I sat down across from my wife and dug into a wonderful breakfast, remembering to tell her so.
“That will help a little; you can almost make up for that first remark by getting our shotguns and hunting gear ready to go.
“I did last night, it’s all in the truck and ready to go!” I said, hoping to regain my lost points in one fell swoop. No such luck, she was ready for any underhanded attempts on my part.
“You forgot the shells and the dog kennel, but you can get them after breakfast,” my morning cactus blossom replied.
No question about it, I would need to get up a lot earlier to get one over on these two.
Bucky
Bucky
Breakfast with Pastor Bob
One Saturday morning as the dawn’s breaking was still an hour or so away, I felt the whispers of memory begin tugging at my consciousness. Something about pheasants and hunting in the countryside, hours of hiking through thick weeds, dogs barking excitedly ahead of us. Sore aching joints and muscles, why had I ever agreed to such insanity? Oh, yes… Pastor Bob, the rugged, outdoorsy pastor of our little church in town was coming over to breakfast before the usual misfits headed out to the overgrown weed patches we called our hunting grounds.
I looked to see if the dawn had yet cracked and suddenly noticed that the floor was a lot closer than it had been when I went to bed last night. What in the…? I rolled all the way over to the armoire, still in my pajamas, with the blankets now wound around me like a modern day mummy.
“IT’S TIME TO RISE AND SHINE, MARINES! LET’S ENJOY ANOTHER DAY IN THE CORPS!”
The mad pastor was in my very bedroom! Not only that, he had thrown me out of my own bed, for goodness sakes! Where was my faithful guard dog? Where was the treacherous wife who had no doubt let the fiend into my home? Was nothing sacred in my own house?!
“Good morning, Pastor Bob. What brings you here so early in the morning?” was all that I could think of to say.
“Your lovely wife invited me to breakfast before we head out to the fields,” he said, while upending a chair, putting the mattress back on the bed and dumping my clothes on top of me. I noticed that he touched none of my wife’s stuff, proving once again that wisdom grows from serving the Lord.
“Lovely? You should see her first thing in the morning,” I shot back, knowing that I would pay dearly for that remark as the lovely creature had come to the bedroom door just then.
“Oh, I did, but she was too quick for me to dump out of the sack, unlike your laggardly arse!”
Did the fiend have no shame? In our very bedroom without knocking, I was definitely getting a new guard dog; the shameless beast was there even now, licking Pastor Bob’s hand.
“Breakfast is ready Pastor, let’s leave my prince to get himself sorted out… and clean up my bedroom before his breakfast,” my wife said.
“I shall rush to do your bidding my princess,” I tried to reverse the damage.
“Too late there mummified one, I heard the first remark, which we will discuss later,” my morning flower said in return. I winced, our “discussions” were usually one sided and only occurred after I had shot off my mouth without the proper safety precautions.
“Oho, may I stay for that? I could use some new material for my sermons!” The fiend known as Pastor Bob asked the Rose of my life as he picked me up, blankets and all and heaved me into the shower room. I wouldn’t have minded so much if he hadn’t turned all the shower heads on full cold as he walked away to his breakfast with my wife.
I dumped the sopping mess of our bed covers into the laundry room, Saturday was wash day anyway. Whatever else I thought about my rude awakening, I was fully awake now. Pastor Bob was sipping coffee in my chair and chatting with my lovely and radiant wife about my shortcomings, hunting, fishing, news around the town, and the economy. None of which was any worse than usual, with the possible exception of my shortcomings.
“You’re going to pay for that Pastor Bob,” I joked, trying to regain some of my lost dignity.
“I’m sure, a little light workout to get the blood flowing would be a good way to start the day,” Pastor Bob joked back.
Oh, well, I had never enjoyed much dignity anyway. I sat down across from my wife and dug into a wonderful breakfast, remembering to tell her so.
“That will help a little; you can almost make up for that first remark by getting our shotguns and hunting gear ready to go.
“I did last night, it’s all in the truck and ready to go!” I said, hoping to regain my lost points in one fell swoop. No such luck, she was ready for any underhanded attempts on my part.
“You forgot the shells and the dog kennel, but you can get them after breakfast,” my morning cactus blossom replied.
No question about it, I would need to get up a lot earlier to get one over on these two.
Bucky
Hunting the Perfect Group
This story was my first official rejection. I sent this to our company newsletter, expanded when the individual department newsletters were sucked into the central newsletter. Perhaps the departments were showing too much creativity in some instances...
The rejection reason was that alcohol was in the story. "Eh?" was my first reaction. A quick review of my story showed that I had mentioned a tavern a few times. This involves a certain irony in that back in the day the company grew up in the bars and taverns of our various locations. Many job interviews were informally held in not a few taverns. Perhaps that part didn't make the official company history DVD!
Hunting the Perfect Group
A late fall afternoon, just after a great football game brought out the competitive spirits in the crowd at Jimmy’s Tavern. One of the guys from work, it was said, knew everything about deer hunting. Now since work was Cabela’s, this is certainly possible even though the odds that the world’s best deer hunter would be watching a football game at Jimmy’s as opposed to being out hunting seemed a bit unlikely. The resident expert also worked in the computer department. The odds grew a little steeper. The master, his status now in question, held forth that the perfect group was the ultimate aim of every true sportsman. I was inclined to listen more closely. Everyone knew from reading the gun magazines that groups were very important, though the gun mags didn’t often divulge just how these miraculous groups were to be obtained from the stock rifles our little mob of hunters could afford.
The master began to expound upon his theories of the perfect group and its relationship to hunting deer.
“I once shot a group that you could put a dime over at 250 paces!” he exclaimed.
Some of the hunters drifted back towards the bar.
“Paces?” someone asked, “Which range measures their shooting lanes in paces?”
“I have my own range, you can’t trust those commercial ranges, they want to keep you coming back so they change the range just a little every time,” the master fired back.
I had been on a few ranges in my time and the benches and butts appeared to be fairly solid. Moving either end of the range seemed to me a bit cost prohibitive from an economic standpoint, but I let the “expert” continue. A few more of the hunters had moved over to the bar. I noticed some that went so far as to leave during the master’s discourse.
“Finally, using your own range isn’t quite enough, you must hand load each and every round,” the master proclaimed. This was actually true; I had read it in one of the loading manuals. Every good buyer of hand loading components knew this because all the loading manuals said so. Some of the drifters moseyed back over.
“I work up loads during the same afternoon, that way the barometric pressure is the same during my workup,” the master confided to us his own special secret, giving us the impression we were supplicants honored to learn at his feet.
One of the slightly less green supplicants humbly asked if the master had not meant humidity perhaps.
“No humidity don’t matter none to the loads, humidity only matters when it’s so bad the sweat runs down into your eyes! Then you know its time to quit and head to the tavern.” The master corrected. No one could argue with that bit of faultless logic. We moved a bit closer so as not to miss any more nuggets of wisdom from the master. Some of us looked askance at each other, not really believing the barometric pressure nugget; we probably were not worthy to be in the group.
“Let’s go to my range and I’ll show you what the perfect group looks like, then we can go get us a deer!” our master said. We all looked around at each other, had he actually meant what he said? We asked each other with our eyes. The tavern expert had left his throne and was headed towards the door. He really did mean to leave the peanuts and go to the field!
I had not purchased a deer permit that year, a sin at Cabela’s and one that would haunt me at the company Christmas party, so I volunteered to act as spotter for the great one’s hunt. A few of the tavern regulars, perhaps shamed by the master’s willingness to put his wisdom on paper, so to speak, got up and fired up their spotless 4x4 hunting rigs.
The trip to the range of the master took only 20 minutes, which was a good thing as some of the rig owners were beginning to glance nervously at their fuel gauges. We arrived to find a concrete shooting bench equipped with a Craftsman shop vice, sitting on a range that looked to be about 250 paces, if you took 3-4 paces to the yard. I thought from my cabling experience that 150 feet might be closer to the mark. One of the unworthy supplicants noticed the discrepancy also and casually mentioned it to the master.
“Oh no, my dime group was shot at a tournament, this here range measures almost 100 yards,” the master informed us.
Now I didn’t have my laser rangefinder out yet, but this ‘almost’ seemed kind of subjective, as in subject to the whims of the proclaimer. In my experience ‘almost’ changes to fit the intended usage. Most times almost meant something ‘really close’ or ‘not quite’, actual measurements were not needed in these cases. Once in a while you ran into the case where almost seemed more like ‘not even close’, measurements could be helpful in this case. Sometimes you ran into the ‘almost’ that you could port a small ocean liner between the ‘all’ and the ‘most’ with a little slip left over for your yacht. This looked to be one of those times. Measurements were completely unnecessary in these cases and would only serve to embarrass the almoster.
The master removed a fine target grade rifle from a plush case in the back of his new Wunderburban, a hunting rig large enough to hold a six person hunting party and a herd of deer. This rifle made all of the supplicants green with envy, we coveted so far as to try touching the master’s rifle, but he would have none of it, rudely slapping our hands away. He then pulled out a velvet lined ammo case with gleaming brass cartridges nestled inside; the crown jewels had never been kept so well. The master carefully clamped his rifle into the vice, with plenty of soft velvet padding on either side so as not to mar the finish of the rifle. Why didn’t we all have shooting rigs like that, how could we ever hold our heads up on the hunt again?
Still green, we settled in to take a grouping lesson from the master. Carefully blowing on each round, in case any of our western Nebraska dust had the gall to settle on his cartridges, the master loaded his rifle with the chosen 3 rounds for his group. The honored cartridges settled into the rifle, no doubt ready to give their best for the master.
“Blam!” the first round hit the target. Practicing my spotting for the hunt with the master, I noticed it was a bit out of the 10 ring, but didn’t have the courage to doubt the master. That would come later. The second round was close to the first, but was probably not world class. Perhaps the master didn’t want to show us up too badly on the first demonstration. The third round followed the other two into the target; the entire group wouldn’t fit under a quarter, but perhaps under a half-dollar.
“There, now that isn’t my best, but it should do for our deer hunt,” the master happily proclaimed. Some of us looked at each other, ashamed to admit our doubts relating to the master’s skill. Perhaps on a good day we would have seen his perfect group. Surely the thousands spent on his target rig were matched or even exceeded by his hunting rifle. We saw the case in the back of the Wunderburban, our anticipation mounted what kind of rifle sat in the fine leather case? We ran to our vehicles to continue on the trip with the master.
The line at Ernie’s Gasem and Fleecem moved slowly, every hunting rig requiring 30-40 gallons of precious fuel. You could tell it was precious by the expression on the rig owners faces. Inside Ernie’s the soft clatter of plastic leaves falling on the linoleum countertop made a musical soundtrack to the theatrical whining going on, with the occasional “pish” of a soda can to provide rhythm. No one faulted Ernie; the papers all said it wasn’t his fault that gas prices were so high.
Some of the hunting rig owners used the pit stop to make their escape; probably to save themselves the wrath of the wife at home. Some few of us were left, the master, two of his more promising supplicants, a couple of old codgers with nothing better to do, and me. The diminished group piled into the Wunderburban, each of us choosing a leather captain’s chair complete with personal DVD viewing station and satellite radio, and headed out with the master to learn again the art of deer hunting.
About an hour and 2 fuel stations later, the master turned off the highway and drove about 300 yards down a gravel road and stopped. Everyone threw on orange safety vests and caps, checked their deer permits – except for me, I would man the spotting scope – and tramped to the master’s favorite hunting spot. Along the way we had the opportunity to admire the master’s hunting rifle. It gleamed in the setting sun, the scope polished to a bright, nickel finish. Fully two feet long, the scope appeared capable of targeting the space shuttle. The first of many doubts to come snuck into my mind. I pushed it aside, confident in the master and firmly proving once again what my grade school teachers had said about me in the lounge.
The master stopped on a hilltop and unslung the cream of hunting rifles, still gleaming in self-satisfied magnificence, and pulled out a few rounds of ammo. He unfolded the bipod, locked it into place and flopped on the ground in a reasonable imitation of a prone position. Expecting a short dissertation on the art of field positions, not unlike my Marine marksmanship instructor, I was caught off guard. The two old codgers just sniggered a bit to each other. The supplicants were still awaiting the proof by fire of the master. Another small doubt moseyed through my mind, but I set up the spotting scope and tripod and prepared to be worthy of the master.
“Deer!” rang out through the afternoon stillness, I looked around, nothing. I looked at the master for guidance. He was glued to his riflescope and pointing frantically towards the east. Still nothing. I bent to the spotting scope and sure enough, highlighted in the setting sun was a herd of deer some six or seven hundred yards distant.
“Blam,” this followed by some muted moaning… mine. Not thinking the master would engage a target so far out; I had not pulled my hearing protection into place. Correcting my oversight, I bent again to the spotting scope, nothing, the deer continued placidly grazing. I turned to the ‘master’.
“Just a warm-up shot,” he said, “Now I’ll need a ranging round, look towards that big buck on the left.”
I looked again, sure enough there was a nice 6x6 buck on the left.
“Blam” the master fired his ranging round, and nothing… a twig fell near the buck, but I saw no evidence of a bullet. The doubts no longer moseyed by, they were marching in parade formation. I dialed the spotting scope out a few powers to get a wider field of view.
The master called me a few unkind names then fired again. This time I did indeed see the ranging round, about 10 feet above the buck it clipped a branch from a tree and went winging on its merry way.
“You’re about 10 feet high and 3 feet to the right,” I informed the ‘master’, now resolved to take any of the master’s wisdom with a little salt on the side.
The master spun the knobs on his scope, he must really know his scope to make such a large adjustment, I thought a little sarcastically. The two old codgers were beside themselves, making for a party of four furiously giggling old men behind us.
The master finished his adjustments and fired again. This time I was ready and knowing what to expect I saw the dirt fly up about 10 yards in front of the deer and just for good measure, about 6 feet to the left. One or two deer looked up from their grazing; perhaps wondering what the ruckus on the hill over yonder was all about.
I reported the results to the ‘master’ who called me a few more unkind names. The messenger picked his head up and set it firmly back in place. A few more adjustments and another shot rang out. This time a squirrel fell out of the tree. Dead? No upon closer examination through the spotting scope, it appeared to be rolling on the ground laughing. The ‘master’ did not take the news of this critique well.
The messenger replaced his head once again and bent to his assigned task. The ‘master’ loaded the rest of his ammo box into his magazine. Box? I looked again, thinking that I had seen “Federal” on the box, surely I had been mistaken. The master only used hand loaded ammunition, he had said so himself!
The ‘master’ had apparently finished his adjustments because this time he cut loose with a barrage. Bullets clipped twigs, mowed grass, trimmed hedges, and dug a few shallow trenches. Nothing the deer were worried about though, as not one bullet passed within ten feet of the happily browsing deer. The ‘master shooter’ began savagely cursing the rifle and scope, much to the relief of the messenger I might add. He waxed eloquent regarding the gunsmith, the scope technicians, barometric pressure and deer in general. Apparently forgetting his earlier ‘lessons’ the master even took the Federal Cartridge company to task, the bullets didn’t fly right, the powder was too this, the primers too that.
We moseyed on back to the Wunderburban, the master may not shoot worth a darn, but he was a master of something alright. Hunters everywhere could learn a bit about complaining and excuse making right at the feet of the master.
The rejection reason was that alcohol was in the story. "Eh?" was my first reaction. A quick review of my story showed that I had mentioned a tavern a few times. This involves a certain irony in that back in the day the company grew up in the bars and taverns of our various locations. Many job interviews were informally held in not a few taverns. Perhaps that part didn't make the official company history DVD!
Hunting the Perfect Group
A late fall afternoon, just after a great football game brought out the competitive spirits in the crowd at Jimmy’s Tavern. One of the guys from work, it was said, knew everything about deer hunting. Now since work was Cabela’s, this is certainly possible even though the odds that the world’s best deer hunter would be watching a football game at Jimmy’s as opposed to being out hunting seemed a bit unlikely. The resident expert also worked in the computer department. The odds grew a little steeper. The master, his status now in question, held forth that the perfect group was the ultimate aim of every true sportsman. I was inclined to listen more closely. Everyone knew from reading the gun magazines that groups were very important, though the gun mags didn’t often divulge just how these miraculous groups were to be obtained from the stock rifles our little mob of hunters could afford.
The master began to expound upon his theories of the perfect group and its relationship to hunting deer.
“I once shot a group that you could put a dime over at 250 paces!” he exclaimed.
Some of the hunters drifted back towards the bar.
“Paces?” someone asked, “Which range measures their shooting lanes in paces?”
“I have my own range, you can’t trust those commercial ranges, they want to keep you coming back so they change the range just a little every time,” the master fired back.
I had been on a few ranges in my time and the benches and butts appeared to be fairly solid. Moving either end of the range seemed to me a bit cost prohibitive from an economic standpoint, but I let the “expert” continue. A few more of the hunters had moved over to the bar. I noticed some that went so far as to leave during the master’s discourse.
“Finally, using your own range isn’t quite enough, you must hand load each and every round,” the master proclaimed. This was actually true; I had read it in one of the loading manuals. Every good buyer of hand loading components knew this because all the loading manuals said so. Some of the drifters moseyed back over.
“I work up loads during the same afternoon, that way the barometric pressure is the same during my workup,” the master confided to us his own special secret, giving us the impression we were supplicants honored to learn at his feet.
One of the slightly less green supplicants humbly asked if the master had not meant humidity perhaps.
“No humidity don’t matter none to the loads, humidity only matters when it’s so bad the sweat runs down into your eyes! Then you know its time to quit and head to the tavern.” The master corrected. No one could argue with that bit of faultless logic. We moved a bit closer so as not to miss any more nuggets of wisdom from the master. Some of us looked askance at each other, not really believing the barometric pressure nugget; we probably were not worthy to be in the group.
“Let’s go to my range and I’ll show you what the perfect group looks like, then we can go get us a deer!” our master said. We all looked around at each other, had he actually meant what he said? We asked each other with our eyes. The tavern expert had left his throne and was headed towards the door. He really did mean to leave the peanuts and go to the field!
I had not purchased a deer permit that year, a sin at Cabela’s and one that would haunt me at the company Christmas party, so I volunteered to act as spotter for the great one’s hunt. A few of the tavern regulars, perhaps shamed by the master’s willingness to put his wisdom on paper, so to speak, got up and fired up their spotless 4x4 hunting rigs.
The trip to the range of the master took only 20 minutes, which was a good thing as some of the rig owners were beginning to glance nervously at their fuel gauges. We arrived to find a concrete shooting bench equipped with a Craftsman shop vice, sitting on a range that looked to be about 250 paces, if you took 3-4 paces to the yard. I thought from my cabling experience that 150 feet might be closer to the mark. One of the unworthy supplicants noticed the discrepancy also and casually mentioned it to the master.
“Oh no, my dime group was shot at a tournament, this here range measures almost 100 yards,” the master informed us.
Now I didn’t have my laser rangefinder out yet, but this ‘almost’ seemed kind of subjective, as in subject to the whims of the proclaimer. In my experience ‘almost’ changes to fit the intended usage. Most times almost meant something ‘really close’ or ‘not quite’, actual measurements were not needed in these cases. Once in a while you ran into the case where almost seemed more like ‘not even close’, measurements could be helpful in this case. Sometimes you ran into the ‘almost’ that you could port a small ocean liner between the ‘all’ and the ‘most’ with a little slip left over for your yacht. This looked to be one of those times. Measurements were completely unnecessary in these cases and would only serve to embarrass the almoster.
The master removed a fine target grade rifle from a plush case in the back of his new Wunderburban, a hunting rig large enough to hold a six person hunting party and a herd of deer. This rifle made all of the supplicants green with envy, we coveted so far as to try touching the master’s rifle, but he would have none of it, rudely slapping our hands away. He then pulled out a velvet lined ammo case with gleaming brass cartridges nestled inside; the crown jewels had never been kept so well. The master carefully clamped his rifle into the vice, with plenty of soft velvet padding on either side so as not to mar the finish of the rifle. Why didn’t we all have shooting rigs like that, how could we ever hold our heads up on the hunt again?
Still green, we settled in to take a grouping lesson from the master. Carefully blowing on each round, in case any of our western Nebraska dust had the gall to settle on his cartridges, the master loaded his rifle with the chosen 3 rounds for his group. The honored cartridges settled into the rifle, no doubt ready to give their best for the master.
“Blam!” the first round hit the target. Practicing my spotting for the hunt with the master, I noticed it was a bit out of the 10 ring, but didn’t have the courage to doubt the master. That would come later. The second round was close to the first, but was probably not world class. Perhaps the master didn’t want to show us up too badly on the first demonstration. The third round followed the other two into the target; the entire group wouldn’t fit under a quarter, but perhaps under a half-dollar.
“There, now that isn’t my best, but it should do for our deer hunt,” the master happily proclaimed. Some of us looked at each other, ashamed to admit our doubts relating to the master’s skill. Perhaps on a good day we would have seen his perfect group. Surely the thousands spent on his target rig were matched or even exceeded by his hunting rifle. We saw the case in the back of the Wunderburban, our anticipation mounted what kind of rifle sat in the fine leather case? We ran to our vehicles to continue on the trip with the master.
The line at Ernie’s Gasem and Fleecem moved slowly, every hunting rig requiring 30-40 gallons of precious fuel. You could tell it was precious by the expression on the rig owners faces. Inside Ernie’s the soft clatter of plastic leaves falling on the linoleum countertop made a musical soundtrack to the theatrical whining going on, with the occasional “pish” of a soda can to provide rhythm. No one faulted Ernie; the papers all said it wasn’t his fault that gas prices were so high.
Some of the hunting rig owners used the pit stop to make their escape; probably to save themselves the wrath of the wife at home. Some few of us were left, the master, two of his more promising supplicants, a couple of old codgers with nothing better to do, and me. The diminished group piled into the Wunderburban, each of us choosing a leather captain’s chair complete with personal DVD viewing station and satellite radio, and headed out with the master to learn again the art of deer hunting.
About an hour and 2 fuel stations later, the master turned off the highway and drove about 300 yards down a gravel road and stopped. Everyone threw on orange safety vests and caps, checked their deer permits – except for me, I would man the spotting scope – and tramped to the master’s favorite hunting spot. Along the way we had the opportunity to admire the master’s hunting rifle. It gleamed in the setting sun, the scope polished to a bright, nickel finish. Fully two feet long, the scope appeared capable of targeting the space shuttle. The first of many doubts to come snuck into my mind. I pushed it aside, confident in the master and firmly proving once again what my grade school teachers had said about me in the lounge.
The master stopped on a hilltop and unslung the cream of hunting rifles, still gleaming in self-satisfied magnificence, and pulled out a few rounds of ammo. He unfolded the bipod, locked it into place and flopped on the ground in a reasonable imitation of a prone position. Expecting a short dissertation on the art of field positions, not unlike my Marine marksmanship instructor, I was caught off guard. The two old codgers just sniggered a bit to each other. The supplicants were still awaiting the proof by fire of the master. Another small doubt moseyed through my mind, but I set up the spotting scope and tripod and prepared to be worthy of the master.
“Deer!” rang out through the afternoon stillness, I looked around, nothing. I looked at the master for guidance. He was glued to his riflescope and pointing frantically towards the east. Still nothing. I bent to the spotting scope and sure enough, highlighted in the setting sun was a herd of deer some six or seven hundred yards distant.
“Blam,” this followed by some muted moaning… mine. Not thinking the master would engage a target so far out; I had not pulled my hearing protection into place. Correcting my oversight, I bent again to the spotting scope, nothing, the deer continued placidly grazing. I turned to the ‘master’.
“Just a warm-up shot,” he said, “Now I’ll need a ranging round, look towards that big buck on the left.”
I looked again, sure enough there was a nice 6x6 buck on the left.
“Blam” the master fired his ranging round, and nothing… a twig fell near the buck, but I saw no evidence of a bullet. The doubts no longer moseyed by, they were marching in parade formation. I dialed the spotting scope out a few powers to get a wider field of view.
The master called me a few unkind names then fired again. This time I did indeed see the ranging round, about 10 feet above the buck it clipped a branch from a tree and went winging on its merry way.
“You’re about 10 feet high and 3 feet to the right,” I informed the ‘master’, now resolved to take any of the master’s wisdom with a little salt on the side.
The master spun the knobs on his scope, he must really know his scope to make such a large adjustment, I thought a little sarcastically. The two old codgers were beside themselves, making for a party of four furiously giggling old men behind us.
The master finished his adjustments and fired again. This time I was ready and knowing what to expect I saw the dirt fly up about 10 yards in front of the deer and just for good measure, about 6 feet to the left. One or two deer looked up from their grazing; perhaps wondering what the ruckus on the hill over yonder was all about.
I reported the results to the ‘master’ who called me a few more unkind names. The messenger picked his head up and set it firmly back in place. A few more adjustments and another shot rang out. This time a squirrel fell out of the tree. Dead? No upon closer examination through the spotting scope, it appeared to be rolling on the ground laughing. The ‘master’ did not take the news of this critique well.
The messenger replaced his head once again and bent to his assigned task. The ‘master’ loaded the rest of his ammo box into his magazine. Box? I looked again, thinking that I had seen “Federal” on the box, surely I had been mistaken. The master only used hand loaded ammunition, he had said so himself!
The ‘master’ had apparently finished his adjustments because this time he cut loose with a barrage. Bullets clipped twigs, mowed grass, trimmed hedges, and dug a few shallow trenches. Nothing the deer were worried about though, as not one bullet passed within ten feet of the happily browsing deer. The ‘master shooter’ began savagely cursing the rifle and scope, much to the relief of the messenger I might add. He waxed eloquent regarding the gunsmith, the scope technicians, barometric pressure and deer in general. Apparently forgetting his earlier ‘lessons’ the master even took the Federal Cartridge company to task, the bullets didn’t fly right, the powder was too this, the primers too that.
We moseyed on back to the Wunderburban, the master may not shoot worth a darn, but he was a master of something alright. Hunters everywhere could learn a bit about complaining and excuse making right at the feet of the master.
Myrtle n' Mabel
These stories begin as character studies, to use a high falutin' term from the craft of writing, and involve two friends of those names. The stories will be set in the 1950's to put it back to a simpler time before the Internet and cell phones. I was not alive at this time so it will be good for me to do some research into the time and place. Anyway, the first character, who is in the first person in this small scene, is Myrtle. She appears slow and uneducated, you might say the classic blonde. However, it is my intention to keep her mechanically inept, but give hints that here cluelessness is only skin deep so to speak. Her friend Mabel on the the other hand is quite obviously not dumb. Universite educated to the Ph.D level, she is seen from the first with an office of her own, although Myrtle feigns ignorance of what exactly her friend does for a living. Both women are the hot women of their town; single with Myrtle mentioning a friend, Herb. We will see where these characters go in further stories. Here is Scene 1 if you will...
Mabel n’ Myrtle Take a Drive
A few days ago I took a drive on the county highway with my friend Mabel; we needed some groceries or other piddly household stuff, nothing to it really. Now Mabel never let me get away with my more ornery thoughts about other drivers and this drive proved no exception. We traveled down a steep hill with my car making its usual whining; when the most beautiful low ridin’ sports car came up the hill, the man inside matching the car, all sleek and sexy like.
“Why he must be doin’ ninety, my heavens!” I blurted out to Mabel, just in case she had dozed off again in the passenger seat, “Not only that he’s drivin’ in the passing lane when there ain’t no one in the driving lane, someone oughta stop him and give him a good talkin’ too.”
“Why you hypocritical legalist,” Mabel shot back, “I do think a glance at your own gauges would show a woman speeding AND drivin’ with her tach over the red line; why don’t you shift up before we burn up this car!”
I didn’t think there would be another gear, but Mabel was right, somehow that happened way too often, and we enjoyed the most lovely and smooth ride down that hill. The engine even stopped whining and it almost never did that.
To tell the truth, I felt mighty stupid just then; no wonder Herb always called it a “four on the floor” shifter. Liking the smoothness of the ride so much, I decided to always use that gear from now on. We stopped at the town red light, so named because it was always red when you wanted to get someplace, and took off as soon as it turned green. Of course, that old car lurched a couple of times and died right there in the town’s main intersection. Me and Mabel just a sittin’ there.
“Myrtle, I realize our Lord said never to call someone an idiot, but you do tempt me somethin’ fierce!” Mabel didn’t hold back, letting me have the whole cartful of her loving kindness, “I haven’t seen anyone do that since my 12-year old cousin learned to drive last month, and you at the ripe old age of 23 stalling this fine car like some kid driver. You know that greasy Clive Barker will be a comin’ over here to give us a hand even though he knows darn well that you’se jes’ stupid.”
When Mabel got embarrassed or angry, or in this case, both; her accent got worse, some thing she had worked at losing during her 6 years at that school. The sign on her office said Dr. something-or-other, I kept fergettin’ her last name since I jest called her Mabel. Sure enough the town mechanic strode across from the soda shop where he managed to waste most of each day. Six foot three and lanky, Clive Barker kept as far away from any cleaning or grooming supplies as was humanly possible. This torqued off Mabel something terrible, an’ he had a crush on her that wouldn’t quit. I knew that I had screwed up bad.
Bucky
Mabel n’ Myrtle Take a Drive
A few days ago I took a drive on the county highway with my friend Mabel; we needed some groceries or other piddly household stuff, nothing to it really. Now Mabel never let me get away with my more ornery thoughts about other drivers and this drive proved no exception. We traveled down a steep hill with my car making its usual whining; when the most beautiful low ridin’ sports car came up the hill, the man inside matching the car, all sleek and sexy like.
“Why he must be doin’ ninety, my heavens!” I blurted out to Mabel, just in case she had dozed off again in the passenger seat, “Not only that he’s drivin’ in the passing lane when there ain’t no one in the driving lane, someone oughta stop him and give him a good talkin’ too.”
“Why you hypocritical legalist,” Mabel shot back, “I do think a glance at your own gauges would show a woman speeding AND drivin’ with her tach over the red line; why don’t you shift up before we burn up this car!”
I didn’t think there would be another gear, but Mabel was right, somehow that happened way too often, and we enjoyed the most lovely and smooth ride down that hill. The engine even stopped whining and it almost never did that.
To tell the truth, I felt mighty stupid just then; no wonder Herb always called it a “four on the floor” shifter. Liking the smoothness of the ride so much, I decided to always use that gear from now on. We stopped at the town red light, so named because it was always red when you wanted to get someplace, and took off as soon as it turned green. Of course, that old car lurched a couple of times and died right there in the town’s main intersection. Me and Mabel just a sittin’ there.
“Myrtle, I realize our Lord said never to call someone an idiot, but you do tempt me somethin’ fierce!” Mabel didn’t hold back, letting me have the whole cartful of her loving kindness, “I haven’t seen anyone do that since my 12-year old cousin learned to drive last month, and you at the ripe old age of 23 stalling this fine car like some kid driver. You know that greasy Clive Barker will be a comin’ over here to give us a hand even though he knows darn well that you’se jes’ stupid.”
When Mabel got embarrassed or angry, or in this case, both; her accent got worse, some thing she had worked at losing during her 6 years at that school. The sign on her office said Dr. something-or-other, I kept fergettin’ her last name since I jest called her Mabel. Sure enough the town mechanic strode across from the soda shop where he managed to waste most of each day. Six foot three and lanky, Clive Barker kept as far away from any cleaning or grooming supplies as was humanly possible. This torqued off Mabel something terrible, an’ he had a crush on her that wouldn’t quit. I knew that I had screwed up bad.
Bucky
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)