It’s been over a year since I last shot a gun. I was in my hometown for this Thanksgiving, and so was my brother, so we and our dad took the opportunity to take the guns out. My brother’s girlfriend and my oldest son (7 years) went with us.

This time, instead of going out behind the grandparents’ farm, my dad had called and got us a place on an actual shooting range. Or so it was supposed to be. None of us had ever been to the location, so we weren’t sure how it would work.

When we arrived at the “range land,” we found the place deserted except for a couple dozen hunting dogs in chain link fence kennels. My dad and I opened a door to the old wooden shack — about 20′ by 40′ — and the first thing we saw was a wide flow of blood on the concrete floor.

Following the glistening dark red trail with our eyes, from just inside the doorway, we found the cut-up deer in a big metal bucket. A pretty fresh kill. No one answered our calls. We checked in another door and still found no one. So my dad used his cell phone to call the owner/operator to see what was up. We were supposed to have an appointment for this time and place.

Out back of the shack was what looked to be the range. It was pretty small, especially for an outdoor range. The longest line I could figure looked no more than maybe 30 yards. There was a tower for observation, with the rules of the range listed, but otherwise, the set up was pretty sparse.

Eventually the owner came driving up in his pickup truck. After a greeting and explanation of our intentions, he told us to follow him in our vehicle. He took us to what had been a corn field that summer, and told us we could shoot there. “Shoot in that direction. And try to aim low. There’s quail hunters over to the right.” He then left us to our entertainment. We could hear occasional shooting off in the distance. The Friday after Thanksgiving is a big deer hunting day.

So there we were, with a small arsenal of firearms, in the middle of a small field. To our left, on the other side of our vehicle (sitting on the rutted truck path) was a couple acres of new-growth pine trees. Behind us and to our right, was a thin copse of older pine trees, through which we could see a couple of houses and trucks (the tertiary blacktop ran between the trees and the houses). And in front of us, about 80 yards away, was a more sizable woods full of pines and hardwoods.

With the direction we were told to shoot in, the only things upright were some old brown corn stalks. We attached a paper target to a corn stalk (about 12 inches off the ground). We wouldn’t be able to do any real tracking on that target, but at least it gave us something to aim at.

We set about arming up. . . . to be continued.

Bullgrit

Warning: This post may be too much for the squeamish — those who prefer not to think about where their food comes from.

Last week there was a video making the rounds of the Interweb of a certain “political celebrity” giving an interview while a turkey slaughter was happening in the background. There was a lot of hullabaloo about the scene, and about the celebrity showing no concern about the activity.

All you citified folk who’ve never seen food “prepared” from the farm, let me tell you what I’ve seen.

My granddaddy and grandmomma (on my father’s side) lived on a farm. I visited usually every weekend (at least on Sundays, after church), and I’d sometimes spend a week there in the summers. On the farm, they had chickens, pigs, and goats.

I’ve tried milk still warm from a goat. (I didn’t like it.) I’ve collected eggs from the chickens in the morning, watched my grandma cook them, and ate them for breakfast. I’ve seen a chicken’s neck wrung, watched it kick and flap until it stopped. I’ve seen pigs castrated — not something I want to see again. I’ve petted a pig one day, watched it slaughtered the next day, and dined on its delicious meat the next.

My grandparents (on my mother’s side) were seafood lovers. I’ve caught fish and crabs, watched them be gutted, and loved the cooked meat.

My step-dad was an avid deer hunter, and I sometimes went with him. Though I never managed to kill a deer, myself, I’ve seen them killed. I’ve watched as a deer was skinned, dressed, and the meat cut up. For years, my family ate deer meat (instead of beef) killed by my step-dad, or one of his hunting buddies.

None of the people above would have ever thought it anything odd to be photographed while a slaughter went on in the background. Hell, they wouldn’t have thought it anything odd to be performing the slaughter in a photograph. The process was no more unusual to them than picking apples off a tree or picking ears of corn off a stalk.

Slaughter happens. It has to happen if we’re to eat meat — and I eat meat. So, although I don’t enjoy seeing the process, (and I haven’t seen it in many years, now), I just can’t get all upset when someone else has no problem with the process.

Bullgrit

Had an old friend call my home the other day. He left a message on our machine saying he was just calling to say hello and catch up on how my life is going. This guy was one of my best friends in high school, and I’d love to chat and catch up with things in our lives. But I’ve learned his pattern.

About 10 years ago, this old friend called me for the first time since our high school days. We talked probably an hour, and it was a lot of fun. I really enjoyed the conversation. We said we’d try to get together some time and talk more.

Then a week later, he called back to sell me on Amway. I said, “No, thanks,” and he didn’t push it. But that was the last I heard from him for a long time. Admittedly, I didn’t call him either, but after the sales pitch, I wasn’t sure I wanted to meet with him face to face.

Around 5 years ago, this old friend called me again. We had another great conversation about our lives and the old days. Again, I thoroughly enjoyed the phone call. But I mentioned to Cowgrit, “I wonder if he’ll call back about Amway.”

Then a week later, he called back to sell me on Amway. I said, “No, thanks,” and he didn’t push it. But his pattern left a bad feeling with me. Was he just calling me to sell me?

A few months later, in my old hometown, I bumped into another old friend from high school. During our brief conversation, I asked if he knew what was going on with any of our other old friends. I mentioned that I had talked with X on the phone a couple of times.

“Did he try to sell you on Amway?” this guy asked.

Turns out my old best friend had called many of our old schoolmates with the same pattern – call to catch up, then follow up with a call to sell Amway.

Now this guy has called me to catch up a third time. I guess he’s got me on the 5 year rotation. I won’t bother to call him back. I’m still not interested in Amway.

Bullgrit

I need to explain my comment in the discussion at that end of this post. I was around 20-21 years old when I got my second speeding ticket in my hometown. (I’ve only had two tickets ever, anywhere.) When the officer gave me the paper, I put it in the center compartment of my car, between the front seats.

Some time later, I think a couple of months, my dad asked me about it. “Have you taken care of that speeding ticket?”

“Oh crap!” I answered. I had completely forgot about it. We both went out to my car and pulled out the ticket. The court date was passed.

My dad got his coat and said, “Let’s go deal with this, now.”

He drove me downtown to the courthouse. At the time, my dad knew nearly every sole in my hometown. (This was a result of him having lived in that town for most of his life, and of his being a salesman for the in-town radio station.) We went into the office and he talked to the man he knew behind the counter. He explained what we were there for, and asked what we needed to do about it.

Turns out, there had been a warrant issued for my arrest that very morning. Note: don’t miss a court date — judges take that stuff very serious. No officer had picked up the warrant yet, but if we had waited a day, or maybe just a few hours, I could have had a police cruiser pull into our driveway. I could have been arrested.

I still think it’s kind of absurd that missing a court date for a speeding ticket can get one arrested — how badly could that screw up one’s life?

But, anyway, my dad and I went through all the channels and red tape. We went to the assistant DA’s office and “turned myself in” as she told the judge later. We went to court with the DA, I stood before the judge, and in the end, the warrant was dismissed. I had to pay court costs, but that was it. Even the original speeding ticket (55 mph in a 45 limit zone) was reduced to something minimal. (I don’t remember what exactly it was reduced to, but it meant no points on my license.) This all took around three or four hours.

Now, if you think this came about because my dad/family is wealthy or has “connections” (other than simple friendships), you’d be mistaken. My family was no more than middle-class, and being a salesman for a radio station doesn’t give you any kind of leverage or lubricant for changing law-folks’ minds.

My dad and I were just straight up and honest about everything. My dad’s knowing people just meant that they took him at his word, and they figured his son couldn’t be too bad a boy. Other than one previous speeding ticket, (in a different town — a friggin’ speed trap, that), I had no record or reputation for being trouble.

The DA and judge took a liking to me, through my dad, because I owned up to “being stupid” for forgetting the ticket. I didn’t try to weasel out of anything. We just asked, “What do we need to do?”

I like to think that I’ve lived up to their good will for me. But that situation does give me a little bit of “bad boy” cred. When someone accuses me of being a white bread goody two shoes, I can throw this in their face and say, “Ha! I’ve had a warrant out for my arrest. I was once a criminal. Sort of. Almost.”

Bullgrit