The Beauty… And The Giant

Tuesday nights were my favorite time of the week for the next three years.  I ate 5 times my body weight in sugar wafers… chewed the rim off of at least 600 Styrofoam cups… talked a l0t about God, and learned a great deal more.  Not a bad way to spend an evening, huh?

I could fill at least two more big books with what I learned while in that ‘tenement’ and in the company of that woman.  But it’s what went on in that little, worn-out place every other night that still brings me to my knees… and clouds my eyes with love and amazement.

I was speaking some years later in a nearby city, and stopped in Dewitt to reminisce.  By God’s grace I found all my old friends, everyone from Maribelle’s flock.  Everyone, that is, except Maribelle.  To this day, I still have no idea where she is.  It’s as if she just ‘moused’ her way right on out of this world.  But I learned that she left some big tracks!

I had stopped by her apartment in ‘the housing’, hoping against hope that I’d find her there.  And I must have looked fairly lost, because over my shoulder two voices called out, “What’cha looking for?”  I thought for a moment that I just might be in trouble… that is, until I said, “I’m trying to find Maribelle.”

At least four doors opened along the commons, and men, women and kids started towards me.  Thank God, they were smiling!  I don’t remember their names.  I only vaguely recall their faces.  But their words were a refiner’s fire… and a cool breeze… and the toppin’ of a short hill in a fast car, all at the same time.

One right after another, and sometimes, two at a time told me about “Momma” Maribelle.  You see, I knew about the wonder of Tuesday nights, but had no idea about:

¨     Monday night cooking classes for the unwed, live-in and newly-wed teens that called those ‘tenements’ home.

¨     Thursday night sessions with new mothers, to teach them how to change, bathe, hold and love their “Treasures”, as they now called them.

¨     Daily and regular exhortations to the young women sharing abodes with men on how to love, honor and encourage those men.  And above all, to love God with everything they had… and hoped for.

You know, I didn’t recognize her for a long, long time.  53 and built like a pear, she had straw yellow hair, a splotchy complexion… and a glass eye.  Some folks might say, “No wonder I didn’t recognize her!”  I prefer the truth these days.  And the truth is, I was just plain blind.

Hebrews 12:1

“These Are My Friends…”

“Come on in Preacher!  Everyone’s excited to hear ya!”  Thus began my true learning of the ways of God among men.

Maribelle’s treasure stepped aside, and with a fairly grand sweep of his arm, bade me in.  The room was small and haggard with a smattering of worn furniture, but it was neat as a pin… and packed!  Maribelle stepped through the crowd, and somewhere, deep within my subconscious mind the difference in her registered.  But it wasn’t until years later that I recognized it for what it was.

“Preacher,” she says, “These are my friends.”  And with an uncommon warmth and grace, she turned to touch each of them with her gaze.  I followed her lead and noted each face myself.  Some of these folks I knew.  Some of them, I wasn’t sure I wanted to.  All of them looked to me like they had seen better days… or needed to.  But Maribelle was proud of them, and they were proud of Maribelle.  And something began to dawn on me that night.

You see, when people feel ‘welcome’ and comfortable, the door to their hearts can’t help but be opened, just a little.  Maribelle knew that.  Although, at the time, I wasn’t sure where she’d learned it.  I had never seen anyone be more than vaguely cordial to her, and I had never seen anyone be as gracious and true to friends as she was that night.

I don’t remember what I talked about.  I don’t even remember what time of year it was.  But it’s etched in my bones how that night ‘felt’.  The entire evening was warm, friendly, comfortable and inviting. With sugar wafers and macaroons from Aldi’s and store brand pop in Styrofoam cups, we had ourselves a regular feast.

And I don’t recall any deep theological discussions afterwards, but I wasn’t disappointed.  Such fodder would have only diminished the moment.  I do remember Maribelle engaging each of her friends in what she called “care talk”.  Care talk, of course, was when the conversation was about the friend… their joys, their hopes and dreams and fears… and not about Maribelle.

Hmmm.  It sure was a sight.  I was the ‘polished’ preacher… but she was the living vessel.  I went to fill their heads with the knowledge of God.  She bathed them with His concern and acceptance with joy.

“Thanks for coming, and for such a fine lesson” she said, as I was leaving.  I didn’t tell her, but I wouldn’t have missed that ‘tenement’ experience… for anything on earth!  I still wasn’t aware of her true stature though, that came later.

John 13:35

Maribelle

You know, I didn’t recognize her for a long, long time.  53 and built like a pear, she had straw yellow hair, a splotchy complexion… and a glass eye.  Some folks might say, “No wonder I didn’t recognize her!”  I prefer the truth these days.  And the truth is, I was just blind.

Maribelle was a meek woman.  She ‘moused’ her way through work, friendships and worship.  To this day I can’t recall ever seeing her one good eye narrow in irritation… ever.  Maybe, with all the storms she’d weathered, the light drizzle of day-to-day living just didn’t seem worth the effort of anger.  Oh Lord, do I need to learn that!  She lived in the public tenements with her only earthly treasure, her son Ricky.  Ricky was an absolute prize in her eyes, in spite of being a teenager… and mentally retarded.

Oh, did I mention she had a husband?  Yep.  I hear he was a good storyteller and a fine friend when the night got thirsty.  I also heard he had a big place just outside of town.  All I know for sure is, he’s the reason she had a glass eye… and lived in the tenements.  But he was her husband.

You see, Maribelle had this notion that, for all he had done, and all he hadn’t done… since he hadn’t “cheated” on her (Maribelle never did use indelicate words), she had no right to divorce him.  The tenements came into play because of an equally strong obligation she felt to “keep the boy safe”.

Maribelle was not the first giant I’d ever met, but she was the one who taught me that giants don’t always ‘look’ like giants… at first, and that they’re seldom found where most people go to look for them.   I definitely had no clue there’d be one where I found her.

Dewitt was the first place where I told people about Jesus for my daily bread.  And I went at it full steam, wide-eyed… and blind.  You see, I thought that little congregation would be as excited about Him and the awesome opportunity to tell the world about Him as I was.  For the sake of brevity and kindness, let’s just say, it weren’t so.  Except for Maribelle.

I’d been making appeals for homes to host bible studies in for three weeks running when she approached me.  The Wednesday night regulars had all headed home, and I was on my way out the door when I sensed her.  I say ‘sensed’ her because, that’s how it was with Maribelle. She never did talk much.

She seemed to take a minute to find something in herself, I still don’t know if it was her thoughts… or her courage.  Then she said, “Preacher.  I been listening to you all these weeks… and you may not want it.  I ain’t got much.  My house, it ain’t much.  But I’d get cookies, if you’d bring the pop.  And there’s lots of people in ‘the housing’ that need Jesus.”  That’s when I got my first glimpse at the giant.

Hebrews 11:37-38

A Cadillac Escalade… back in these hills. Why don’t spoiled, rich people just stay in their safe, comfortable, clueless cities where they belong? Oh well, if I was going to have to take time out from my Christmas Eve, it might as well be for the type of haul I’d make sure this one was.

As I pulled ahead and positioned my wrecker for the grab (this fella’s sissy-truck was in the ditch on Slokam’s Curve… nice and steep), I saw an L.L. Bean ad step out of the vehicle. It was good stuff, and well thought out… I had to admit. No stupid stuff on him. But I couldn’t have afforded the green wool “Cruiser” he had on, let alone the rest of his hotsy-totsy attire… damned high-brow weenies!

“Good evening fine sir! Thank you for coming out on such a night.” He said it with genuine-enough enthusiasm. But then again, all these college-soft prudes were fully trained in schmoozing when it suited them. I let him know I wasn’t impressed.

“Where’s the drop off?”

His manner changed not at all.

“1226 Anderson Cove, sir. And a MERRY CHRISTMAS to you. Would you like a hot cup of coffee before we get started?”

I have to admit, this one was surprising me, just a little. But I wasn’t about to let him know it. “First off, ‘we’ aren’t starting anything. I’m going to pull you out of this mess you got into… take you to your destination… AND (have to admit, this part gave me great pleasure to say… at the moment) you’ll pay my ‘Christmas Eve’ rates”

He just smiled and nodded, like we were old friends agreeing on our favorite old movie to watch. “Sounds mighty fair to me!” he quipped as he reached into the back seat of his rig for a thermos. As he poured what turned out to be mighty fine smelling brew into the lid/cup, he added, “You sure you don’t want me to climb under this beast and put the cinch lines around the frame rails? The snow’s pretty deep and I rutted and muddied it up a good bit more trying to extricate myself.”

I let my contempt show in full glory as I said, “I wouldn’t want you to ‘sully your attire’ (well, I HAD read books, you know!), or ruin your manicure.” I said it slowly, and with much malice. I’ll be damned if he didn’t just lift that thermos lid like it was a gold chalice and say, “Fair enough. You’re the expert.”

Nossir, I did not know what to make of this one. But I was figuring him for one of those defense lawyers, since nothing seemed to bother him. Oh yeah, he was going to pay!

And that was the last word between us for quite a while. At least this Christmas eve would finally be a silent night.

It was all of thirty miles and close to an hour on these roads back into town, and we were almost to the city limits when my curiosity got the better of me.

“So, what’s a fancy man like yourself doing out on Slokam’s Curve on Christmas Eve, hugging a tree?”

“Hunting.”

I rolled my eyes and then looked over at him. “Gun season’s over. ‘Course, I figure you’d know how to get out of the fine, probably having Christmas dinner with the mayor and judge, huh?”

He was looking out the windshield at the snow, and his gaze never shifted. “Nah, the judge doesn’t even like wild game. Besides, I was bowhunting.”

“Bowhunting? YOU?!”

I loved bowhunting… had caught the bug from my ex’s brother a couple years back. I hadn’t done much of it recently, what with work and the economy and all. But I loved it. This fella didn’t look anything like a bowhunter, least not one I’d want to be around. He probably had the latest, most expensive rig, too. I’d checked prices over at C&J’s last week… that’s why I was still shooting my ’91 BROWNING Mirage with a cheap release from Wally world.

“So, I guess you got one of the new Mathews, or Diamonds, huh?”

“No.”

“No? Well, what do you shoot… a crossbow?”

This man did not fluster at all. “No. Got nothing against any of them, but I get out amongst them with an old GROVES Spitfire I rescued from some man’s ex-wife’s yard sale years ago. How about you, what do you shoot?”

“Me? Oh well, I have an old BEAR Grizzly that my father used back in the 60s…” My voice trailed off. Don’t know why I didn’t just tell him the truth about the BROWNING. Don’t know why that old relic came to mind. My father and I hadn’t spoken in years; even though he still lived on the family home place, just a few miles past Slokam Hill, where I picked this dude up. And I hadn’t thought of that old bow in a few more… don’t know why I mentioned it now.

It was time to change the subject, so I asked Mr. ‘Bean’, “what’s that address again?”

“1226 Anderson Cove. Do you know where that is?”

“Well, yeah. But there ain’t no shops there. There ain’t no houses there.”

“Yes, I know. But there’s the turn…” he pointed with a smile.

“Oh, you must be a doctor. There ain’t nothing out here but the nursing home.”

“Yes, yes I know. And you can pull right up under the awning of the main entrance. That will be perfect, and thank you!”

He didn’t even wait for my rig to come to a full stop before he jumped out and headed for the front door.

“HEY!” I yelled. “I ain’t no taxi service. You’re going to pay for every minute I sit here.”

He turned at the door, gave me a thumbs up, and said, “Fair enough!” and then disappeared into the sterile, yellow light of that house of the walking dead.

…gave me the creeps, just being this close to the place.

___________________________________________

It was about five minutes and 3 levels of rising anger later when Mr. ‘Bean’ came back into view. But what happened next erased my vigilance on watching the clock… and the anger.

He made his way out the door, and went directly to the back of my wrecker… followed by three tottering old geezers in house shoes and overcoats. I felt the weight of him climbing onto the slide bed. I got out to give him a piece of my mind about “liability” and “idiots”, and was just about to turn loose on him when I heard, “Well boys, there he is… what do you think?”

“Oh, he’s a dandy!”

“Say, he’s bigger than he looked in those trail camera pictures!”

“Hmph! He’s not as big as that brute I got in ’63…”

“Harvey! Nothing is EVER as big as that brute you got in ’63!”

Then they all laughed.

“What’s going on here?” I asked. I felt like I had to do something to show who was in control here. I mean, this was MY wrecker.

Mr. ‘Bean’ chuckled. “Oh just showing some of the boys a bit of what was out there, this Christmas Eve.” And before I could say anything in return, ‘Harvey’ turned, grabbed my hand with both of his gnarled old paws and said, “And we want to thank you for picking him up and bringing him on in for us. We’s gettin’ a little worried… he’s never been this late before!”

His buddies nodded in hearty agreement. Behind them, a steady trickle of wrinkled old rememberers came out the doors in everything from muck boots and mackinaws to slippers and shawls. Within just a few minutes there must have been twenty men standing around my wrecker, ooh-ing and aw-ing over the buck… slapping Mr. ‘Bean’ on the back… and thanking me for going out on ‘such a night’ and helping their good friend share his “Christmas Hunt” with them.

I just stood there, more and more flabbergasted, and feeling more and more foolish and humbled at what I was learning about… and from this ‘dude’.

_____________________________________

It was Mr. ‘Bean’ who finally broke things up. “Alright gentlemen, it’s time for all of you to head for warmer ground, and for me to let this poor man get home to his family. And I still have to have this old boy cut up and in the freezer by midnight.”

“You are coming back tomorrow for dinner?” Harvey said with a naked pleading in his voice. Every other head under that red aluminum’d heaven bobbed up and down in agreed wonder.

“Of course I will. And there will be roasts and cutlets with gravy… and that tom from last month’s adventure, all done up golden brown, just like Chester there taught me three years ago.”

Chester, who proved to be the shy, lanky old man with the dribble on his coat, and who had saddled up next to the buck and said nothing at all the whole time shrugged and looked around in grinning embarrassment… and pride.

Several old hands clapped their approval as every old eye shone with the rekindled Fire of Life burning bright… just like another uncommon Star… that had glowed as a sign at another holy happening.

_______________________________

One of the original three old wise men turned to me and said, “Mr. we’d sure be proud to have you come and join us for dinner tomorrow. Kevin here always puts on quite a wild game feast. And you aren’t likely to hear lies like we can tell about the ones that got away!” Harvey grinned and added, “And I can tell you all about the one that didn’t, back in 1963. Bring your wife and kids… we don’t bite… very often.”
I laughed out loud… hadn’t done that in over a year.
“Well, gentlemen, I appreciate that. And I might just surprise you. It sounds like a wonderful time.”
I noted how Kevin (felt good to have a name for him other than Mr. ‘Bean’…) made time for each old soul… one last handshake, shoulder tap and smile before they left the magic of this moment and re-entered the Pine-Sol’d monotony of their existence here at Bayview Retirement Villa. I also noticed how the glow of the evening’s events seemed to warm the man to his very core, as he stood there under that awning for another minute, just reliving it all.
He was, I realized, a very rich man. Not because of what he drove, told time with, or wore. It was a sort of warming revelation to my own bitter, cold heart. But there was more to come…

____________________________________

I did need to get on back to the house, but I was curious about what I’d just witnessed. So, I asked him, “Kevin?”

“Yes?”

“One of those old guys your grandpa or something?”

“No sir.”

“Uncle?”

“No sir.”

I was getting a bit flustered. “Well, did you grow up with them, or something?”

Kevin smiled and nodded toward my rig. “I’ll give you the short version on the way to my place.”

We had gone almost two miles before he started. “I grew up in Oklahoma, in the oilfields and gyp hills of the southwest. My father was a hard working man that never made much money… never had much to give me. At least that’s what I thought when I was a young fool, thinking the city held all the real treasure in this world.” I turned to look at him, then. I’d never heard a man be that honest about himself. Hell, I’d never been that honest with myself. It was a little uncomfortable to hear, but Kevin quietly continued.

“He did this sort of thing the whole time I was growing up. Of course there weren’t many nursing homes in that part of the country back then. But every season, while some other men would tie their buck to the hood of their Bel Air or Pontiac and make the rounds of Kinder’s Hardware, the Galaxy Café and then the Times Herald to get their picture in the Wednesday ADVERTISER… my dad would cover whatever ‘trophy’ him and the bow had grassed with an Army surplus tarp, grinning like a Cheshire cat… and drive the old section roads. He’d make a circuit of the old Sooners who had homesteaded that ground with his father… and who would, too soon, be adding their own dust to its richness.

“He never had a bad word to say about those who chose the other path, said he enjoyed seeing their pictures, himself. But I remember we were sitting on top of Saddleback Hill one evening, after having visited with four or five old souls in the country, and showing and sharing the tale of an old, long-nose doe and scrubby 6-point Dad had bested within minutes of each other in a thicket just outside of Cement. We were listening to the music of the oil wells. Each well’s single-piston engine had its own unique rhythm and voice. Couldn’t stand them when we moved there… missed them like crazy when me and Mom left. Anyway, I remember we were sitting there, and I asked him why he did this, why he spent time with all these ‘old codgers’. I remember he smiled at me and said, “Careful son, your old man’s close to being one of those ‘old codgers’ his self”. And then he pointed out across the hills and leases and black jack thickets muted and hidden in the dark blanket of that night.

“Son, you see those R.E.C. lights dottin’ the horizon… them ones that are so far from any other light that they seem to shine a little brighter?”

“Yes sir.”

“That’s where those old codgers live… out away from other folk. Kevin, it ain’t true of all of them… I’ll grant you that, but most of those old souls are diamonds. They’re precious, rich in experiences and memories and wisdom, brimming over the top of the bucket of their hearts with good things to share and love to give. They live where they were thrown, Kevin… cast out and tossed aside by sons and daughters and spouses who didn’t see enough dollar signs or other ‘shiny’ stuff to merit keepin’ ‘em around.”

I remember his voice trailed off and faltered just a bit. But he quickly retightened the cinch on the private knowings and thoughts behind the conversation… smiled warmly at me, and thrust out his noble chin. “I’m a greedy man, son. And I want all the good things those old jewels have to offer.” Then he settled his gaze on me, took my own chin in a work-cracked hand, and gently lifted my face as he said, “And I want you to be as rich as I am.”

___________________________________

As the whirring light bar flashed and flickered its amber beacon into the tumbling veil, I found myself envious of such a lucky life (for the second time in one night). Not bitter toward this good man, just jealous that I hadn’t been so blessed. It came out this way, “Wow… you and your dad must have been real close.”

That was the first thing all night that seemed to take him by surprise. Kevin looked at me with a blank look. “Sorry?”

“Your dad, your dad and you must have been close.”

Kevin chuckled slightly as he said, “No.”

“No?”

“Oh, it wasn’t Dad’s doing. No, it wasn’t him. My mom packed me up just a few days after that December evening on Saddleback and headed us across country to make what she called ‘a better life’. She married money the second time. And as I got older, I made good money… for the first time. I never saw my father alive again.”

“My father died where we’d left him, where I had cast him aside. He died underneath one of those farthest… and brightest R.E.C. lights, surrounded by the Treasure he had found laying right out in plain sight. He died on a Christmas Eve, just like this one, nine years ago.”

I locked both hands on the steering wheel and focused real hard on the road. I was back to not knowing what to think.

Kevin went on like he was sharing good news with an old friend.

“My mother didn’t tell me of his death until Christmas night, after she made sure all the ‘celebrations’ of that Eve, and day had gone as planned. He had been treated as an inconvenient interruption into our ‘happiness’ for so long, I wasn’t even all that angry at her timing… even though I was that shocked at the news. I had always thought that I would go back. I always thought that there was time.”

“Anyway, I went straight to my apartment, for a change of clothes… and the GROVES (my mom had taken it out of spite… it was her yardsale I bought it from. I mowed the neighbor’s yard for two months to pay its price… mom knew the price of everything).”

Kevin turned his head and measured my countenance for a bit. I was still locked on the wheel and staring hard at the road. He gave a quick sigh, and I could sense that he was about to say something directly to me. But instead, he pursed his lips together and turned his head slightly, as though some unheard voice of thought had whispered in his ear. He looked at me again, and then continued.

________________________________

“I hadn’t touched that bow in years. I kept it around for reference-sake, I suppose. No, no, that’s not quite the honest truth. I think that SpitFire served as a sort of secret portal for me, a window back into that time of innocence, when dads are still the smartest men in the world… and us kids are still their favorite pupil. And I know it may sound funny, I mean, I knew he was gone. I knew that he wouldn’t be there to see. But I had to take it. I had to show him that I had hung on, a little bit. Somehow, I had to tell my dad that I hadn’t forgotten, and that all the time he had invested into teaching me what really mattered wasn’t a waste. Although I had wasted all the time he would ever see.”

Kevin looked at me again. “Does any of this make sense?”

All I could manage was a quick nod. I didn’t dare try to answer, I had no confidence that I could control the sound I’d make. Oh yeah, it was ‘making sense’!

The snow was flowing at a whiteout pace now, but we only had a couple more miles to go. The feelings and images inside of me were blowing through my mind with a blinding, gale force as well. It would have been hard for me to honestly declare whether it was the snow without, or the storm within that made seeing anything clearly nearly impossible at the moment.  My passenger, on the other hand, finished his story in the same clear, matter-of-fact manner he seemed to do everything in.
“ I had no idea what to expect on the other side of that peeled-paint door when I knocked. But I never could have expected what did happen. I was greeted warmly and affectionately by a few old souls I only faintly remembered, and by several more that I had never met. They treated me as though I was their own long, lost son, as though I had never been as shallow or useless, as sons go, as I had been. Old Mr. Stewart was the one that brought it all home and set me free with it. As he handed me a yellowed, ragged edged envelope with familiar, shaky script addressing its contents to “My Beloved Son”, he said, “Yeah, yore ol’ man was right. You are a fine lookin’ boy. And you did come… and you do seem to have the right look in yore eye.” He broke our gaze just long enough to turn his ancient, sharp features slightly to the right and hit the mark with a bit of Days Work juice. Then his eyes softened, ever so slightly as he added, “This here letter had been next to yore daddy’s heart, in his left shirt pocket since a week after yore mamma done what she did. You’ll notice, at the bottom right corner of it, thar’s a date and his best work at signing it agin, day afore yesterday. He wanted you to know, Kevin. He wanted you to know that nothin’ in that there work of his heart had changed… not one stroke of the pen.”
The room went silent as men who had loved my father better than I had, and who loved me… because he had, waited in reverence for me to discover just how much. My eyes fought to stay clear and focused as they swam through the tears, but I was able to read:

______________________________________

“My Treasure’d Son,

You were taken from here, long ago, by circumstances beyond your control, or mine. If you are reading this, then you have been brought back by circumstances that are, once again, beyond being corralled by either of us. But my dear, dear son, it is my joyous pleasure to inform you, that you will also leave here this second time, just as you did the first… loved, cherished and treasured. I have no ground nor goods to leave you. As you know, such things never seemed to stay close or long in my company. But I do not leave you bereft or destitute.

Around you at this very moment are diamonds and jewels of inestimable value, now more than ever.

To me… though gone.

And to you… though broken and unsure.

Take what they offer. Feast on the bounty they provide. And as you return to your current living, remember how easy these Treasures are to find… and seek them out. Do this, and you will never be poor… and we will never again be parted.

All My Love… All I Have,

DAD

(TO THE TUNE FROM ‘The Sound Of Music‘)

Coffee in tin cups, banked fires a glowin’…

Pre-dawn in Tejas on trails I’m a’knowin’.

True-sent old C L O S E D signs that slip from the string…

These are a few of my favorite things.

“Kee Putts” and scratchin’, just over the next hill…

3 big ol’ gobblers, now there is a REAL thrill!

Snuffers that zip through the base of the wing…

These are a few of my favorite things.

________________________________________________________________

When the boss gripes…

When the bill stings…

When I’m going mad,

I simply remember my favorite things…

And then I don’t feel so bad.
_________________

Snow in the Bridgers, big Muleys up high…

Evenin’s among ‘em, with flame in the sky…

Taking a blue grouse while she’s on the wing,

These are a few of my favorite things.

The Ozarks in Springtime, Wisconsin in Autumn…

Turkeys and deer and bear, yeah, they got ‘em.

Watchin’ the stars as the night critters sing…

These are a few of my favorite things.

_________________

Callin’ a big bull, and he comes my way…

Packin’ him out for most of the day…

Sharing with good friends the Joy that it brings,

These are a few of my favorite things.

Helpin’ a young’n to work out the trails…

Watchin’ with pride as his first arrow sails…

Spreadin’ his story till he feels like a king,

These are a few of my favorite things.

_________________________________________________________________

Yeah, when the boss bites…

When the bill stings…

When I’m goin’ mad,

I simply remember my favorite things…

And then I don’t feel so bad.
_________________

CM Sackett

They were there… just for an instant. Then that blasted Gulf-spawned fog rolled back over them (I mean, we were in the Brush Country of south Texas… not the Puget Sound!).

“Did you see that?” I whispered.

My friend Charlie lowered his glasses and peered into the mist. “See what?” he whispered back.

I stepped closer to keep our hushed tones from drifting into the thicket. “I swear I saw rams standing in that wash, right there.” I said, pointing with a nod of my head.

Charlie stared hard into the rolling blank greyness, then looked at me like I’d just given a dumb answer on Jeopardy, “There ain’t no rams on this ranch.”

All I could do was just shake my head… he was so encouraging sometimes. “Well, I know what I saw.” I hissed as quiet, yet ‘firm’ as I could. It was my best defense, with nothing but fog for proof. Yet, as Charlie was gathering himself to make some witty comeback, we heard the ‘click‘, like a hoof on stone. And it was coming from the direction of the wash. Charlie looked at me wide-eyed, like he’d just heard wind in church. As I returned his gaze, I proved to be the more mature and manly of the two of us… I stuck my tongue out at him.

Again, out of the shrouded beyond, that faint, but distinct ‘click‘… ‘click‘ ‘click‘ ‘click‘. And then, what sounded like a groan.

Now, for a couple of Tennessee hillbillies, me and Charlie was bold as the best of them around coons and possums and other bench crawlers-n-holler ‘haints. But this here was getting down right unnerving for both of us.

Then, as we strained to see through the soup, the fog melted right there, just enough for us to get a peek at several of what “ain’t” on that ranch.

“Man o’ man, would you look at that” Charlie said, a little louder than he meant to.

It got their attention, and three of them glanced over their shoulders and instantly saw us for what we were… a very small threat. But that didn’t stop ‘em from turning right around and leading the others into that thorn-crowned realm of safety.

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Me and Charlie had come down here for hogs and javies. Well, and bobcats, coyotes, bunnies… you know, anything that a south Texas March had to offer. But from the instant we laid eyes on those curl horned ghosts, we were after RAMS! Charlie said it would be “…easy. They’re just domestic goats.” He could be so persuasive sometimes. And so wrong.

For the next two hours, we stood right where we were, making a grand plan of attack. Let’s just keep this between ourselves… alright? But truth be told, it wasn’t because of our years of vast experience or colossal wisdom or unfathomably deep propensity for patience. Nah, it’s just, that for most of that time, we couldn’t see past the Snuffers on the end of our arrows.

Once the sun finally climbed out of its bed, somewhere in Pennsylvania, and burned a path of daylight into the landscape, we headed out after our new favorite challenge. Spent the rest of that day~~and right into dark working our plan and walking the Lama’s right off our Tony’s (well, you do have to dress proper for Texas, you know!). We snuck down arroyos, crawled through pig tunnels in the mesquite (made by very small pigs, I might add), became instant experts in the Texas Two-Step trying to get clear of a rattler we disturbed, and actually wondered if drinking water would do us any good. I mean, we figured it’d just come pouring out of all those new holes in us, if we did. And once in a while, we even caught a glimpse of those beasts, generally standing in some clearing about 150-200 yards ahead of us. They were always standing right at the entrance to another hellish haven of escape… laughing. I swear, they were laughing.

We played the wind. We played our hunches. We played our luck… and we played plumb out. The only ones who enjoyed that day were the rams, and our host.

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As we were having dinner at the LIBERTY Cafe that evening, our host, Mr. Smith, was fairly gentle with us. He waited until the chips-n-salsa were in place before he chuckled and said, “You boys look like you had a full day.”

We were too pooped and too hungry to argue the obvious.

“Saw them damn rams, didn’t you?”

That snapped us back to attention. Charlie ’bout spit chip chunks into my fresh bowl of cheese dip… he can be so uncouth sometimes! I covered up just in time, and then looked at Smitty. “Yessir, we sure did. Why didn’t you tell us you had rams on this place?”

“Because I don’t.”

“But we seen ‘em!” Charlie had cleared an airway and finally found his voice.

“Yeah, I know you saw them. But I’m not the reason they’re there. One of my neighbors came into more money back in the 80’s than he ever had brains for. He went out and bought a bunch of those beasts, and a herd of emu. Said they were the ‘beef of the future’ and going to make him ‘rich’. Well, it didn’t take them long to ‘migrate’ back and forth through the holes in the fence that the hogs make. The only thing they’ve been over the years is a smelly pain in the rump!”

“Well, why haven’t you just killed ‘em off?” I asked.

“Two reasons, my friend. One, them old smelly buggers ain’t that dumb-easy.” Then he leaned forward for effect. “You boys found that out today, didn’t you?” he chuckled.

I was too interested in reason number two to even let that one hit home. Charlie, on the other hand, was a little more inclined to catch it. Just as he was working up a rebuttal, I shoved the chips closer to him and asked, “Smitty, what’s reason number two?”

Smitty leaned back in his chair and smiled, like he’d just finished a fine meal~~and we hadn’t even started on our Mexican Plate #2’s yet.

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Smitty cut right to th chase. “I’ll tell you what, boys. If either of you can stick one of the ‘Brothers 3′, your hunt’s on me.”

He’d said Charlie’s favorite word… “free”. “We kill a ram, our whole hunt’s free?”

Smitty’s smile was faint, but ominous. “Not just any ram, gentlemen. It has to be one of the ‘Brothers 3′.”

“Who’s the ‘Brothers 3′, sir?” I asked (I liked a little more detail to my deals of a lifetime).

Smitty smiled. “They’re the chink-bossed, full-curled old demons that bested you boys all day, down by the tanks… the three that looked back at you in the fog.”

Now it was my turn to be a tortilla geyser. I was a better shot, got Charlie and the queso. “How in the Sam Hill did you know that?!” Charlie bellowed as his eyes followed the debris trail from his shirt, all the way back to my silent, sheepish ‘SORRY!”.

“Well, I was quite impressed with the fact that you boys weren’t deterred by that gift from the Gulf this morning. And since I didn’t have anything else to do after you left, I figured I’d just see how you Tennessee mountain men liked our Brush Country flats. And I calculated it was about time for those bearded bandits to cross back over to my place.” He gave it all time to sink in, then added, “I figured they’d get your attention. So, I went up on Calichi Hill to watch the whole show… and you boys put on a good one!”

I was liking this man. Ornery as Hell! But not mean, just full of the zest of Life.

I wasn’t against anything ‘free’, but something about the way Smitty just sat there at the end of the table, munchin’ on a chip and watching us, I began to feel like we were nothing more than lab mice… in a maze. And that old hombre had just dropped the cheese at the other end. We could smell it. And he knew we were gonna go for it, the confident, satisfied look on his face bore that out. But the fire dancin’ in his eyes made me wonder if there was an exit.

more to come…

I came up here to get a break from the ‘perfect storm’ of my life… and for three days, it sort of worked. I started this jaunt with fresh everything… except memories. I bought new wools-n-wets-gear, new boots, traded the Chrysler in for a new (to me) ‘73 F150 4X4 (it had character, I’ll give it that) and even a new hat. The tent and camp gear was all new, loaned cheerfully by a friend who knew the feeling… and also knew, that at the moment, there was nothing else he could do for me.

The only ‘old’ thing I brought into these mountains was the Howatt El Dorado, that my father had used to feed his family and his soul, in places just like this, for years and years. He had given it to me that November before the dementia finally closed the last window of his clear eyes and piercing wisdom. It was one of the few items of his journey on this land, that he had truly cherished (his loyalties and his treasures rested firmly in a broad audience of people… and the Almighty). I had always thought of it as just “that stick”. It must have shown when he handed it to me. He said, “Son, I’m dancin’ on the squall line for the last time, here. I can see the storm boiling into the valley, and I know where it’s headed.”

His eyes probed my face, then brightened as his chin lifted and he continued. “I know it’s just a stick, son. But if you’re willin’, it’s also a connection. That’s what it’s been for me for over 40 years… a connection.”

“With what?” I quickly asked. This was the first time in months that the man I knew as Dad had spoken through those lips.

He chuckled and reached up with a steady hand, and patted my face, like he did when I was a tike. “With the truth, son, that nothing is forever down here. Thank God, especially not the storms. I hunted because I loved it, son. But I went on the mountain, on more than one occasion, because I needed a break from the ’storms’ in the valleys of daily livin’. Up there, the thunder and lightning was just Nature’s music. And up there, I learned to dance to it… and to be a little less afraid of the noise and rain down here.”

“Does any of that make sense, son?”

I nodded yes with my head. But it wasn’t until this outing that my heart learned to join in.

I wasn’t much of a hunter. I’d learned to shoot fairly well when I was a kid. You know, one of those “I’m gonna be like my DAD!” things that never seem to get very far off the ground for some of us. And even as I grabbed it and the quiver of arrows off the display rack in my office the night before I left, I wasn’t real sure why. Except, reaching for it was the only natural thing I had done in weeks… and it felt “right” in my hand. So, I brought it.

And it had been sitting next to me now, in the tent, for three days of a downpour.

Some getaway.

I’d tried to hunt with it the first couple of days. I say ‘hunt’ almost in jest. I mean, isn’t it kind of funny to call plodding aimlessly up and down the cutbacks and logging roads, through the liquid misery, with your head down, and your mind full of everything but the animals you were scaring the bejeebees out of… hunting?

But that’s what I was calling it.

It was on the morning of the fourth day that I discovered a part of my father’s secret to Joy… and nearly lost my life in the process. The weather had broken for a while. The next fury of the season was hanging low, just a couple of ranges over. But it would have to claw its way better than 6,200 ft., over the knob of Roan mountain, before it could swarm me with its raindrop hordes. So I headed out for a high-base meadow that Dad had ghosted for five years, trying to get the better of the biggest buck of his life. I wasn’t even thinking about hunting… I was just glad for the change.

But as I crossed the benches and rounded the horn, the Howatt was feeling good in my hand. It, and the razor-edged shafts that his own hands had fletched, made me feel the part, anyway. And as I cut the gap that led into the meadow, the sight of deer feeding calmly amidst the ebony and chocolate sheen of scores of turkey raised my pulse… and calmed my mind.

That hadn’t happened it months.

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I guess I had been paying more attention than I thought to all the stories my dad had shared with me about his adventures, because I went into autopilot. I hugged that rain-sog’d ground and every dripping shrub and bush like I was Indian-born and brave-raised. I inched my way, just like Dad had spoken of so many times, toward this mob of the unaware. And slowly, almost imperceptibly, the rich, heady perfume of this earthy vixen, this beautiful mountain that had captivated my father all those years, began working its magic on his wounded son.

I was doing pretty well, until my stealthy attitude slipped on my lack of stealthy experience. I had been so focused on a wad of turkeys and a young spike feeding no more than thirty steps from the brush I was slow-stepping to, that I didn’t notice the change in pitch of the already steep ground. Looking back, I would love to have had a camera.

My feet went out. My rump, went down. The bow, went thankfully, away from what followed. I rolled and tumbled and cursed my way through the bushes (like a foul-mouthed shepherd’s staff hitting the Red Sea), cartwheeled (thankfully!) over a couple of “ohh, that’s gonna leave a mark!” rocks and finally landed belly-first and slid to a fairly graceful stop.

__________________________

The turkeys had scattered like a group of muddy 5-year olds fleeing the word ‘bath’. A few free falling feathers were the only evidence of their passing. The spike, on the other hand, was as stunned by the event as I was. As I came to rest (I guess that’s what you’d call anything less flailing than what had just occurred), and before I gathered myself for the rage that would have normally followed such an ‘injustice’, I looked up, into the face of the most unhinged ungulate to ever walk the earth. His legs were splayed. His head was down. And he was looking at me as though he were waiting to see if that was the whole act.

And I started to laugh.

I laughed at the look on his face (which, by the way, helped him find his feet.  He ran three full strides in mid air, before he got traction). Then, I laughed at my good fortune of having not been crushed, broken, chewed, or dissolved. Next, I laughed at how good it felt, to be laughing.

Then I cried.

After a couple of minutes, I gathered myself and my weaponry and started back over the gap to camp. I’d made it about a mile and a half, with just one ridge and a couple of benches to go, when the leading edge of that storm crawled over the hump of the ridge. I was just about to slip into my old pattern of getting mad at my ‘misfortune’ when a great peal of lightning broke the growing dark with its sizzling brightness. And then… it thundered.

And I felt the warmth of my father’s hand gently patting my face, just like he did when I was a tike. And right then and there, with the Howatt in hand, I made the connection. And I took my first steps to dancin’ on the squall line.

CM Sackett

The scent of rain, as it patters and puddles outside the markets of Pike Place, in Seattle… the moan of a September’d wind tumbling down through the pines and quakies, along the drainages of the Bridgers… the soft, Hope-blooming warmth of an April morning sun, filtering through the fledgling canopy of the Delaware Water Gap… Ah, the things not only recalled, but warmly relived from the comfort of my front porch this mornin’.

The nature of my business and the bend of my personality have made a friend out of the “necessity” of travel. I’m a writer, and a teller of the Wonder and beauty, of the Hope, Valor, Honor and honest determination that I’ve been fortunate enough to find and witness in those travels. And on those days when the tempo of travel wanes, the company of these memories, and the view from this, my home, my own front porch… give me rest and get me fit for the next adventure.

I do not know if those of you who have taken time out of your busy days, to share in the wanderings of mine, have the treasure of a front porch, or of a view that fosters a crinkled smile and a calming heart rate (there were many a day when I did not). If not, I’ll pray you do soon enough. And until then, stop in when you can… I’ll share the sights-n-sounds-n-Southerly breezes from mine.

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CM Sackett

“Just stay on the switchbacks and logging roads, you cain’t get lost” my host had said. And, being this side of it all, I’ll agree with that. But there was a mornin’ and afternoon… and almost an evening, when I was strongly ’sidetracked’.

Tweren’t any trouble though. The sights-n-sounds-n-scents of the mountains were more than fair comp’ny. If that’s being ‘lost’, who needs a map?

My second day in the Bridgers had started in common-enough fashion. I’d left out from the cabin with bow in hand, and a bull in mind. But the folds and shadows and windsong’d drainages of these brooding sentinels were becoming a distraction. Like a feisty redhead to a man who swears he likes calm brunettes, these mountains were getting my attention. But, I had fifteen days, so I didn’t mind at all. Besides, there had to be an elk around here somewhere.

Only there wasn’t. Seems a fella who guided folk on ‘hunts’ down in the quakies of the flat had been on top the night before we arrived (two nights before season opened up) with a gun, a horn, and a plan… it worked. There were elk all over the valley, roaming in herds, like Herefords. Good for his business, a bit more of a challenge for me, here on the high side of things.

But that was alright. I had come here this particularly stormy September, as much for the challenge of this storied high ground as for the elk. And there was enough of the first, that the lack of the second never really felt like a ‘loss’. Now how’s that for fortunate livin’?!

And on this second day, after crossing three ridges, eight or nine startled range cows, more muley does than I thought God had made, and two sets of this season’s bear cubs… at close range… one set without a visible “Momma” (yep, that was interesting for a few minutes, to say the least), I came across a sight that brought this wind-suckin’ flatlander to a smiling stop. I had been working the logging road scratched between the bulk of two uplifts late in the day as yet another storm was growling and bulling its way over the western shoulders of the range. As I rounded the curve and topped a short rise on the southerly side, I hit the ‘notch’, that place where both giants give way enough for a man to see a bit of the glory beyond. I took a drink from my canteen, and then I just stood there, for almost twenty minutes, just drinking in the beauty and wonder and power of this oft-stepped dance between sky and sentinel.

When I finally made my way back to the cabin in the growing dark, my host was on the porch, pipe a’glowin… “You have a good day today?”

“Oh yes.”

“Get lost?” he says with a chuckle.

“Nossir, just introduced.”

That answer seemed to suit us both.

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CM Sackett

My sons do not share my Passion for those things Outdoor… neither did my father. I must be the rock-skip from older generations of our clan across the waters of Time. I can still remember my Grandpa Arnold mowing the grass on his little farmette, on the outskirts of Mt. Grove, Missouri. Until his 80th spring, when he went Home, he used a rotary push mower, Key overalls… and bare feet to keep the park-like presence ever fresh for Grandma’s eyes.

He farmed and cooned and hunted the hills and hollers of what became the Mark Twain National Forest nearly all his days. When he retired, he kept the homeplace and 6-8 acres for a summer garden, his beloved (and fairly famous) tobacco, and a firestoke of his own passion’d memories. I loved that old man, his gentle quietness… and the unveering path of manhood he blazed so straight through two world wars (he was born in 1888), two Depressions, pestilence, blight, drought, and a fiesty Irish wife… for whoever came next.

And but for this one thing, I might very well despair over the course my own days have taken. For you see, his children found no thrill in the being there~~no awe in the presence of oaks and willows, stone-bed creeks or rain. And with the exception of one daughter (who died a few month after he, and a few more before my Grandma), they found his character and metel to be of little value and even less use for their purposes (they fought to a blood-foamed frenzy… over 6-8 acres, a 2-bedroom house with grey shingle siding, and a 56′ Buick Special with a bad generator).

And yet, because these things were a part of the bedrock of who he WAS, not just what he hoped to be seen as, he lived his convictions and his Passions for the right they were, as he could see it… and for the pure joy they gave him. And he passed them on to the only one in his presence that found everything about his world… and his presence FASCINATING. The time was short (he moved over across the chasm during my 7th February). But there was no sense of hurry, no rushing of lessons or times, just a full, rich embracing of whatever moment we found ourselves in together.

It took me more years than I’m proud to admit to make that part of his character my own…

I do not own the future. My sons will, of course, have to finally do as they decide in all matters of character AND the Outdoors. But as I look out my office window at a warm August night overtaking what has been a pleasant August evening, I find myself recalling the sons of other men, who, for whatever reason, have over the years found value in the Trail I’m blazing (you see, the tangled vines and undergrowth of the Wild devour even the cleared ground of a giant… if not traversed constantly). And I smile at the joy and richness they have brought to the door of my soul.

Gift for gift.

They were not my “chosen” ones. They are the ones who chose, if even for a time, me. Even as I was not the one my grandfather originally prepared himself to share the richness he had found with. But I am so glad that when I showed… he did.

Ahh, but for this one thing…

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CM Sackett