An open letter to my daughter.

So today was your last “official” day of high school? Your mom and I are very proud of you and know that you have worked hard to get to the end. Maybe you weren’t the best “student” in the school, but I assure you that you were a stellar person. How well you study and how good your grades are don’t make a good person. Your heart, your conscience, and your honor make you who you are. And in those areas of coursework and study, you are an “A” student.

So now that the responsibility of high school is behind you, do you feel any different? Probably not, but I can assure you that things will be different for you from here on out. People will perceive you differently from now on. They will see you as an adult, even if you don’t feel like you are one. Be a good person, be responsible for your own actions, your words and your commitments. Far too many people today feel that there is no bad result from not being responsible for their actions. It is always someone else’s fault. Deadlines, promises, commitments, agreements and more are nothing more that hot air in a desert. Don’t be like them.

There will be no more high school drama to worry about, but there will be drama of a different sort. Drama that only adults (who act like children) can create. Fortunately, you have discovered that life is too short for drama, but sometimes it is not always possible to avoid it. When negative and dramatic people present themselves, hold them at arm’s length. Negativity and drama only breeds more negativity and drama and it will bring you down. Be willing to give advice and assistance them but do not support their negativity. Their drama and negativity will become your own. Don’t be like them.

No one owes you a thing. Get up and earn it. There is a failing in our society that has been the product of too many parents telling too many children that they are “unique” or “special” or something else that sets them far above and apart from others. They have been told that the world owes them something because they are special in some way. They were told that they didn’t deserve to lose, or they deserved a better grade, or rank, or something that has instilled an entire generation that feels it is entitled and the world owes them something. In reality, they are not and probably never were. Yes, your mother and I have told you that you were special. That is because you are. You are special to us. We love and adore you, but want only the best for you, but that does not mean that you are going to be given the world on a silver platter. If you want something, you are going to have to work for it. You are going to have to earn it. It won’t be easy, but it will be worth it. There are way too many people in society that feel they are entitled. Don’t be like them.

MAKE life happen FOR you. Don’t LET life happen TO you. Make it your own. You only have one life. Make the most of it. Make it fun. You are given the same 24 hours that everyone else has. Make the most of them. Don’t waste it on things you don’t want to do or things that give you no reward or pleasure. I don’t mean that you should not go to work, not go to school, and not take out the trash and other stuff that makes a normal and productive person, but things that take your precious time away from you with no good result. Don’t waste your time. Look at each hour, each minute, as money. Spend it well. You have probably heard me say this more times than you can count, but “Sleep when you’re dead.” What I really mean by this is don’t be lazy. When you are asleep, nothing happens. It is time wasted. Being up, awake, active and involved is time well spent. Many people are awake but do nothing. Like being asleep. Some people don’t live, they just exist. Don’t be like them.

There are a myriad of other things that I could tell you but will only mention them in passing.

Stand for something or you will fall for anything, but don’t stand for everything because then nothing will have meaning.

It okay to be religious and have faith, to practice and to share and talk about it. Remember it is “freedom OF religion” not “freedom FROM religion”.

It is your right to not be offended by things. Not everything in this life will be offensive to you and that is OKAY. Don’t let anyone tell you that you are horrible person if you are not offended by something that offends them. Tell them that *they* offend you and to frak off.

Not everything is black and white, right or left, good and bad. It is more often than not somewhere in the middle and finding your comfort zone, your place in it is totally up to you.

Treat your body well. It is the only one you have and there may come a time when you have to depend on it to do things you didn’t think it could.

Be yourself. Have fun. Love, laugh and live. Be a geeky girl. Be a geeky woman. Make smart decisions but don’t always make the safest decision. It might just be more fun.

No matter what you do in life, make sure it is something you want to do. Succeed or fail, at least it will be your decision.

And finally, whatever happens, always know this; you can always come home again.

Lenten Photo Challenge; Day 26 - Wilderness

I wish there were more wilderness near where I live. I would visit it more often. Unfortunately there are fewer and fewer areas of wilderness in our country and in our world.

Population and urban growth are creeping into the wilderness. And then there are those people, who like me, would like to have a home and live in the wilderness, but unlike me, they actually have the money and freedom to actually move into it and make it less wild.

I think that is the nature of people to time the wild. Make the wilderness more domesticated. We did it with wolves. Why stop there? I don't think that is a bad thing but we should know where and when to stop. Not every wild area has to have a mulched trail and port-a-potty for our convenience. Some people are just not made to be in the wilderness.

But we keep bringing civilization to the wilderness. There is a whole political discussion that could be done on this topic but I don't have the brains or time to do that here. I just would like there to be more wilderness and limits to our incursions into it.

I want my kids and their kids to know what a wilderness is.... and not by having to travel to the city.


The idea of wilderness needs no defense, it only needs defenders.
Edward Abbey

Generally speaking, a howling wilderness does not howl: it is the imagination of the traveler that does the howling.
Henry David Thoreau

In wilderness I sense the miracle of life, and behind it our scientific accomplishments fade to trivia.
Charles Lindbergh

The continued existence of wildlife and wilderness is important to the quality of life of humans.
Jim Fowler

Lenten Photo Challenge: Day 25 - Celebrate

Today, the fourth in the Celebrate days in this Lenten Photo Challenge, I will celebrate a thing and the people that enjoy that thing. It is not really a thing, it is a tool. The humble gun.

Left alone to itself, the gun is a harmless piece of metal that is in no way harmful or evil or dangerous. That only happens when people who have poor handling or training in the operation of a gun, or they have evil in their hearts. Guns, by themselves are not dangerous. Only people are dangerous. And people who are unsettled, evil, untrained, and yes, overly confident are more dangerous with guns. They are simply tools, just like a shovel, a hammer, a car.

I have a fair number of guns... more than I need, but fewer than I want. Guns are a real investment. Rarely do they decrease in value so when you buy them, you can make your money back or more. But that is not what I want to talk about.

I have been shooting since my father taught me when I was about 7 or 8 years old. It was with a bb gun. He made sure I knew what was the right way and wrong way to use and operate it. How to take care of it. He let me care and clean his few guns that he had and when I was 10, maybe 11, he let me buy my first .22 caliber Marlin bolt action rifle. I still have that gun. It is my favorite gun of all time. I can shoot the nuts off of a gnat with that little rifle.

Since then I have purchased many more guns and I have brought my children up to be respectful, careful, and confident around them. My son shot his first gun when he was 6. He has not stopped shooting since. He has surpassed me in knowledge, training and skill with guns. He is working at a shooting range and is a range safety monitor and will most likely make a career with something revolving around guns.

My daughter is also a shooter. I bought her a .22 caliber revolver for her 14th birthday and for her 16th birthday she received a 12 gauge shotgun. She is a member of the high school trap shooting team and her time shooting guns has given her a confidence that some young girls cannot get.

My wife, who shot a little bit when she was a young girl, was not brought up in a family or culture of guns. However, being married to me, she was eventually going to be exposed to them. Not afraid them, she was not confident around them and maybe just a little bit scared around them. I set out to change that and now my wife has four guns of her own. Her skills improve all of the time and she is definitely confident and safe shooter and quite a good shot, especially with a shotgun.

Not all of my friends shoot guns. But the majority of them do and more and more of them are becoming shooters. The time we spend together shooting guns has created wonderful memories, because it is not the shooting that is the memory, it is the time we spend together at the range, talking, sharing our knowledge and generally becoming closer to one another through the hobby of target shooting. They are people I feel I can depend on.

Today I spent time with my my wife, my son and his girlfriend, and three other lady shooters and while we only spent an hour shooting, it was a really great time. I really love to celebrate the gun culture and those responsible people who are part of it, and they are the ones I "celebrate" today!

Lenten Photo Challenge: Day 24- Search

This is the fifth time I tried to write something meaningful about the word "search".

I could not really come up with anything. What was I searching for? What do people search for? What are you searching for? I cannot really answer those last two question, but I can answer the first.

I don't think I search for anything.

A happy marriage - found it.

A happy, healthy family - found it.

And great relationship with my family, both immediate and extended. - found it.

A wonderful group of friends - found them.

A nice home, a good job, and a great community to live in. - found it, found it and found it.

Comfort knowing who I am and being comfortable, actually reveling, in who I am. - found it.

So, yeah. Not really sure if I am actively searching for anything.

Sure, I am always searching for new things to try that grab my attention. Searching for more information or knowledge on things that are a passion of mine. Searching for ways to share good times with good people. Searching for ways to be a better person.

But those big things in life that everyone seems to be searching for... I think I found them.

But did I find all of these wonderful things through active searching or did I just get incredibly lucky? Or were they a gift?

Regardless, I am not going to take any of these for granted.

I hope that if you are searching, you find what you are looking for.

The Weight of Family History.

We all have a family history. And I don't mean that history of stories about family members that you don't want to be known to the general public, but the family history that is contained in things. Things like furniture, clothing, photos, newspaper clippings and such. If you have a large family, odds are you have a bunch of family history that is being kept somewhere. By someone. Recently I had a discussion with someone who works for me and we were discussing how horrible it would be to lose one's home to a fire or some other way. We both agreed that it would be both devastating to lose all those things that are important to us and how irreplaceable those things would be. But during the conversation, we lit upon the idea of how liberating something like that could also be. For him, he carries the weight of a lot of family history, all manifested in things. He and his wife came from families that were large, and became the recipients of the family dining table and chairs, clothing, and quite a few other things that bore some special meaning to them in some way or another. But they themselves, do not have children, so there is no one to really pass those things on to. For many many years they brought these items from one living space to another, never really using them, or even looking at them, but those items still required special treatment and storage. And then it hit him, that those things, while having important meaning to him for what they were, they were no longer are even the things they were meant to be.

Let me explain with example. In the attic of my house, there sits a rocking chair. It belonged to my grandmother and apparently it was used by her to rock her grandchildren(including myself) to sleep when she watched them. At that time, it was a useful item and it was the thing it was designed to be. Today, I possess that chair. But it has been in my attic for literally 20 years. It is in very good condition. But it resides in my attic, acting as a holder of other stuff that I have not looked at or utilized in many years. It is no longer a rocking chair. It is not that which it was constructed for and hence not really a chair anymore. It is merely a part of the weight of my family history. Now if I were to have grandkids, I could then use it for the purpose it was made for, but truth be told, I probably won't. What I should do, is sell it. Or give it away to another family member, or maybe donate to a used furniture store. But I don't. Why?

Is there that much emotional attachment to it that I cannot bear to part with it? I certainly don't recall ever being rocked to sleep in it while being held by my grandmother! I cannot even remember ever seeing it in her home! But yet, I hold on to it and let it sit and collect dust in my attic. I think the reason why is because I am afflicted with what I will call "Familial Historical Responsibility Disorder." I am reluctant (But not unwilling) let go of things that are of supposed importance to my family history. I feel that I am responsible for maintaining a family ownership or connection to those things. It could be things like furniture, but it can also be smaller things like photos, newspaper clippings, or simply family genealogy. I think my wife feels that same way too. While her family is not nearly as large as mine, and she moved from home to home more times than she cares to count, she also feels that urge to hold on to things from the past that carry the weight of family history. Speaking solely for myself I feel I have the responsibility to hold onto these things and make sure that they are stored away and ready for whenever the need might arise for them to be dusted off and used or referenced.

I think my wife might feel that weight more keenly than I at times. For her, there is a basement full of photographs, newspaper clippings, school awards, drawing, poems, and other items that document the lives of our children, all stuffed away in chaotic little piles, just waiting to be used for what they were intended. But there is so much of it, so big of a weight that I think she might be intimidated by the sheer size of it all. She is a scrap-booker but family history (especially in photos) grows at a much higher rate of speed than any scrap-booker can manage and so it that weight continues to grow.

Someday, I (and she) will have to come up with a way to reduce the weight of family history, because if not, then it will be passed on en-mass and become a weight for my children, or it might be tossed out without any regard to the value it might have for family members. As for those things that can be used, like a chair, or clothing, I am of a mind to finding a new home for them, so that others can use them for what they were intended. Whether they go to someone in the family or not, I don't think I much care. Because if they go to someone that will appreciate them, or find a use for them, then those items will possibly become part of someone else's family history or at the least a useful item to them. But as they sit now, their story and connection to my family are tenuous at best. Currently, the intended usefullness is wasted and they are only adding to the weight of family history that I carry.

Of bb guns, broadswords, and bows and arrows...

Truly, I don't know how my friends and I managed to get out of adolescence without having had some major medical emergency or some part of our anatomy removed by accident. We were, in a word, violent, to one another. And maybe that is what made us such good friends. We tried in earnest to hurt each other, but in the friendliest of ways.

As I have mentioned before, living in Claytonville posed its own set of problems for kids with a lot of imagination and energy. Little was offered in the way of entertainment that kids have today, but what it lacked in pre-packaged entertainment, it made up for it in being a blank canvas for us to create our own fun. And for better or worse, that fun usually involved, a stick, a weapon, a bb gun, or as I recounted in an earlier article, gasoline and a match.

Almost all of my friends, including my brother had some interest in history and especially the history of warfare. And many of us were frequent travelers into the fantasy world of Dungeons and Dragons, a role-playing game were you became the sword swinging hero in a world setting made up of your own design. Yes, warfare made up a big part of our leisure-time activities. Whether it was a war game, watching a war movie, or re-creating great battles of the past, it almost had some sort of "history of warfare' twist to it.

BB GUNS...

BB guns were probably first introduced into our young hands around the age of 8 or 9, but they were the simple, single Daisy pump bb guns that would hardly break a glass bottle at 20 feet. Soon, newer, more powerful, and farther reaching bb guns began to appear in the hands of the "Claytonville Militia." It did not take long before those guns to become the bane of plastic army men, empty pop bottles and nuisance critters and birds. But at the same time, we boys also saw the potential that these more powerful bb guns could have out on the field of re-created battle!

I cannot recall who came up with the idea of holding the first bb gun fight but I do recall there being a code of ethics for those that participated. Codes that if broken, would incur the wrath and enmity of the rest of the participants. (One transgressor of the code faced what was the equivalent of a firing squad for his actions.) No more than three pumps on a gun, no closer than 20 feet from your target, and no head shots. Once agreed upon, the fight was on. In and around the fuel tanks that sat across the road from my parents home. In, around and on the actual structures of our respective homes (being careful not to shoot out windows) and our favorite of all places, the railroad bridge spanning the creek about a half mile west of Claytonville. The battles would rage on for hours. Usually there was a mission or goal to the fight but in the end it was a matter of determining how many times you could place a hit on your opponents. BB gun stings are quite unlike any other pain I have experienced. Like a bee sting, it burns at first and then it starts to throb. Why we willing decided to do this to each other, I have no idea but we were in it together and we reveled in the action and the endorphin rush that came from it. I have no idea how many rounds of bb's were spewed out in these battles over the years, but should some future archaeologist ever do a metal search in the Claytonville area, he or she might be quite confused over the amount of copper bb's scattered out over the area.

BB gun fights are, I think a right of passage for most rural teen-aged boys and news of the fights spread to our other friends. Before long, the bb gun fights became all day events, with most of us decked out in a pretty good collection of WWII and Korean war Army Surplus clothing and gear. And sometimes these fights would grow to such a size that actual maneuvers could be managed between the opposing sides. The biggest of these battles might actually take place over miles of ground with our cars being used as personnel carriers. I recall seeing Gary Rasher's car travelling down a gravel road with about 8 bb guns sticking out of the windows while it pursued another vehicle driven by members of the opposing side. (I would like to say that names in this article will be changed to protect the innocent, but none of us were innocent, so if you recognize your name, congratulations. You're famous.) Tony Kaufman would often get us permission to camp out at Kaufman's Timber and inevitably a bb gun fight would break out almost as soon as the sun began to set. Nothing like shooting at someone in the dark. Afterall, we thought we were immortal and impervious to pain.

At some point, which I cannot seem to recall, the desire to shoot at each other dwindled. Maybe it was school, maybe it was girls, or maybe it was that one time when one of our group, affectionately known as "Panda", actually had to have a bb surgically removed from his arm that quelled the bb gun wars, but eventually they ended. They were glorious affairs and something that I will never forget. Even today, when I play paintball with my kids and friends, I am often taken back to those heady days of bb gun fighting, when trying to shoot your best friend with a bb was your way of saying "I love you, man."

BROADSWORDS AND BOWS AND ARROWS...

"We're gonna get medieval on your ass." - Samuel L. Jackson in the film "Pulp Fiction"

Many of my Claytonville friends and I were players of the game "Dungeons and Dragons." Say of it what you will, but this game was a breath of fresh air to a bunch of small town boys that wanted something new and exciting to do with our free time. It provided us with uncounted hours of fun and friendship, and I think that for at least myself it opened up doors in my life in so many different ways that I don't think I could count them. And at the very least, it allowed many of our parents to know exactly where we were and what we were doing. If we were not at my house, we were at Mike Feller's house. If not there, we were at Tony Kaufman's, Doug Barth's, Troy Krumwiede's, or the Frick boys' house. Yeah. There were a lot of us who played the game. It kept some of us out of trouble. The game was a great outlet for fantasy battles with sword and shield, against foes big and small, but even so, it still could not stand up to a real battle against your friends with weapons that, while not lethal, certainly were painful have used against you!

The real force behind the idea of having a real-life/mock medieval battle came from our Social Studies teacher, Steve Selle. He was pretty aware of the likes and dislikes of most of my friends and I and I like to think that had it been appropriate at the time, he would have joined us in our interests. Even so, he was a wonderful teacher that, at least for me, inspire me to pursue my interest in history which has been a huge part of my life ever since leaving CPHS. It was during one of the study halls that he monitored that he talked with myself and some of my other gamer friends about how neat it would be to see or take part in a mock medieval battle with safe weapons. That was it. The rest of the study hall was devoted to planning out how to do this and not kill each other. After school, for next week or so, Mike Feller, Doug Barth, Rob Fanning, and Tom Hasslebring began thinking of ways to make swords, axes and other medieval weapons that we could beat each other about the head and shoulders without actually removing said body parts. What we came up with was to loot the stash of snow fence that had been stored at my house in Claytonville, or what remained standing around town from the previous winter, and remove individual lathe pieces and form them in to our weapons of war. Using duct tape, electrical tape and nails, we managed to make a pretty good armory of varying types of weapons. There were longswords, axes,and spears, all ready for the coming combat.

Testing out how well these weapons would hold up to being beat against each other and against the flesh of combatants took place in the back yard. We discovered a number of flaws with certain designs, and found that indeed, if you were struck by the edge of a piece of wood lathe shaped to look like a sword, it hurt like hell! we briefly considered finding a way of padding the weapons but decided that would take away from the look of the weapons, and would rather let each combatant decide if he wanted to pad himself instead to avoid unwanted pain. Tom Hasselbring realized quickly that the wood would be too weak to last long in a battle so he took the weapon making to a new level. A level that even we boys knew could dangerous. But we did it anyway.

Tom always seem to have access to the best tools and supplies to make new things. His idea was to take one and half inch steel pipe, cut it into 36 inch lengths, drill out a hole near the handle and drive a gutter spike through the pipe to act as a cross-guard of the pipe sword. In theory it sounded great! It would not be likely to break when hitting another weapon like it, and it made a great sound when struck! The issue was that due to the weight of the weapon it made it hard to pull your swing and once it was swung at a target, you were kind of committed to the follow through. In practice, we quickly found that gloves were a requirement as when two of these weapons hit each other, the vibration in the hand was so severe it felt like an electric shock. Secondly, a shield and helmets were a must. Using small round metal snow sleds as shields, we strapped them to our arms, placed motorcycle helmets on our heads and flailed away at each other. Again, theory did not hold up to reality. The thin metal shields did not hold up well and I remember at least once of having a shield beaten and wrapped around either Mike Feller's or Tom's arm so tightly, that we had to use a tin snip to cut the metal away to free his arm. And finally, when Tom was dropped to his knees from an errant blow to the top of his helmet, we decided to go with the less lethal form of wooden weaponry.

At the same time we were developing hand to hand weaponry, we were also experimenting with an odd form of organic archery. It was nothing to get our hands on an old archery bow, but it was another thing to find suitable arrows for those bows. Any real arrows that we might find were typically lost when shot at a target and missed, or were simply unusable for the sort of bows we had. But not to be out done by the simple lack of projectiles, we managed to come up with very suitable substitute.

At the time of my childhood, there was a general disregard for regular mowing and upkeep of the area ground that flanked each side of the railroad tracks that ran through Claytonville. The grass grew tall, trees grew up into small groves and the horse-weeds grew in abundance. Horse-weed, that tall bamboo like plant which, when dried, turns into a strong yet light-weight shaft that if harvested correctly, could be used as a very passable arrow shaft. In order to do this we waited until late fall or early spring to pull the weeds from the ground, shake off the dirt and make our arrows. The root end almost always produced a sharp pointed end, and the growth bands made for very nice arrow nocks if you broke them off in just the right way. Strip away any stems and leaves and you had serviceable arrow that could be shot from a light-weight bow. We got so good at this harvesting that we could even pick differing sorts of horse-weed for different shooting purposes. The thicker shafts, called "Tubers" where used for erratic flight patterns. When shot, they went anywhere but straight, often traveling in loops and at times, coming right back from where they were launched! The mid-sized plants were called simply "Shafts" and were used for long range accurate shooting, for which they worked very well. I seem to remember getting well over 50 yards worth of distance from these "arrows." And the smallest and thinnest of the plants were called "Needles." They were for up close shooting as they moved very quickly and accurately but only flew a dozen yards well before dropping out of the sky. Many hours were spent harvesting these horse-weeds and before long, we had large numbers of usable arrows at the ready.

What did we do with these "arrows?" Well,we shot them at each other. What else would you do with them?


I am sure, by now, that you are not surprised that my friends and I have turned weeds into weapons. What might surprise is the extent to which we took our efforts to collect and then shoot these organic arrows at one another. Using any form of motorized transport we would load wagons and carts full of the horse-weed arrows and then transport them back to home to clean the ends off of dirt and mud, remove the small branches that grew from the size and then break them into usable lengths. Once that was done, they were were evenly divided, as were we into archery teams, and we would separate ourselves off to a suitable starting distance. At first we would shoot a few arrows at each other to get our feel for distance and test each others resolve to stand and receive the oncoming "weeds of death". Eventually when we got tired of missing each other, the battle devolved into a running war where we would chase each other around the yards shooting at each other. Eventually, the yard would come too look like the aftermath of the Battle of Agincourt with arrow shafts strewn about in every direction and in every location. Clean up was a must as my father would not tolerate his yard looking a mess, so it fell upon my brother and I to clean up the debris. I don't recall any real injuries from our endeavors to hit each other these "arrows" but I recall being stunned at the potential lethality of them when I shot an horse-weed arrow at Tom Hasslebring and it penetrated all the way through two layers of his rubber mud boots. Had I actually hit him, I dare say, it would have cause a lot of harm to him. I myself, took a arrow to the chin on day in a private battle between myself and my best buddy, Mike Feller. He took advantage of me when I knelt down to pick up some discarded "arrows" and when I looked back up I saw this little black speck headed right at me. I had just enough time to turn my head slightly when it hit me in the chin, stuck there for a bit, before falling and pulling itself out of my skin. I remember Mike standing frozen with shock for a bit, but when he realized I was still alive and not blinded or seriously injured, he bent over double, laughing himself silly at my expense. I still bear the scar of that wounding.

Cry 'Havoc,' and let slip the dogs of war;...

Maybe I am wrong here, but I think every boy at some point day dreams or fantasizes about being the heroic medieval knight or fantasy warrior, clad in armor, sword and shield in hand, bravely facing into the eyes of his enemy, ready to do battle. It did not take long before that idea to make purchase in the fertile soil of a teenage boys mind. Remember those wooden swords mentioned earlier? All of the hard work came to fruition on one glorious Saturday afternoon when a number of us wooden weapon wielding warriors gathered on the field of battle just north of Claytonville, in what was known then as Fanning's Timber. word got out that we wanted to have large scale battle using the wooden weapons we constructed and organize teams to fight to the death, or until we got tired or our weapons broke. We broke off into two teams and separated into the woods, each side looking for the other. And just like all well thought out battle plans, those plans never survived the first meeting of the combatants. Essentially, it was a mob fight in a clearing with each side laying about them with their wooden death stick, smacking arms and legs, parrying blows, and taking hits that really, really hurt. Damn they hurt. I recall standing on a rise of gravel and dirt fight off some opponents when all of a sudden the air is knocked out of me from a blow to the stomach. I look down in to the smiling face of Ralph Teske Jr. My first thought was; "Ralph?! Where the heck did he come from?" My second thought was; "Crap! I'm dead." Oh well. Such is the life of the warrior. I waited out my allotted two minute death penalty, and then got right back into the fray.
I think the whole battle probably lasted no more than an hour. Most of the weapons we had made had broken and a good deal of us were smarting from some pretty well placed blows to fleshy parts of our bodies. We each found our way back to our homes and the next few days, discussion was made of trying to do something like it again, but it never happened. Making the weapons was too time consuming and the materials were expensive. Nowadays, they have really cool foam and latex weapons that look like the real thing, but hurt far less than what we had. Had we had something like that back then, I think we would have made it a regular thing. But at least for one glorious day, we were all Conan the Barbarian.

Hearing of these stories and many more like them, my wife often wonders how I survived my teenage years. Sometimes I wonder that myself. But I would not trade my childhood in a small little town in rural east-central Illinois for nothing. In many ways I feel sorry for kids of this generation. I am sure they have their own stories to tell, but I find something missing in their adventures. Something that seems too safe, too controlled and too easy. Maybe I am wrong, but I have scars from simply playing with my friends. I don't see that many scars anymore.

Glowball....

Glowball. Mention glowball to any of my friends from my childhood and you will see a huge grin appear on their face. Glowball was an invented game that took place only on certain nights. My parents had to be gone obviously, but it had to be dark, and had to be at my parents house. Why? First because my parents house had a floor plan that allowed you to run from one room to another without having to open any doors or stopping to turn sharp corners. And it was filled with all kinds of things to hide behind. Secondly, our house had very few outside lights to shine into the windows, therefore making it very dark if you turned out all the lights inside the house. It was required that you play Glowball in as dark an environment as possible and well, my parents house fit the bill perfectly.

What was Glowball? Think hide and seek and tag mixed together but you tagged a person who was hiding by hitting them (as hard as you could) with a small, hard plastic ball that could only be found in the box of cereal called QUISP. (Anyone remember QUISP?!?!) It was a molded glow in the dark ball that was actually a replica of the moon, and if you held it under a light long enough it would glow for like 10 minutes. Longer than any other glow in the dark object we had ever seen. And since it was a solid ball, it would not break apart if it hit anything hard. (Bodies, including heads, are not hard, by the way)

What you did was you got a bunch of bored grade and high school boys together and picked someone to be the "robot" who held possession of the glowball. No one else could touch it, or you would be "it". The rest of the boys would turn off all the lights and go hide around the house. Any place in the house, excluding the basement and attic, was considered a legal place to hide. The "robot" would then place himself in the bathroom and "charge and blind" himself by placing the glowball on a light bulb thereby "charging" it, and at the same time, staring at the light buld in order to "blind" the "robot" once he left the bathroom in search of hiding victims.

The robot would go out in search of victims, usually stumbling around for about a minute as his eyes would re-adjust, all the while making silly robot or creepy noises to put the hiders on edge. Often, it was so dark that the robot would walk within inches of the person hiding, so the tension level was quite high and sometimes would result in normally "tough" boys squealing and laughing like little girls! The robot would go about the house looking for his victims by searching in all places with eyes and hands and feet.

Hiding spots were quite creative. I know of boys hiding on top of the stove, refrigerator, under couches (not just cushions, but the whole damned couch)and standing on the top of chair backs while balancing against a wall. No place was unrestricted unless it would not hold your weight.

Once the victim was found, one of two things happened.
CIRCUMSTANCE ONE: If a victim was found and said victim was out of arms reach, the glowball was thrown at the victim in an attempt to hit the victim with it and thereby making it the next robot. Often though, the throw would go wide and the would be victim would scream in terror, jump up (or down)from the hiding spot and flee around the house, slamming into, falling over, and climbing up things around the house, all while the robot tried to retrieve the glowball and follow in pursuit. The pursuit usually flushed out a few other hiding victims and so the robot would numerous possible targets, all running this way and that in hopes of avoiding the smack of a plastic glowball in the back, the legs, the head or nut sack.
CIRCUMSTANCE TWO: If a victim was found and said victim was within arms reach, the robot would, in an attempt increase his odds of hitting the victim with the glowball, deliver a mighty blow to the hiding victim. This was usually delivered to the gut or legs in an attempt to stun and immobilize them so that the glowball could be delivered with full force to the stunned victim, thereby making him the next Glowball Robot!

(Imagine the feeling of a hard plastic ball connecting with your body from a distance of about five feet, after it leaves the hand of an adrenaline crazed teenage boy, who finds a helpless victim to throw it at. Add to it that there is no recourse for the victim. He signed up for this game. Take the hit like a man, or leave the house. If you can imagine this, then you can understand the level of pain involved.)

For me, the best memory was one of my times as the robot. I came out of the bathroom, blind as a bat, looking for someone to throw this ball at. I circled the house at least once, and came back to the main living room. Still slightly blind, I did manage to perceive what I though was someones head sticking out from behind a chair back. Rather than check further, I chucked the ball at the "head" and was rewarded with a loud "THWOK!" and the glowball bounceing directly back at me as if it had hit a brick wall. I also heard a body hitting the floor and a moan of pain come from my buddy Mike, and a string of curses from him, followed by hoots and howls of laughter from everyone else hidden in the room. I admit I am not a great thrower of objects, but in the low light conditions and diminished eyesight, I must have let instinct and luck have free reign and I tagged him square in the forehead and nearly knocked him out. Someone turned the lights came on and we made sure he wasn't dead, and then proceeded to laugh ourselves silly for the next 15 minutes over his pain and my grand effort!

Thinking back on these games, I am amazed that nothing got broken in my parents house. Or nothing got broken to the point where it could not be fixed and made to look whole again. We always cleaned up after these games and it seemed as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened in the house. We must have done well, because my parents never said anything about it. Ever. We got lucky.

I found the glowball many years ago while attending college. Looking at it, I was overwhelmed with nostalgia that this little piece of plastic produced. I don't know what ever happened to it since then, but I am glad I have lost it. If not, I would be sorely tempted to have shown it to my kids and explained what glowball was. And then, glowball would be played in my house. And that would not be good. This is one game I think that is best left in the past and resurrected in story form only.

The Steel Wheeled Chariot of Death!

At some point in my childhood, near about the time when most of my friends and I had learned to ride and drive mini-bikes and small motorcycles, our feelings of immortality were reaching their peak. After all, we had just conquered learning to ride motorcycles even before stepping in to a Driver's Education course to learn to drive cars. And as was the nature with those friends of mine, riding a motorcycle was just not enough. Riding by yourself was boring, unless you were in a race, or trying to run over one of your "ground-bound" friends with said motorcycle. (I should stop right here. We did not use motorcycles exclusively for this task. We found that hitting a person had a tendency to make the motorcycle unstable, so we quickly switched over to three-wheeled ATV's for this purpose)

Anyway, at some point, it was just more fun to have your friends come along for the ride and even though you could get one person on the back, having everyone in the group come along for the ride was even better. But how do you do this with a motorcycle that you can fit only one person on? You turn to the Steel Wheeled Chariot of Death.

The S.W.C of D. was a contraption that we created out of a old steel frame of some 1910 or 20's wagon that the wood components had long ago rotted away, leaving only the skeleton of welded and bolted metal to work with. I am not sure how it got there, but one day it appeared in the back part of my dad's yard, near the burn/trash pile. It was like a God-send to us boys and we immediately put it to good use!

We slapped a wooden door down on the frame, secured a back board to that and constructed a hitch of sorts that would attach to the back end of a motorcycle with out restricting the way a bike leans when turning. It all looked good in our minds and the best way to find out was to throw some people on and take it for a spin. Lo! and Behold! The damned thing worked perfectly. It took a bit of effort for the motorcycle operator to maintain an upright position on the bike due to the drag caused by the S.W.C of D. but it was not impossible to clip along at about 10 miles an hour over grass and fields with a few boys happily bouncing along behind in contraption that would eventually start to bend, bruise and almost break a number of boys in very short order.

Riding about on the Steel Wheeled Chariot of Death was fine if you were on soil, but once you hit paved or gravel roads, the ride became almost unbearable. Almost. We discovered that if you were riding in the S. W. C. of D. while on a road, you had to keep your mouth tightly shut or you might bite your tongue or crack your teeth due to the jackhammering that was a result of the bare steel wheels making contact with a hard surface like the road. Some riders preferred to stand, but this made the entire balance of the cart go wonky, so seated was the only way to be able to ride. The exception was standing on the very back of the cart, holding on to the backboard and standing on part of the frame. It was a prime position and one that allowed for quick exit from the cart once the ride was over. So we would jockey for position every time we used the cart and it was a useful contraption for about, oh, a week.

I remember it being a cool fall or spring day. The grass was still green, but it was very wet, and there were no crops in the fields, so it is hard to remember was season it was. Not that it matters. What matters is that a number of us had gathered from some reason in Claytonville. Probably a game day, or a bb gun fight, or something along those lines. Those present that I can remember, were Denver, Mike, Tom, Jeff, myself and I think my brother. We had all found ourselves at the bridge that crossed over the crick (Whiskey Creek) that passed by town. We had all arrived there via motorcycle and the Steel Wheeled Chariot of Death. But it was time to call it a day so we gathered up and headed back to town. (Which is only about a 40-50 second ride) On the motorcycle was Tom. On the S. W. C. of D. was Denver, Jeff, Mike, myself, and again, I think my brother. Everyone was on the cart, with Mike having secured the comfy position on the back. And off we went.

However, something went terribly wrong. Somewhere in the short time it took to get from the starting position to up to speed, someone or something caused the front of the cart to lift up, taking a good deal of ground traction off of the rear tire of the motorcycle and causing Tom to lose control of the bike. At this point, Mike saw what was coming and proceeded to jump off the back of the cart, which not only brought the front end down, but also propelled the cart frame into the back of the motorcycle tire and fender, catching up underneath the fender. Tom sped up immediately to attempt to unlock the motorcycle from the frame, which it did, but it in turned jerked the remaining riders back onto the backboard, causing us to clamber for secure positions.

The rest of this story is what I remember actually happening to me, and what I remember Mike telling us all what he saw after he exited the cart.

Mike said he saw the motorcycle and cart veer off of the road and down into the ditch, which had about a 10-12 foot drop. He said that Jeff tried to jump off the cart, got caught by the wheel as he left and fell onto the road as motorcycle and all were heading down into the ditch. He said, Denver and I had grabbed on to one another like two lovers in a full hug embrace, bouncing up and down on the cart, trying desperately to stay on board. And then the cart started to roll and proceeded to throw everyone, including Tom on the motorcycle, from their seated postions, out into the ditch and accompanying field.

From my perspective, all I remember was seeing the motorcycle in front of me start to fishtail horribly, someone screaming and jumping off the cart, and noticing the cart was no longer behind, but above the motorcycle that was supposed to be pulling it! I suppose this was because the motorcycle was headed down into the ditch, with the S.W.C. of D. in full pursuit. As the cart began to tilt and roll, I attempted to jump out, but the shoulder of my army jacket got caught in the spokes of the steel wheels and it pulled me down and around, my arm actually ripping out the 2x4 that was used to support the backboard to the wood door we used as a floor. I remember seeing things upside down as I rolled on the grass, the Steel Wheeled Chariot of Death flipping over, and Tom and the motorcycle also falling to the ground, to stop at the bottom of the soggy edge of the field. And I remember laughter.

Mike was laughing his ass off. He was standing up on the road, looking down at us and laughing as hard as he ever had. We all stood up, looked to make sure nothing was broken on us, and once assured of that, began the excited retelling of surviving the trip of death on our now bent and broken Steel Wheeled Chariot of Death. My shoulder hurt like hell. Jeff was kind of banged up from landing on the road, and Tom was pissed because something had broken on his motorcycle. I don't recall what happened to Denver, but he survived realatively unscathed.

We limped back home to my house and my friends went their own ways, but the next day at school we had a story to tell! I don't recall was happended to the S.W.C.of D. but we never used it again. I don't even think we pulled it out of the ditch. I supposed someone drug it out and used it for scrap metal, but it, like so many other things from my childhood, was one of those things I will never forget.

Story time...

This year I am going to spend more time on the old blog with stories from my childhood. And by "childhood" I mean that period of time when I was between the years of 8 and 17. I seem to recall that most of my memorable childhood stories come from that age range, but don't expect me to be able to nail down exactly how old I was in some of these stories. My childhood was a ton of fun and it all seemed to run together in terms of years. The best I might be able to do is say I was on the older range or the younger range of my childhood. I hope you enjoy these stories and maybe even share this with your child and tell he or she, "Do not do stuff like this!" Maybe someone can learn from my mistakes... but then again, I survived and still have all my parts.... almost. Over time you will come to know my best buddies and members of my family, and maybe figure out just how I managed to survive my childhood and some of what makes me tick.

OF GRILLS AND MUSHROOM CLOUDS

Life as a kid in Claytonville, Il. was one of making your own fun, because let's face it, living in town that consists of 50-60 people, of which 90% were hard working adults, could get pretty boring. And a small town located in east central Illinois,in the late 70's and early 80's, saying that modernity and "civilization" had arrived there, was stretching the truth a bit. Sure, we had heat (downstairs) in the winter, but no air conditioning in the summer. (My parents waited until every kid was out of the house before getting that.) We even had indoor running water, flush toilets and all that, so don't get the idea that it was like living on the frontier, but many modern conveniences that those living in the big cities of Paxton or Champaign took for granted, we did not have. Movie theaters, colored TV or more than three channels to watch, parks, and so forth So, as kids we made our own fun. Usually with things that exploded. Or burnt. Or melted. Or went fast or shot things. You get the idea. Here is one that everyone in my family knows about and for the most part, several members of the families of those involved.

Summers in Claytonville were fun. Jobs were easy to find if you were willing to work on a farm or outside, but work was work and that was not fun. Most of my friends and I worked only in the morning of the summer to avoid the heat of the day, leaving the rest of the day to use as we saw fit. One one particular day, we decided to beat the heat by holing up in a small copse of trees that lined a cornfield. It was your typical hedge row, with tangled Osage orange trees, horse-weeds, wild raspberry bushes and tall grasses all growing in the same small condensed area. It was located just a few hundred yards from my house, right near the railroad tracks that cut Claytonville in half, running east and west. (Debate still rages as to who lived on the right side of the tracks and who did not)

The little hedgerow had served as hideout, enemy territory, hunting ground, and a myriad of other purposes, depending on the mood and ideas of the boys using it. At this particular time, we (Tom, Mike, my brother Darryl, and myself) were using it as shade from the heat and as a private men's club, complete with manufactured luxuries, including a brick fireplace and grill. Despite the heat of summer, we stoked a fire in the tiny fireplace and were enjoying the idea of being men among men, having constructed our own man-cave where we could eat, sleep, and drink anytime we liked. Not that we slept there or ate there, but we did drink there. Soda. And lots of it! Especially root beer and Pepsi.

Empty bottles were scattered about in every direction. Neatness was not something that was high on our club's priorities. Suffice it to say that there were a number of them sitting around and eventually one of these empty bottles must have caught the attention of one of us. I am not sure who started it, but I recall that someone had acquired a bottle, filled it half full of water from a nearby mud-puddle, and had corked it with a mixture of mud and dried corncob, firmly shoved down the neck of the bottle. Said bottle was soon placed on the fireplace/grill and the fire increased until the water began to boil within the bottle, creating immense pressure that would finally result in the makeshift cork to fail and the water to fountain out of the bottle, much to the delight of those present in the little hedgerow. About 4 or 5 bottles were sacrificed in this manner before someone would take our idea on a wicked turn.

Most of the ideas that we came up with to avoid boredom were usually good at first, but then, some idiot, (always one of the usual suspects) would decide to escalate the idea to its most illogical ___________. (fill in the blank with words anything like; conclusion, explosion, concussion, piercing, collision, etc, etc.) Without fail, this is indeed what happened. The idiot in this case (or at the time and age, genius)was my best buddy, Mike.

Mike lived across the tracks and if there is someone who you will meet in these stories more often than not, it will be Mike. Mike was a good friend for me to have. He knew (as all best buddies do) how to push my buttons and made me stretch myself as a person. He dared (and sometimes forced) me to do things I probably would not have done. He was very outgoing and everyone liked him, but I got to call him my best friend.

Mike had stepped out of the hedgerow and had come back with a bottle filled to the top and well stoppered with not just mud and corncob but a hefty amount of clay, which could be found just about anywhere in Claytonville. (There used to be a brick factory that was housed on the ground were my house and outbuildings were located) He came back with almost a wild look in his eye, as he placed the bottle on the grill and added more wood and fuel to the fire. Looking back now, it was obvious what he had done, but at that time, it just did not seem like anything was wrong, at least at first. But then, we noticed, as the bottle started to show the first bubbles of boiling, that the liquid in the bottle was two toned, and that Mike was very cautiously, yet very deliberately, inching backwards AWAY from the fireplace and the bottle set upon the tiny grill plate. Normally, we would get close to things that were flaming or on otherwise about to flame up, but this time, it was different.

Call it some unseen or unspoken signal, some smell of fear, or maybe we were all realizing what might just be in that bottle that we all began moving back to a safe distance of, oh, say, 5 to 10 feet, but at the same time, still give us front row viewing for the upcoming show. And what a show it was!

At some point, the level of heat had made the "water" in the bottle reach the point where it would shoot the cork off. However, Mike had done a marvelous job at securing the cork in the bottle. So much so, that instead of shooting out the corncob cork, the bottle instead burst apart and released what, to our eyes, was essentially the god of HellFire! (There was much rejoicing.) When that bottle exploded, the water, and what ever else was mixed into it, combined with the air and created (Okay, now remember, I am trying to remember this with my child's eye and memory.) a column of fire about 6 feet around, and a resulting mushroom ball of fire and smoke that belched up through the trees (full grown) and out of the canopy for about five feet. After a cursory glance about to see if anyone was dead or bleeding, we all jumped up to survey the damage to our little club and congratulate each other on being present for such a show, much less on simply being alive and in one piece. Our fireplace and grill, and the fire within were snuffed out of existence. Dried grass on the ground and small leaves on the trees above us were still smoking, but for the most part there was little damage done. Once again, God had looked out for us and kept us safe, despite our best efforts.

It seems that Mike had traveled outside of the realm of regular mud-puddles and went to where there was a fuel refilling station that carried, home heating fuel, gas, diesel, and kerosene. This station was, like so many things, just about 150 yards from my house and about 25 yards (certainly more than safe enough distance) from where we were having our little experiment using fire and water. In huge tanks that were suspended horizontally on steel trusses, there was somewhere close to 500,000 gallons of fuel. These resided in a retaining pit, surrounded by only a grass berm, in which was an ever present pond of water that even on a good day, was about 2/3 water and 1/3 fuel mix. It was here that Mike apparently went to fill his bottle. (Thinking back on this, it is a good damned thing none of us ever took up smoking, because had we, eventually, especially with as much time as we spent in, on, or around this place, we would have dropped a lit match or cigarette in this pond of fuel mixture)

While we were excited talking about our most recent venture in to explosive experimentation, and discussing what it would take to rebuild the fireplace so we could do it again, we all heard the one thing that would make us freeze in fear, or annoyance. My mother, who normally worked during the day in the summer, happened to be home and was washing dishes in the kitchen. There is a window right next to the sink and unfortunately, that window looks right out in the direction of the fuel tanks and the hedgerow where the god of Hellfire had just appeared moments ago.

There is not a single friend of mine that will ever forget the shrill voice of my mother calling for me or my brother or any of their names from across the yard or tracks. Normally it was to call us home. This time however, it had a particular "shrillness" that conveyed both anger, fright, and concern. It only took one call from my mother for Tom and Mike to high-tail it across the track to his house to hide out and leave my brother and I to our fates.

For my brother and I, we had the unfortunate luck to have to go home after a parent had seen what had just happened and at the same time, have a the one person also in the house that for some reason, scared us more than our father. My older brother, David. He came charging out of the house and met us as we were coming back and proceeded to chew us out for doing some so dangerous and crazy. And looking back, I think he was more worried (and maybe rightly so) about the fact that we could have ignited over 500,000 gallons of fuel and in a blink of an eye, remove an entire town from the map. I would not be surprised if he didn't think that if we killed ourselves, he would have two less problems in the world to deal with.

But in the end, I cannot really recall what our punishment was for being part of the fireball incident, probably because I was so incredibly psyched up about being so close to something so cool. I think my brother and I got grounded, but being grounded in a small town is not really much of a punishment so it was kind of a wash and I as you will find out, no lesson was learned, except on how to make bigger fireball.

Why Steampunk? And why now?

For a short while now, a larger part of my attention and imagination has been focused on the idea of the Steampunk Culture, both in what (and when or where) it is, how it looks, what has been written about it, and how it is written. Steampunk is a fairly new cultural phenomena, coming out of the grunge and goth late 1990's (although the term has been around in literature since 1987) and making it's way in to becoming it's own style and subculture. Here is what some, more learned than I have to say about it.

What is Steampunk?
More what is it?
And one more, with pictures!

For me, I find it very intersting and intriguing, for a number of reasons.
First and foremost, it looks really cool, and I guess that somewhere deep down inside of me, I must have some sort of fashionista struggling to get out. I have always liked the fashions of past time periods. (With the exception of the late 1990's and anything from the late 1960's through the 1970's... holy crap. That is like 22/3rds of the time I have been alive!) The Victorian time period was a great time for fashion and design. It is simply very cool to look at and to wear. But Steampunk fashion is only based in the Victorian time period. It appears Victorian for the most part, but look closer and you can see all that little extras that come from a "history that never was." I like the look of the mix of industrial parts added on to simple (or elegant) clothing, and if done right, some of the clothing can be worn everyday without much notice. (Try wearing a 14th Century European article of clothing and see what kind of looks and questions you get!)

Another big aspect about it, is the history. in the second half of the 19th Century, human events and history was moving forward so fast that it can only be compared to what we are experiencing today. I really enjoy learning about all different aspects of history and this is no exception. That is why I love to do historical re-enacting. And I am starting to understand more about the late 19th Century as I look deeper in the steampunk culture. So maybe it is for me, another possible form of re-enacting. Except that unlike in true re-enacting, you don't have to limit yourself to "what they would have had", or "how they would have done it," to get your personal re-enacting impression down correctly.

For so very long I have been part of groups were you could not have this or that or do this or that because it is not "period correct." Don't get me wrong. I am one of the biggest "accuracy/authenticity nazi's" out there in the re-enacting world. If you are attempting to re-create or retell a period of history, you better do it right or don't do it at all! And maybe that is why steampunk is so appealing to me right now. I don't have to stay within a certain historical time-frame limit with steampunk. Yeah, it is Victorian based, but it is also Science-fiction and fantasy and is really more about portraying a "future-past that never was." It is embracing a love of the past, while at the same time bringing in all the cool technology that we can come to love in our own time period. After all, who wants to be without their smartphone, laptops or MP3 players. In steampunk, you can have them all, but you attempt to bring them back to the 19th century as how "they might have been" had the current 19th Century technology and sciences been able to do all they had hope and theorized it could do. (Think Jules Verne, or HG Wells)

Lately, I have been getting a bit disappointed with my re-eancting hobby. I still love it to death, but as in the case of medieval re-eancting, the events are to few and far between. Most options available to myself and those in my living history troupe are Renaissance faires, and to be honest with you, the attempts at re-creating history most of the people who attend them, is fair to middling at best. So much of it is "farby," a term used to describe something in re-enacting that is not period accurate, or just plain wrong, but used anyway. My 18th Century re-eancting does a much better job of portraying history correctly, but again, the events are often time very far away, usually involves me packing and hauling a great deal of large gear for four people to set up a camp, and lately the events have become rather routine in how an event passes over a weekend. (Set up camp, drill, morning colors, drill, morning battle, shop, drill, morning battle, evening colors. Yes, I know it is a military camp, and so it should be routine, but this is my hobby and I want my hobbies to be fun!) This is all well and good for the presentation of history, but it can get a bit stale at times. There is a movement afoot in the 18th Century re-eancting world to change this up and make events more free flowing and I find those events to be much more refreshing, but alas, they are the minority.

Another aspect of the Steampunk culture is that it seems to be a very social thing. Parties and social events, rather than re-enactments are more the norm, and the whole thing seems to flow well within events such as gaming conventions and the like. (GenCon has a very active steampunk following. I need to look into that for next year.) This year there is the TeslaCon in Madison WI. that looks to be quite an event, but attending it is not in the cards for me this year. Maybe next year!

So, I have begun to dip my toe into the Steampunk pool. I want to bring my wife along but I want to see if it is something we will enjoy. I think we will. (It seems to be a more "adult-oriented" activity and doing something just with her is very appealing to me.) I know for a fact that she would look "smokin-HAWT!" in some of the Steampunk styled victorian clothing. I am looking around for pointers on fashion ideas, gear, and socializing in our area, or at least within a reasonable distance. Hopefully it will be a fun and rewarding experience. If you hear of anything, please tell me! If and when things start to happen, I will let you know and maybe post some photos. Until then, 'Carry on!"

Later!

The bad and the good of 2009.

Here is why 2009 sucked. (in order of importance)

1. My father passed away in 2009 and suffered horribly for the first two months of this year.
2. Obama was sworn in as President of the United States of America.
3. An evil act was perpetrated upon a very good friend of mine for the simple reason of destroying him, financially, emotionally, and career-wise.
4. The marriages of some good people ended or otherwise turned upside-down.
5. Many of my friends lost their jobs this year.
6. A girl from my town died at far too young of an age.
7. The economy has almost literally broken me and many of my friends.
8. Did not play paintball once... grr.
9. Guns and Ammo prices went through the roof!
10. Obama is still president at the end of the year.
11. New was received of the end of the Jubilee Olde English Faire.


Here is how 2009 tried to redeem itself. (in order of importance)

1. My birthday, thanks to family and friends, ROCKED!
2. My family added a new puppy to the pack!
3. My wife got baptized this year!
4. My wife and I took over as leaders of the Youth Group at our church. (one of the best decisions I have ever made)
5. Attended the Youth Gathering in New Orleans with 32,000 other Lutheran youths for a week of amazing experiences!
6. My knowledge of wine and wine making has improved!
7. My daughter has embraced school rather than fight it!
8. I attended Gen Con again, and had a blast... and my gaming time with friends and family has increased!
9. I got new windows installed in my house!
10. My wife got a new car at no added cost per payment!
11. After way too many years, I finally had a successful deer hunting season with my son!
12. I have my concealed carry permits from both Pennsylvania and Florida!

The Buck stopped here.

After far too long of a time between deer kills, I finally managed to outwit, outplan and outsit one of God's most excellent game animals. The deer season started on the 20th of November and my son and I went south to Effingham to join up with a really nice guy I met last year. Both he and I are scout leaders and I think our desire to see boys take deer made for a common bond between us. He set us up in a deer stand that we had been in last year for one day and after some talking, we managed to arrange to get the stand moved to a new spot, lined up differently, and readied for the new season. The first day was a disappointment, a feeling that we have gotten to know far too well. Both my son and I sat in the "buddy" stand waiting and waiting. There was shooting all around us, but we saw no indication of deer anywhere near us. So after 10 hours of sitting, we hauled our exhausted butts back to where we were staying and crashed early. We decided that the next day, my son would go out on his own in hopes of seeing something in another part of the woods. (He did, but it was too far off to shoot at comfortably.)

That following day was warmer and I had moved into the buddy stand with out my buddy. The morning was quiet with little gunfire coming from around us and I thought to myself that it was going to be a repeat of the previous day. I was talking to my son on the 2-way radio telling him that our host saw a few doe moving in his direction, when not more than about a minute later I heard a sound unlike all the others I had tuned my ears for. Turning 180 degrees in my stand I see a deer, which I thought was a doe, heading up a hill, but it had slipped on the wet leaves and mud. Had it not been for that slip, I do not think I would have noticed it at all. I could not believe it. After all the years of getting skunked, a chance was now presented to me! I stood and turned, leveled the gun that I had not shot at a target in a number of years, (I still trust the sighting I put on it.) and, hesitated. Was my shot going to be clean, and merciful? I knew I would not miss, but I was worried I would make a wounding shot instead of a killing one. The distance was 80 yards out and below me. Would I need to compensate? All this went through my head in about a second when I knew I had to pull the trigger. Using a magnum load with a hollow point sabot, any hit was going to be devastating. The gun roared and echoed in the woods, and almost instantaneously, the deer falls and slides down the hill, front paws clawing at the air and dirt. I had hit it in the spine and lungs... a killing shot, but not a quick kill as I hoped. I radioed my son, something about a mercy shot, started down the ladder and jumped the last ten feet or so. I could still see the deer pawing and moving so I ran across the distance but stopped about 25 yards out as it was over on the other side of the stream. Wanting to wait no longer to end it's pain, I raised my gun up again and sent a slug through the right side of the deer's head. It was over.

I walked over to the deer and as has been my way ever since I began to thinking about the act of hunting, I said a prayer of thanks and respect to the creature that just gave me his life. It was then that I noticed it was a buck rather than a doe, so I felt better that a doe might carry on to this spring to bring another deer into the world. I would normally have attempted to drag the deer out from where he lay but it was more than I could have done by myself. I contacted my host about the kill and he said he would be around soon, but to sit tight as he spotted some deer in his area. I went back to my stand to keep an eye on things and when I got settled back in, I was surprised that I was suddenly overcome with emotion. Excitement, joy, adrenaline, and yes, saddness and sorrow all came up at the same time. I will have to admit, I am glad no one was around to see me.

Soon, when everyone was around to help haul the deer out, I gathered up my son and we headed back to dress out the deer. I insisted on having him be an active part of the cleaning of the deer and he went to it with very little hesitation. He even decided that instead of wasting portions of the deer, he would keep certain parts like the hide, the hooves and the tail to use for various purposes. I like that. I wanted him to go back out and sit in the event that he could get a deer, but he was just happy that we got one together, so instead we ate a bite of lunch, and headed home. Soon we will be eating our prize and reveling in the knowledge that we took this meat and it did not come from a grocery store.

At some point I will have to blog about why I hunt and why I think hunting is important, but not right now. Instead, my thanks for hanging in there and reading and sharing my story with me.

Later!

Noise....

As a result of watching a video during my High School Sunday School class, I challenged the kids to go without their cell phone for one week. Only one student stepped up to the challenge. So far, it has not been a big deal, but it is a challenge. The young lady who is doing this challenge with me says that it sucks so far, but she has made the effort and is well into her 2nd day as of this writing. I will keep you informed as to hers, and my progress and feelings on this. One thing I can comment on right now, is that I have lived with out cell phones for longer than I have had one, but it is very hard to remember when I did not have one. It has become such a part of my everyday existence, almost like the pocketknife I carry everyday. It is funny how something that I did not have for so long, is now such a part of me.

Anyway, as the week goes along, I will give some thought to what it is like not having it.

Later!

One of the best ever!

On Thursday the 8th of October, I celebrated my 44th birthday and I must say it was one of the best ever. I have, hands down, the best wife and kids of all the people I know. And I have friends that rock to the nth degree. And to top it off, my 83 year old mom can still make desserts with the best of them. I love birthdays. They are God's gift to you. It is your day and it should be celebrated. You don't have to share it with anyone. It is your very own holiday that celebrates you: not Martin Luther, Columbus, or any number of presidents. It is all about you. So go out and celebrate it! I usually take the day off and if possible, like to have a small fire outside for cooking hot dogs and brats on but this year it was raining pretty much from 8am to 8pm. But still! It was one of the best birthdays ever.

To start off, my mom was making for me, as requested, a red velvet cake. If you have never had a homemade red velvet cake, then I feel sorry for you. It is one of the most delicious, rich, and filling cakes you have ever had. (For the love of God, there is a pound of butter in it) My mother even made it with homemade cream cheese icing.... O.M.G.



And to make things even better, my wife purchased a gift for me that truly had alot of thought behind it. For my 44th birthday, my wonderful wife bought me a .44 magnum revolver.... yeah, like Dirty Harry .44 magnum. A Ruger Red Hawk, .44 mag. with 7.5 inch brushed stainless steel barrel with rosewood handle. Just frakkin sweet... I love that girl. Apparently my kids and some friends pitched in to make it happen too. My kids and friends are just the best.


And finally, while having dessert of red velvet cake, one of my best buddies pulls out a 20 year aged bottle of Taylor Fladgate Tawny Port. Talk about a match made in heaven... red velvet and tawny port. Yeah buddy, can you say orgasm for your mouth?



Anyway, I highly doubt I will get a .45 caliber anything for my 45th birthday, and they don't make guns in 46-49 caliber but I can see 50 from here! Makes you wonder what kind of gun goes with 50?

This is a birthday I will always remember.

Thanks!

Later!

Irons in the fire....

Just a list of things coming up that excite me:

A BBQ 7 course meal reservation.... what could be better than 7 courses of BBQ?

An LYO trip to the reindeer ranch! Corn maze at night! I am sure to lose at least a few students!

A colonial trade faire where I will be setting up a "Tavern" to serve "cider" to the participants. Will be making homemade cider for this!

High School reunion photo shoot. While I don't like to do the job so much, it is really good money! Money, Money, Money... need some right now...

14th Century demo/ren faire in Fishers Ind. It is alot of work, but it is soooo much fun!

My BIRTHDAY! I love my birthday... even if I don't have a party or anything like that. This time I think I would like to have friends over and do some gaming. Never done that.... after a wiener roast of course...

The JagerFest at the Bayern Stube. Nominally to celebrate my birthday, but I don't need an excuse to go there to eat good German Food!

Camping with the family and dogs. We are going to a new place not far from home but one that looks like it could be hours away! Camping with my kids in the same trailer I camped in as a kid give me a special thrill for some reason. It is like sharing my childhood with them.

Being about 1/2 gallon away from having my house completely repainted... now of I could only get the time to do it!

Well, with this much stuff in the fire, I better get busy getting all the boring stuff out of the way!

Later!

Cool things lately...

Rather than join the cacophony of voices screaming and complaining and general negative voices on the Internet, radio and tv... I am gonna just list a lot of great things happening in my life. If you think negatively, which I am guilty of, you will create negative outcomes. Like I tell my son and daughter, "You make your own hell." Life is good and here is why it is for me....

My wife got her motorcycle license and now rides (even long distance) with me and friends! It really is cool to see her riding in the two wheeled brother-(sister) hood.

I have been on two great vacations. One to the Wisconsin Dell and one to New Orleans

I actually was able to witness really good thing happening in New Orleans when people come together with a conscious effort to change a place. In turn, they are changed themselves. Also, out of the blue, I actually got a phone call from a resident of New Orleans, calling me to simply thank us for coming to her town and making a difference. Never met her and probably never will, but we talked like old friends. One of the things I learned there is to listen to people, and really hear them. You will be amazed what you will discover if you shut up and listen instead of yammering on about yourself.

I got to see the WWII D-day Museum in New Orleans.and even met some vets from Omaha beach.

I have a new puppy. What can get better than that? Her name is Astrid Gudrun von Geiken and she is a AKC German Shepard. She is a beauty and very sweet and smart.

I am almost done with repainting my entire house.

All of my bills get paid on time. (thanks to my wife)

I have been able to game about a dozen times in the last month or two. Very Cool!

My daughter has joined the Cross Country team and seems (so far) to enjoy it! That also means she is in Jr. High now... which scares me a little but is still pretty cool in my book. She works hard to get decent grades. I hope we can keep it up in 6th grade.

My son is playing the bass drum in marching band - something that he really wanted to do! This makes me happy that he was excited about getting it. All to often he takes what is left over.

I took the Concealed Carry License for the State of Florida and passed. Now to get the Concealed Carry passed in Illinois. From what I hear, it is close to happening. That makes me really happy!

My wife loves me and I love her. So many couples around me are self destructing and I cannot for the life of me figure out why. Don't people talk anymore in relationships?

My wife and I are planning a wine and dine weekend. Vineyards and nice restaurants...

Speaking of wine, I made another 3 gallons of port for the church and private consumption.

And finally, as the last big blast of Summer, the family and I are heading to GENCON! Gaming and geeky heaven!!! I can't wait!



Dang, just writing this has made me feel better!

Later!

Have a great day!

Top of my head ramblings....

Much like the end of the year, the middle of the year (particularly August) is a very, very expensive time for my wife and I. Due to two particularly good Halloween parties we hosted, (15 and 11 years ago) both of our kids were born in the latter part of July and the early part of August, making their birthdays about 10 days apart on the calendar. Both my wife and I are huge proponents of celebrating birthdays and giving gifts to kids and making the most of their special days. Not quite like Christmas, but we do try to make the day special and memoriable. So we purchase gifts, make cakes, host a party or two, and generally shell out a decent amount of cash for the kids. We love them and they deserve it and everyone has a good time! But now, as the kids get older, and they advance in to higher grades, their activities in the school increase and with that, so do the school fees. So, to put the kids in school, get supplies, clothes, sport shoes and clothing, band equipement, medical checkups, and all those other things, and throw in the birthdays, it can be a bit tight in the home of the Longbowman. And because I am a geek and I must feed my inner geek, I bring the family along to GenCon in Indianapolis so that they can be my geek family at the biggest gaming convention in the US. (nothing is sadder than a single geek at a gaming convention.... maybe.) And then you have the hometown celebration (Old Settlers) that I have attended for every year I have been alive the following weekend and you have one very very broke family!

What to do, what to do? To be honest, I have no idea. Cut back on birthdays!? Hell no! God gives each of us a special day and it deserves to be celebrated! Keep the kids from doing so much in school. No way... bad idea. I didn't involve myself in much during my school years and regret it. Skip Gen Con? Possibly, but it is soo much fun and we all have a great time attending it as the last hurrah before school starts. Miss the old hometown celebration that I have never missed? Are you frakkin kidding? That would probably cause the end of the world...

So what to do? You know what... nothing... Do what we want to do. Suck it up, cut in other places or make money elsewhere to help things out. For those that complain about not having money, I feel for you, but if you spending your money and having fun and still complaining about not having money... stop. IF You are not having fun with your money, then you have a MIGHT have a right to complain. But that is your fault. But if you spend it on fun stuff and are still paying your bills, supporting your family, and making ends meet but with nothing left over like just about everyone else, then good for you! You can't take the money with you so use it to live and life will work itself out. God provides for those that make the effort.

August and the beginning of school will be over and then things will be more fluid in the cash department for my family. And we will have had a fun summer despite the fact we will be flat broke. Money is worth nothing if it is not used.

(inspired by a conversation with and unemployed friend who has really good attitude about money and how to use it.)

Later..

The Potholes...

Ever heard of the potholes? I bet you have not. The Potholes are a natural feature in the creek bed of a small Indiana water way that over time, has eroded and cut out depressions in the creek bed to create "potholes". While walking along the bed you will find holes of icey cold water swirling about in a 3-5 deep hole that is just asking for you to dip into it. You have no choice.. if you want to work your way to the falls, or work your way back to the entry point, some of the potholes you must hit! It is a secret little place that only a few people at a time go to. It looks like Turkey Run State park, but only about half a mile long and not nearly as crowded or big. But special just the same. Two weekends ago I went there with family and friends. It was great! Sometime I will have to take you there, but until then, enjoy the photos!

later!

Ode to my dad...

Prior to my father passing away more than two weeks ago, I had it in mind to write something about him and his life and what he meant to me and my family. I never got around to it, and when we knew his time in this realm was limited, I really tried to put something down. But try as I might, I could not come up with anything. Not that he didn't have a huge impact on all of us, but probably because I had already said it to many people as they asked me about him. I had told them simply, "My Dad is(was) my Hero." I told this to one collegue of mine and she sent me this poem about three days later.

SUCCESS
by Martin Buxbaum

You can use most any measure
When you're speaking of success.
You can measure it in fancy home,
Expensive car or dress.
But the measure of your real success
Is the one you cannot spend.
It's the way your kids describe you
When they're talking to a friend.

Friends, I tell you again. "My Dad was my Hero."

That life story did get written, but in two different ways. Two people, one a blood relative and the other just as close as one, told my dad's story in wonderful ways. One was in a endearing, touching, and funny video montage of family photos, and the other was in a letter written to him about how much he meant to all of us. So I am happy that the story of my dad got told in the way it did. It was far better than anything I could have ever done on my own.

Later!

An interesting, yet unsatisfying weekend...

Let's see, I helped do cleanup on a new business starting in town, gamed with some friends, sent my wife off to a girl scout activity, went to church and Sunday school, helped my mom and dad out at home, stood in audience while my son became married,had sex and became a father in a XBOX video game, attended a Boy Scout committee meeting, and watched a movie with my wife all this weekend, but it still felt like I did nothing of much importance or quality.

I just can't lay my finger on it, but the weekend felt like a wash. All these things should have made me feel rewarded but they didn't. My wife's excursion to the Girl Scout activity was almost a disaster due to lack of planning on part of the hosts and organizers, and the game I was running just didn't turn out as fun as I would liked it to have. (And how can you not have fun with half a dozen kobolds running around trying to kill each other in order to eat babies?) Going to church on Sunday morning was good but at Sunday school I was all set to have a youth meeting with the kids, but found out it was put off until next week. So instead we went out for breakfast. We did have a very kind person pay for all of our meals without us knowing about it, so that was a reward in itself.

And helping my folks out really does make me feel good, but this time, because I know what I am doing in more in preparation for my father losing his right leg due to complications of ill health, I just was not feeling good about it.

Then my son is playing Fable II (a video game on XBOX) and he takes his character into the actions that get him married, buying a house, and having sex and making a family, which by itself was hilarious because he was so embarassed about it, but I could have turned it into something about life learning. Instead I went and made supper.

The movie was good and I always enjoy hanging out with my wife to watch a movie. It is part of what we do as a couple. But even that was kind of a let down.

I think it is because over the weekend and last week, a number of things, from friends in emotional strife, to my dad's ill health, and the ever-present gray frozen condition of Central Illinois, I just could not really enjoy this weekend, and that sucks. This was a great weekend, I just could not see it for all the downers that surrounded it.

Sorry for the complete uselessness of this blog post, but I just wanted to get it off my chest. Next weekend will be better.

later!