This is a Test of a Cool New Program

It’s called “Live Writer” (Beta) and is brought to us by our friends at Microsoft. It will allow me to insert a hyperlink to My Website a photograph of one of my wife’s ponies, video, maps and more. If you like this and would like more information, google “Windows Live Writer” and download it for free!

Jerry's House

At the End of a Hunt

As is typical with my pointer, Karl’s day was a mixed bag of brilliance and embarrassment. There was no denying his passion for the task at hand; his points (once he settled down) were more intense and steady than I’ve ever seen from him and his energy seemed boundless. As further testament to the dog’s desire he at one point began to run after a Cessna he saw flying south of us—thought for sure it was the “catch of the day”.

So now I sit in reflection and evaluate the hunt (as I typically do) thusly: how did the dogs do? And it troubles me that that question is spiritually askew. But like it or not, I tend to live vicariously through my dogs while in the field. I want my companions to be impressed with their performance, and I want them to tell me what great hunters my dogs are. If they do I feel good about the day; if they don’t, I assume that the dogs’ erratic performance (some degree of which is almost guaranteed) has somehow diminished the quality of their experience afield. And I then flagellate myself for not being a better trainer. But even in these circumstances when I’m apologizing for the flushed-out-of-range birds and the busted points I’m secretly cherishing the time I’ve spent with my 4-legged hunting companions without regard to their mistakes or my friends’ evaluations. I’ve had the pleasure, no, the privilege, of sharing with them a moment of sheer bliss; they with noses full of intoxicating bird scent and me, well, just watching them enjoy themselves. Henceforth, that will be enough!

The Jerry Grinkmeyer Invitational Bird Hunt

“Gentlemen,” I announced, “I’d like to welcome you all to the first annual Jerry Grinkmeyer Invitational Bird Hunt!” I’d prepared a lengthy speech in which I would proclaim the righteousness of this hallowed event, introduce the significance of each of the attendees, make some comments about how it was not about us but about the dogs, then reveal the intricate logistics of who would hunt with whom, where, how, etc. My introduction was met with an attitude of dismissal, which I took as a warning not to get all full of myself; some of them had heard me pontificate before. “Alright, alright, here’s the plan. We’ll all walk up to the cemetery as a group and let these hounds blow off some steam. John, you come with me and Casey. We’ll hunt the east half of the cornfield, the rest of you can hunt the west.”

I shouldered the Auto-5 and started toward the cemetery, Casey and John close behind. “Come on Jake, let’s hunt ‘em up!”, said Oscar, and I turned to see the pointer, headed due north, disappear over a little rise with Karl in hot pursuit. “Shit! He’s headed straight for the fencerow”, I said to Casey. We’d planted several birds in the cover along the fence, hoping to give Oscar and the boys some realistic shooting opportunities toward the end of their trek. Logistics be damned, the hunt was under way!

That was the last I saw of Karl for a while. He’d gotten a snootfull of that bird and his trigger had been tripped “Come on, let’s head east”, I said, intent on following the plan I’d outlined. “He’ll see I’m gone and come looking for me”. But he didn’t come. I whistled and yelled and seethed internally but nothing would deter him. . He was like the berserk Marine with the cartridge belts strung across both shoulders and the machine gun sweeping down legions of Viet Cong, oblivious to danger, oblivious to everything but the task of seeking out and destroying his prey. I was frustrated, embarrassed and angry. We’d spent countless hours marching countless miles just to avoid this very situation. I watched him, 200 yards distant now, as he vacuumed the corn stubble and the edge of the woods. His movement was controlled frenzy, fluid, graceful, and totally focused. I was torn between wanting him with me and wanting to catch and wail the tar out of him.

I continued east, as per my plan, with Casey and John for a while, but the yells of excitement and the sound of gunfire in the distance were too much. “I’m going after him”, I announced, and headed off to join the fray and reclaim my pointer.

Karl hunted with me for a while, but not really. He hunted for Karl and it was our job to keep up with him. He pointed brilliantly and pointed staunchly, and Riley retrieved with the fervor and maturity of a dog that had had many more birds shot over him. We retired to the trucks after and hour or so to take a break. Karl passed Hershey’s syrup from his rear end and puked bile. Later that day I would loose him in the woods, intent on tracking down a wounded cock pheasant. John, Ira and I spent 15 minutes combing the leaf strewn floor to no avail. I called Karl when we’d thrown in the towel, listened for his rustling through the woods, but heard only silence. He was still on his own, I figured, and there was nothing I could do to get him back other than trust his homing instinct to find me when he’d had enough.

But as I stepped over the trampled barbed wire fence that separated the woods from the corn, I heard the unmistakable squawk of a pheasant about 15 feet to my left. I made my way over to the source of the bird’s plea for help and found Karl standing locked and loaded over the bird. He’d apparently tracked the cripple through the woods and driven the now flightless bird into a clump of brambles. I dispatched the wounded pheasant, hugged and petted and fussed over Karl, and removed his e-collar. All was forgiven, and a sense of pride and love and admiration swept over me. “Sometimes”, I thought, “it is indeed hard to see the forest for the trees.”

I enjoy the fancy guns and the rugged clothes, the nature walks and the fellowship of hunting with a good friend or two. But at the core of my love for hunting is my love for the dogs that accompany on my outings. And I say with no reservations whatsoever that were it not for the dogs, all the accoutrements that hang in my closet or on my wall would be disposed of or relegated to another use and my hunting career would cease. It is a rare pleasure to have the opportunity to watch one of God’s creatures at their very best, doing that one thing they were designed specifically to do with near perfection. And that is what I witnessed from Karl that Sunday.

It is a modern convention, I suspect, to introduce things like discipline and handling into the pursuit of wild game. Our progenitors who hundreds of years ago used their canine companions to help send gamebirds to flight were in the fields for an entirely different reason than I. Their very lives depended on the meat they would gather, and there was certainly no concept of sport. Consequently, I have to believe that had some 1700’s bird hunter been in the field with my ‘disobedient’ dogs that day they’d have regaled their family with recollections of the efficiency of the dogs and the passion with which their supper had been presented to the gun.

Karl’s helter-skelter meandering was a lesson in passion. “Live with passion!”, proclaims Tony Robbins, and he gives the techniques that one can apply to develop this powerful tool in their lives. Hogwash! Passion is not intellectual, it is primal. It is the outward and uncompromising expression of that which is basic and unique to our nature, that thing which drives us to a greatness that is our destiny, that thing that most of us will never have the insight or courage to personify in our own lives. It is the power of an unknown and universal force we call ‘God’ flowing directly through us, unrestrained and uninhibited. Passion is a Mozart symphony, a Jordan slam-dunk, Microsoft, Inc., a young Mohammed Ali pummeling an aging Sonny Liston. Passion is not effort so much as it is surrender to the inevitable.

Late in the day Karl walked beside me through the corn stubble, exhausted from his efforts, and looked up at me with his pale green eyes. It was almost apologetic, that look, as if he was trying to make me understand why he behaved the way he did. I set my shotgun on the ground and bent down to hug him. “That’s okay boy, you did great today. You’re a good boy and a great hunter.” I understood and I forgave him. He trotted off to my right where Oscar and Dave were walking the edge of the woods looking for one last shot while I shucked the last of my shells to the ground. It was over for me this day but not for him. “Karl’s locked up, he’s got one!”

An Excerpt From "Conversations With Katherine"

On Sunday morning Rudy awoke to the sound of rapidly flapping ears and the feel of warm dog breath on his arm. The ears would be Karl’s and the breath belonged to Gracie. They were mounting a full frontal attack on his peaceful slumber but he was not going to give up without a fight. He opened an eye just enough to get a look at the alarm clock; had they seen the whites of his eyes the dogs would have commenced their victory dance. It was 6:45, the middle of the day for the attackers but still too early to rise and shine for Rudy. He played possum, hoping Joan would relent and get up to let the dogs out. He did not yet realize that his snoring had driven her into the front bedroom and she’d already withstood the canine attack without surrendering to their persistent “bothering.”

Rudy was just falling back to sleep when he felt his warm slumber-nest being aggressively disassembled. Karl had a blanket firmly locked in his jaw and was tugging backwards in short bursts, a little grunt escaping his mouth with each pull. Gracie stood behind him, no doubt offering encouragement in dog language. Rudy had been surprised and amused by Karl’s antics many times since the German Shorthaired Pointer joined their family over 12 years ago. But this little trick went beyond amusement and made a half-awake Rudy burst into laughter. He conceded defeat and got out of bed to let the dogs outside.

It was still dark but the waning light of a full moon made the three inches of freshly fallen snow sparkle and shine like a disco ball. His mood buoyed by this display of natural beauty, Rudy decided to get dressed and go to the barn to feed the horses. Their primary caretaker, who was still asleep in the front bedroom, would be pleasantly surprised and grateful she did not have to brave the morning cold.

Rudy went to the front closet and pulled on his parka and gloves while Karl stood beside him whining in anticipation of the as-of-yet undetermined adventure they were about to share.
“Gracie, you’d better call the vet. It’s obvious that Karl is suffering,” Rudy teased. When they reached the barn Rudy went to the breaker box on the wall and threw the switch that turned on the lights. His heart jumped as he looked toward the stalls. The horses were standing head-to-head and to their obvious glee someone was scratching their noses.
“Hello, Mama.”
“Hi Rudy; how ya’ doin’?”

“What happened to that cute little elf hat you were wearing; Pinocchio want it back?”
“That’s pretty funny, Rudy. Perhaps that rewarding career you are so desperately seeking has to do with telling funny jokes in smoke-filled rooms.”
They both chuckled and Rudy appreciated the light-hearted mood, though he suspected more serious discussion was in the offing.

“Does this mean I’ve successfully completed my assignment,” he asked.
Kay had turned her attention away from the horses and was squatting in order to dole out some petting to the curious dogs. Rudy remembered when they met on the stream how she and Gunner had hit it off. As if on cue she asked, “What became of Gunner?”
“He died on a brutally cold winter morning,” he replied. “A week before I noticed that his belly was blowing up and I figured he was full of worms so I took him to the vet. Dr. Grass met us in the lobby and I gave her my worm diagnosis; she looked at me like I was from Mars and pulled me into an examination room. She drew some blood and scheduled a return visit for the next day.”

“Joan came with me and the doctor explained that his problem was a long way from worms; he had liver damage and she speculated that less than 10% was still alive. She told us we could take him to the vet school at Purdue and spend $1500 with no guarantees, she could try to treat him with no guarantees, yada, yada, yada. I thanked her for her diagnosis and guaranteed her that Gunner would live out his days surrounded by love, not lab coats.”

“Gunner deteriorated rapidly. A few days after our second visit to the vet I followed him outside to witness his morning constitutional. When he finished he took a few wobbly steps forward and then, apparently exhausted, he sat on his haunches. I let him sit for a few minutes in the snow, then called him to follow me. He tried to stand but couldn’t; he whined softly and gave me ‘the look’.”

“Joan called Dr. Jantzen, the vet who’d amputated his leg, and asked if he’d do the honors; he said he would have it no other way. I called a friend who is in the landscape business and asked if he could get his hands on a backhoe. He explained that while he could easily find one, the ground was frozen 22” deep and nothing short of a nuclear warhead could penetrate it. Without me telling him why I needed a hole in the ground he expressed his condolences before hanging up.”

“Joan and I built a roaring fire in the wood stove and piled up blankets for the three of us to lie on. We hugged and petted Gunner, telling him what a wonderful dog he’d been and what a privilege it had been to share time on earth with him. Dr. Jantzen arrived with an assistant and they joined us in the family room. He’d put down a couple of Joan’s horses and I’d learned that he would not administer the injection until told to; after a few minutes I looked at him and said ‘It’s time’. Gunner died peacefully and as I looked around the room I saw tears in both the doctor’s and his assistant’s eyes. I wondered if Dr. Jantzen cried every time he put a dog to sleep, but I knew how special Gunner was to him and guessed that he did not. It was a fitting tribute to a great dog.”

Kay pulled an embroidered handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at the end of her nose before wiping tears from both eyes.
“You were indeed fortunate to share time with such a wonderful creation, Rudy,” she said. “And I believe I can confidently say that about Karl and Gracie, too.”
“There can be no doubt about that, Mama,” Rudy agreed, noting that he had never told her their names. “Uh, Mama; about my assignment?”

Kay stood and brushed copious amounts of dog hair from her jeans as Rudy took a seat on a hay bale.
“I told you I’d see you again when you had, and here I am!” she said cheerily.
“I wasn’t sure,” said Rudy. “I finished the letter and I didn’t hear from you. I thought maybe I’d…”
“Saying goodbye was the assignment, but writing your letter had no inherent value. The value was in the lesson you learned.”
“I’m lost; what lesson did I learn?” Rudy asked.
“Think, Honey. What decision did you make as a result of your tirade against Grace?”
“I decided to run my life,” he answered. ‘I am accepting responsibility for my life, both past and future, and any results that I get from now on are due solely to the decisions I make and the actions I take.’ That’s what I told Joan; so that’s the point of this exercise!”

Rudy had a ‘eureka’ moment and Kay’s expression acknowledged her pleasure that he’d ‘gotten it’.
“Did you see my letter,” he asked timidly.
“Yes Rudy, I saw it,” she answered without comment.
“Pretty vile, eh?”
“It was pretty much what I expected.”
Rudy continued, “So what did you think of it?”
“I think you have a good grasp of sentence structure and grammar; in particular, profanity. And it was certainly honest; I didn’t detect a hint of a lie.”
Rudy was grateful that she did not pass judgment on him; or if she did, she kept her feelings to herself. He decided to file the letter in the recycle bin of his mind. Kay walked across the barn and sat on the hay bale next to him.

“So Rudy, how does it feel being in charge? Do you miss your helper?” Kate teased.
Rudy ignored her question and asked one of his own.
“Mama, I bet you’ve asked me that two hundred times; ‘how does it feel.’ Why is that so important to you?”
“I’m taking your emotional temperature,” she replied. “Your feelings are the thermometer of your emotional state. In fact, Honey, if you look closely at why you do what you do you’ll find that the reason is always ‘feelings’.”
They were facing each other and when Kay finished Rudy stared silently into her eyes, hoping to find an interpretation of the Chinese she was speaking to him. “What!?”

“Rudy, what was the first thing you did when you got home from work last night?”
“I said hello to Joan and the dogs.”
“After that?”
“I fixed a big, fat Scotch.”
“Why Scotch; I mean, if you wanted something to quench your thirst why not fix a big, fat glass of water?”
“Trust me, Mama; it had nothing to do with thirst-quenching. It had to do with chilling out after a day at work.”
“’Chilling out’; what does that mean?” Kay asked.
Rudy knew she’d haltered him once again. But like the horses who quietly chewed the hay he’d thrown them Rudy knew that once the apparatus was attached there was no use trying to resist the pull of the person on the other end. He followed her lead and replied obediently,
“Chilling out means relaxing; and you already knew that, Mama.” She ignored his barb and continued her instruction.
“And relaxation is…?”
While a second ‘eureka’ moment sent snaps, crackles and pops through his brain Rudy replied, “A feeling!”

Rudy had taken the bait and Kay prepared to set the hook.
“Why do you lug all that heavy equipment around so you can play music with your friends?”
Rudy was smiling and looking through the barn door toward the breaking dawn. A globe of orange light was just beginning to peek over the eastern horizon.
“Because playing music makes me happy.”
“And happiness is…?”
“A feeling. I’m beginning to see your point,” said Rudy.

“Okay Rudy, let me ask you another question.” Rudy was enjoying the Q and A session and eagerly agreed.
“Remember the story you told me about Grace bloodying your nose at the dinner table?”
Rudy grimaced and answered, “Yeah; but I’d rather not!”
“Why not?”
“Because it upsets me; it makes me angry.”
“And anger is…?”
“Wait a minute!” he said. “You told me that we do what we do because we enjoy the feelings we get. I don’t enjoy being angry and I thought we, that is I, had said goodbye to Grace; why you bringin’ her back up?”
“I didn’t say we do what we do because we enjoy the feelings. I said that we do what we do because of feelings; there’s a difference.”
She’d dodged the ‘Grace’ part of his question but clarification of her premise was more important at the moment.
“And I suspect you’re about to clarify that difference?”

“Rudy, human behavior is complex; you’re beginning to learn that. But the reason we do the things we do is really pretty simple. The reward of every action is a feeling. If you believe that taking that action will bring you pleasure you will step up to the plate and take your best swing. But!...” Rudy listened carefully as she was about to make an important counterpoint.
“…if you believe that taking that action will cause you physical or emotional pain, they’ll have to drag you kicking and screaming from the dugout. You want to avoid pain and experience pleasure.”
Rudy stood and walked toward Jack the horse while digesting what she’d just said. He scratched a grateful snout and said, “Seems kind of hedonistic to me.”
“I suppose it is,” she agreed, “but be that as it may it’s the way your brain works. And understanding that principle can bring real power to your quest for your ‘self’.”

Rudy found her use of ‘self’ interesting. It implied that he was not currently himself, which begged the question ’Who am I?’ His head was beginning to swim and he made a mental note to return for an answer. But he now knew that Katherine’s visit involved more than checking to see how taking responsibility for his life was going.
He turned from Jack, faced her and folded his arms over his chest in preparation of receiving more pearls of heavenly wisdom.
“Please continue.”

“How do you feel about dieting?”
Rudy sometimes found the simplistic nature of her questioning annoying and whished she’d just get to the point. But he knew she was in charge and played along anyway.
“No good.”
“Why not?” she asked.
“It means giving up stuff I like to eat, like ice cream and bratwursts and Snickers bars.”
“And I find that painful,” he added playfully.
“And since you find it painful, what are your chances of succeeding at dieting?”
His annoyance of a minute ago faded as the implications of what she was teaching him began to reveal themselves. He smiled and answered, “Not good.”
“Okay. Now, what could you do so that your dieting regimen became pleasurable and your chances of success increased?”
“I could change the way I think about dieting. I could think about the health benefits or how buff I’d look to the babes. I could start looking at brats and Snickers as poison—naw, that ain’t gonna happen!”
“Very good, I think you’re getting the hang of it!” Kay said.

“Rudy, any time you’re having trouble doing something you know you should it’s because you are associating pain with taking that action. Pain avoidance is a primal survival mechanism that’s part of your DNA, and your brain will do anything it can to avoid it. If giving up a bad habit means sacrifice to you, you will interpret doing it as painful, sabotage your efforts and fail; your brain just will not allow you to continue doing something that hurts.”

“On the other hand, if you can associate pleasurable feeling with breaking the habit your likelihood of success increases considerably. Does this make sense to you?”
“Yes,” he replied, “absolutely.”
Confident that Rudy had grasped the pain/pleasure concept Kay set out to put it to practical use.

“Honey, tell me something you do on a regular basis that you find painful.” He did not have to contemplate an answer for more than a couple of seconds and said,
“My job. I hate my job.”
“Tell me what you hate about it,” she continued.
“Waiting on people is what I hate the most. Every time I approach a customer I think of the rejection that I’m likely to get; rejection is painful.”
“And why would they reject you?”
“Because I’m a frigging car salesman; they don’t trust me and they think I’m going to rip them off.”
“Are you?”
“No; I’m honest to a fault, if anything.”
“What else do you hate about it?”

“It’s beneath me. I should be doing something important, not selling cars.” Rudy bowed his head in embarrassment as he spoke. He was telling the truth but ashamed of his arrogance. He expected Kay to challenge him but she did not; she’d found the pain she was looking for and forged ahead with the lesson.
“Why don’t you quit your job and do something important, then?” she asked
“I can’t quit my job, I’m married to the money. And I don’t know what important thing I’m supposed to be doing, at least not yet.”
The second part of his answer could be addressed later; Kay needed to drive home her point and spoke to the first.

“If you can’t quit your job it might help if we could find a way to reframe what you do so that it would be more fun, do you agree?”
“What do you mean by ‘reframe’,” he asked.
“Look at it in a new way, a new light or a different perspective,” she answered. “How does it make you feel when you do something, anything well?”
“It makes me feel good, of course.”
“Then how about this; what if, rather than waiting on customers with the intention of selling them a car, your intention was to do the best you could at giving the information they needed to make an intelligent car-buying decision. And what if your reward was, rather than money, the satisfaction of having put forth your best effort.”
“That’s brilliant, Mama! Instead of being a car salesman I become a teacher or a counselor; I like it! I’ll give it a try!”

When he and the dogs returned to the house Joan was up and waiting for them in the kitchen.
“Did you guys feed the horses for me?” She asked with exaggerated enthusiasm which brought Karl and Gracie running to her, tongues flailing and tails wagging. Rudy answered on behalf of all of them,
“Yes, in fact we did!” Joan produced two dog biscuits and handed them to two grateful dogs.
“Thank you all!” she crooned.
Rudy reveled in the early-morning joy and camaraderie of his family and told Joan,
“It was our pleasure!”

Lessons Learned From Guitars

Some of us can’t leave well enough alone. We look at a perfectly good incarnation of a designer’s vision and see beyond the safe waters of what it is and into the turbulence of what it could be. Harleys are a great example of this. I bought my first in April of 1982 (long before they’d shaken their bad-boy image) and before the end of summer I’d removed the tanks and fenders and had it repainted. It was still mostly the designer’s vision but it was now unique, different from the thousands of mass produced clones; it was mine!

I fell victim to the same affliction several years ago with guitars. Almost any guitar player will tell you of the one they pulled off the wall and knew that it would never return to its undistinguished place amongst its inferior peers. Mine was a 2000 Fender Precision bass. It was light, resonant and played like a dream. I knew we were meant for each other before I even fully cradled it. There was only one problem—I hated the color. It was a natural finish, glossy polyurethane over a beautifully grained two-piece ash body. It looked very 70’s, a time that Fender aficionados consider to be a dark time in the company’s history due to poor workmanship. And of course there was disco, too.

I thought I’d get over the color thing but just like my Harley the bass was a clone. So I decided to paint it. Internet research led me to a bountiful source of information on how to paint a Fender bass in pretty much the same manner of the masters of old, before the EPA declared lacquer a killer of humans. I’d decided on a sunburst, where an amber tint in the middle allows the grain to show, then fades into a darker and darker finish as you reach the edges. I was cautioned that it was folly to make your first attempt at a refinish a sunburst but it was too late to turn back, I’d already created a picture of the classic finish in my mind.

I gathered together my supplies, cut a template for the burst and headed for the barn to begin creating my masterpiece. I sprayed the amber tint first; it came out fine so I shot a couple coats of clear lacquer to lock it in place. Wet paint is a dust magnet so you can imagine the challenges I faced in a barn. But my Internet instructor told me to let it dry and sand out the imperfections. I waited a couple of hours, hit the dust particles with sandpaper and promptly sanded through my amber tint. What to do? I stripped the body and started over.

My second attempt got me as far as shooting the darker burst but my airbrush sputtered and deposited globs of brown paint where it hadn’t been invited. So I stripped it and started over. And then I screwed it up again. Finally, after my fourth attempt, the guitar body looked like what I’d envisioned several weeks ago when I started. I shot 15 coats of clear lacquer over a period of three weeks stopping numerous times to sand out drips, runs, dust and an occasional bug. But I knew that despite my many errors I was learning and getting closer to my bass guitar.

Once the appropriate number of clear coats are down the sanding begins. At this stage the paint texture is similar to that of an orange, hence the term “orange peel”. I flattened the irregularities of the surface with #600 grit and proceeded getting the surface smoother and smoother using progressively less abrasive grits of wet-dry sandpaper up to #2000. I spent many hours doing this and would guess that I did nearly 10,000 strokes on my way to creating my special bass. Once the sanding was finished I moved on to three different degrees of polishing compounds, all rubbed by hand. And then one day it was done. I attached the neck, wired the electronics, put on the strings and set in its stand so I could just step back and look at the finished product. I’d seen it a thousand times before in my mind’s eye but it looked even better now than I’d imagined.

I’ve painted several guitars and basses since then and each time the procedure was the same. First, I’d envision the guitar in my mind. I’d see how it looked and I’d feel the pride of accomplishment that would be mine when it was done. I’d hear my friends’ compliments and see myself holding and playing the instrument. It’s never been a “when I’m done” kind of thing, it was always as if I was enjoying these feelings right now. With each guitar there were mistakes that had to be corrected causing me additional work and delaying the time of completion. But I never got frustrated and I never felt like any of it was work. My wife has been asking me to sand and refinish the top of her Aunt Carol’s old dresser for 30 years and I just can’t bring my self to do it. All that sanding would be work, and I have enough things to work on around the house as it is. But 10,000 strokes with sandpaper on a guitar I’ve dreamed of; nope, that’s not work, it’s fun!

Building guitars has taught me this: if I can clearly define and envision a goal, if I can propel myself forward towards my goal by experiencing the feelings right now that will be mine when the goal is accomplished, I will achieve it. And when I encounter the inevitable problems and frustrations I will move ahead as I will not be able to abandon the joyous feelings I’ve experienced so many times already. The process of achieving my goals will require effort and learning new skills but none of this will feel like work as it will be a labor of love. Painting guitars has reminded me that everything I’ve accomplished in my life, both good and bad, started as a thought, a tiny seed in my mind and through my attention, imagination and feeling was nurtured into a very real thing. Painting guitars has taught me to emerge from the fog and realize I have a choice as to what occupies my mental space. Painting guitars has taught to be aware of the seeds I choose to nurture.

Recipe: Shrimp and Grits

Ubiquitous is a fifty-cent word I like to spit out in front of my friends to impress them with my erudition (Look! Another fifty-cent word!). It means “constantly encountered” and applies to this edition’s recipe and its omnipresence on menus in Charleston, SC. This historic city is where my wife and I spent a few sweltering summer days soaking up Southern history, hospitality and cuisine. Our dining experiences ran the gamut from a stuck-in-the-50s diner that served an unworldly satisfying banana-pecan pancake to the boisterously elegant SNOB, the kind of place that enhances the eye appeal of its dishes by splattering colorful sauces all over the white serving plates. But it seemed that no matter where we ate there was a dish on the menu I’d never heard of, much less eaten—shrimp and grits. I once dated a girl whose mother would boil a pot full of water then throw in a package of noodles and a whole chicken; in an hour or so “chicken and noodles” was ready to eat, bones, skin and all. I imagined this apparently requisite Charleston dish to be as mundane, if not as disgusting, as the chicken and noodles that so repulsed me as a teenager in pursuit of a pretty lady. But at the urging of a charming waitress (another pretty lady who I was not pursuing) I gave it a try. Needless to say, there is more to the dish than the two ingredients for which it is named. Shrimp and grits comprise the blank palette upon which the creative cook will paint their culinary masterpiece; as such, there are as many ways to fix the dish as there are shrimp in the sea. But following is my interpretation of the recipe that first swept me off my feet and endeared me to this classic southern dish.

1 1/2 pound shrimp cooked, peeled and de-veined 2 tbs. flour
4 slices bacon 1 small onion, diced
1 cup “Quaker” quick grits 4 ounces cream cheese
3+1 cups chicken stock 2 tsp. Parsley flakes

Bring 3 cups stock to a boil and cook grits in a saucepan according to package directions. While grits are cooking fry bacon till crisp in a large skillet then remove to paper towels to drain. Leave 2 tbs. fat in skillet and add flour. Reduce heat to medium-low and stir until the roux turns a medium brown, the color of a low-fat mocha frappuccino latte. Add 1 cup stock and stir until a smooth gravy is formed. Timing now becomes important as we want the two elements of the dish to reach gastronomic fruition as close to one another as possible. Vary heat of grits and gravy as necessary.

When grits are done cooking add diced onion, cream cheese and parsley flakes; stir to combine. Add shrimp to bacon gravy and cook for two minutes, just enough to heat the little crustaceans through. Spoon equal portions of creamy grits onto 4 plates, then ladle shrimp and gravy on top. Announce the arrival of this splendid dish by declaring “Y’all come and eat now, y’ hear!”

Real Men Do Cry

I came to St. Michael Catholic School when my family moved from Champaign to Indianapolis. It was half way through my third grade year and as I recall, I felt no trepidation about meeting and making new friends. When my father told us we were going to pack up the Conestoga’s and head east, it broke my heart. I was going to have to leave Mickey Schmikler, my best friend as far back as I could remember. My parents told all us boys to keep our mouths shut about the move but I of course immediately told Mickey we were soon to be outta here. Much to my surprise, his parents had told him the same thing about their up-and-coming relocation.

The two of us were quite incredulous regarding this coincidence and spent a great deal of time (10 minutes or so) speculating as to its nature. We finally agreed that the only explanation had something to do with the Russians, an atomic bomb and the Griggs family that had invaded our neighborhood several months earlier. The Griggs’ were not like us; I was a Catholic, Mickey was Jewish and the Griggs’ family was obviously neither. They had funny accents, were very hairy and sometimes spoke in a language that Mickey and I could not understand. We finally discovered the family was German, so we snuck over to their house and painted swastikas on there windows with Ivory soap.

Anyway, I bade farewell to my friend and days later found myself being introduced to one of St. Michael’s third grade classes. “Class,” announced Sister Whomever, “I’d like you to welcome a new student; his name is Rooney Grinkmeyer!”, and just to drive the stake deeper through my heart, she proceeded to write my name on the chalkboard. The only time I’d heard laughter of this nature was when Alfalfa took the stage at his school’s talent show and sang “I’m In The Mood For Love” to Darla. I’d never thought about my name much, but as I stood there watching all those children laughing at me, it occurred to me that I’d never met another “Rooney” and any “Grinkmeyer” I’d met was a relative. I was years from learning about exponents but at this moment I had a very clear understanding of the concept of “2 squared”. I stood deathly still, pursing my lips, squinting my eyes and clenching my fists, wondering what unbearable level of cacophony would erupt when the tears started running down my cheeks. Fortunately, Sister Whomever came to my rescue.

“Class! Class!!” she yelled, and with three sharp claps of her hands the room fell silent. I was escorted to my desk and Catechism class commenced. That day at recess a couple of the boys roughed me up pretty good, but as the weeks wore on I began to be accepted.

By the time I’d reached the eighth grade I was not just “one of the guys” but “one of the guys to be”. My parents had elected to hold me back from the first grade for a year so I was one of the biggest in the class by then. And over the years I’d earned if not the respect of my classmates, certainly the fear, by doing well in academics, sports, and thoroughly beating anyone who dared call me by my birth name or any derivative thereof. I had, in fact, become a bit of a bully.

And I was the leader of what turned out to be the pick-on to end all pick-ons.

There was a big, vacant grassy area across the street from St. Michael’s school where the 6^th, 7^th and 8^th graders went for recess. The boys would roughhouse with one another or stand around and talk about girls and brag about all the things they were going to do when they got pubic hair and very large penises. The girls would forgo the roughhousing, but they would stand around in big circles and talk about all the things they were going to do when they got pubic hair and very large breasts. Or at least that’s what we boys assumed they were talking about. So one day I’m standing around talking to John and George and Dennis and the rest of the hoodlums I’d befriended and someone says “Let’s de-pants Tuba Fitz!” I think it was George. Tuba Fitz (not his real name) was a pretty good guy, but he was fat and freckled and had red hair. Not at all the swaggering stud that me and my prepubescent friends were. So we kind of picked on him.

Being the biggest kid in my class at the time and therefore the leader of the group, (and I’m sure the only one currently sporting pubic hair and, I might add, a very large penis!) I seized upon the idea that not only would we de-pants Tuba, but once we’d gotten his drawers down around his ankles, we would hoist his bulbous fat ass over to the girl’s circle and deposit him in the middle of it. Needless to say, my brainstorm was greeted with great enthusiasm and the deed was commenced.

Four of us each grabbed a limb and carried the de-pantsed blubber-boy towards the girls. They screamed at our approach, hands over their gaping mouths, but the only ones that moved were the ones that allowed us entrance to the circle. We deposited Tuba on the ground in their midst and I could see in their eyes the wonder, the awe, the curiosity as for the first time in their lives these Catholic schoolgirls got a glimpse of what lies hidden under the trousers of a male not related to them. Though our act was nothing short of cruel, it probably postponed the loss of virginity for several of the girls in that circle. The sight of Tuba’s fat, white, freckled legs and the dingy Jockey shorts that swaddled his big butt most certainly etched in some of their minds an image of male sexuality that served to keep them chaste better than the nuns’ promises of eternal damnation.

Tuba split out the crotch of his pants during the melee and had to walk home and change. He lived close and would be back before the bell rang to end recess and, being our buddy, we knew the incident would go unmentioned. We did not know, however, that Tuba’s father was at home and that upon seeing his split-pantsed, teary-eyed son enter the house demanded an explanation. Tuba fought the fight of his life, he assured us later, trying to protect his friends and tormentors. But dads were once 8^th-graders and they know what meanness 8^th grade boys are capable of.

Dino and I had been awarded the responsibility of going to the rectory after recess every day to pick up the school’s mail. I often thought about how I, as a younger child, would watch the two cool eighth-graders walk across the church parking lot to perform this honored task. “Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.” Sometimes I would gaze up into the faceless windows of St. Michael’s school and wonder how many 4^th, 5^th and 6^th graders were enviously eyeing me and dreaming of the day when they might achieve my status.

We entered the school and walked to a small office where we completed our “…appointed rounds.” As we headed for our classroom I glanced into Sister Mary Margaret’s office--she was the principal of St. Michael’s school. Her eyes were wide and her lips were pursed. Her back was straight as a two-by-four and angled forward toward the man and the boy sitting across the desk from her, and her hands were folded as if in prayer. The man was obviously agitated and the boy at his side sat quietly with his head down, his tousled hair shining at me like the red bubble-gum machine on top of a city policeman’s patrol car. I turned my head to face forward again, wide-eyed with fear, and continued the Bataan death march toward what was surely impending doom. “Holy shit!” said Dino, “We’re fucked!” For a few seconds my mind turned from the horrific fate that was soon to be mine and pondered what I had just heard coming from my friend’s mouth. The “s-word” was fairly common amongst us by now, and my personal use of it accounted for scores of “Hail Mary” recitations as doled out from the confessional. I new the “f-word” existed, kind of in the same sense that I knew short black men who lived in the rain forest and hunted howler monkeys with poison-tipped arrows existed. But I’d certainly never had any personal experience with either. And had we been magically transmigrated to the rain forest and I heard Dino say “Holy shit! We’re fucked!”, I’m certain I’d have been taken more aback by his use of the “F-word” than the screeching howler monkeys in the canopy.

As we approached the closed door to Sister Agnes Regina’s lair, our classroom, I began to hear muffled yells. I opened the door, the yelling became clearer and I nearly wet my pants. “The Rooney gang? The Rooney gang?” Yes Sister, heard your question the first time. The tiny nun with the pit-bull attitude had her back to me, and George, Dennis and John cornered. Three of the toughest guys in the whole school were standing at rigid attention, frightened and quaking like aspen leaves in a gale, staring down into the eyes of what was certainly the toughest gal in the school. I looked to my left and I saw virtually every one of my classmates staring back at me. Their eyes expressed deep, abiding sympathy, for they knew what was sure to ensue here in the next few minutes.

The door closed, the pit bull pivoted 90 degrees, walked across the front of the room and came face-to-face with Al Capone. “So! It’s the Rooney gang, is it?!!” She turned again. “You three, take your seats! You too, Dennis (that would be Dino)! I’ll deal with you later!” She turned back to a very nauseous me and pinched the flabby skin on the back of my bicep. “You, Mr. Gang leader, come with me!”

She marched me down to the principal’s office and finally released the channel-lock grip on my arm. Rather than unleash the righteous wrath of God upon me, as I had expected, Sister Mary Margaret very calmly asked me if I had indeed initiated the humiliating act upon Tuba Fitz. I considered lying but with Tuba and his father sitting there in the jury box I thought it best to admit my misdeed and take whatever punishment was forthcoming. “Yes Sister,” I replied to her query and hung my head to indicate the remorse and sorrow I was supposed to be feeling. And then, as an added bonus, I turned to the plaintiff and his father and apologized. “I’m sorry Thomas. I’m sorry Mr. Fitzpatrick.” They said nothing and I was excused.

The rest of the afternoon went quite normally and by the end of the school day I was feeling quite cocky again. I was barraged by questions from my partners is crime and assured them that the best way to handle ol’ Sister Mary Margaret, should the occasion ever arise again, was to simply feign remorse and apologize sincerely for your sins. Not at all unlike going to Confession on Fridays, something we were all familiar with. I boarded the school bus and went home, grabbed my mitt and joined the kids in the neighborhood for our regularly-scheduled afternoon game of baseball.

Dad got home late and I waived to him as he pulled into the driveway. I knew that in just a few minutes he’d be out on the pitcher’s mound, serving up gopher balls and offering advice on the finer points of the game to all assembled. But he did not show. Rather, Grace marched out of the house, stern-faced and car keys jingling from her hand. She grabbed my little brother and marched him toward her car. Steve protested and in a very uncharacteristic move she yanked his arm and told him to “Shut up and get in the car!” Grace then turned back to me and said “Rooney, your father wants to see you in the house. We were not very good friends, my mom and I, but I detected a look of real concern in her eyes, a look that a mother might give to a son who was about to board a train that would eventually take him to the battlefields of a war-ravaged foreign land. For a minute I was confused but then the cold, hard reality of what was about to happen hit me right between the eyes—“Oh shit! She called my parents!”

And indeed she had, that sly old nun. She’d been around the chapel a few times and she knew the difference between the mischievous pranks of an 8-year-old schoolboy and the outright meanness of a young adolescent headed for real trouble. And she knew when the limits of her disciplinary authority had been exceeded. And I think she must have known my dad too, or at least she suspected he knew how to steer his son in the right direction.

What followed between me and my father has gone down in the annals of Grinkmeyer discipline as the Coup de Gras of whuppin’s. The details aren’t important and many would feel that my father deserves to be jailed today for the punishment he meted out over 30 years ago. When the castigation was over, Dad approached me and said “I hope you know I had to do that, son”. “Yes sir”, I answered. I quickly wiped my tears because my father had taught us that men don’t cry. “I saw my buddies die right next to me during the war and didn’t cry”, he’d told us. But that afternoon as he stood in front of me a tear ran down each of his cheeks. And I don’t recall ever feeling closer to my father than at that moment.

Bullet's First Hunt

“No Bullet, you stay outside boy!” Jimmy bent over and rubbed the big dog’s ears before going inside. “You know you ain’t allowed in the house.”

He burst into the mudroom, stripped off his wool coat and threw the fur collar over a nail in the wall. “Yes!” he whispered, “Smith scores!”

“Jimmy, you take off those overshoes before you come in this house!”

“Yes ma’am,” he replied. He opened the door that separated the mudroom from the house and took two steps toward the cellar stairs. He grabbed the bill of his cap and folded the earflaps up over the top, then turned to face the last empty hook just to the right of the outside door.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s the college basketball championship of the entire known universe. The score: Michigan State 78, UofI 77, and only 5 seconds remain on the clock. The Ilini inbound the ball and it goes to Smith! He races across center court; he’s headed for the basket. 3, 2, 1… Smith shoots and…!” Jimmy’s cap hit the wall about 8” to the right of the hook and kissed the floor. “Shit!” he said, a bit too loud.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing Mama, I just said ‘shoot’”.

“It didn’t sound like ‘shoot’ to me, it sounded more like a cuss word. I won’t stand for cussing in this house, particularly from a 12-year-old boy. Do I make myself clear or do I need to grab a bar of Ivory?”

“Yes ma’am, I mean no ma’am, you don’t need to grab no bar of soap.”

“Well then, close that door and come in here by the stove and warm up.”

“Yes ma’am.”

The kitchen spanned the entire back of the house and had served as the family’s activity center until the Philco TV arrived three months ago. On the outside wall was a row of cabinets; glossy white paint covered the cherry, poplar and oak that Gramps’ father had harvested and hewn to build them almost 60 years earlier. Two glass front cabinets were mounted to the wall on each side of the cast iron kitchen sink. Other than the barn, they were the last vestiges of the original one-room cabin Gramps’ grandfather built when he settled the land in the 1820’s.

At the far end of the kitchen was an oak harvest table where the family took their meals. It sat under a window almost 7’ tall and 3’ wide that afforded a view of the southern portion of the Smith’s 800 acre farm. Outside the window a windmill, still operable, towered over Helen’s quarter acre garden. A half-mile away at the end of the road was a one-room schoolhouse where Philo’s farm children learned their readin’, writin’ and ‘rithmetic.

A built-in pantry stood in one corner of the room. Two dozen jars of Helen’s homemade preserves sat on top of it. Charlie had tacked to the wall one of many blue ribbons his bride won at the Illinois State fair, a testament to the quality inside the humble looking Ball jars. In the other corner was the last functional pot-bellied stove in the house. Charlie and Helen’s brother-in-law sold heating and cooling equipment and installed a coal furnace 10 years ago. Gramps, normally pretty open minded, insisted they keep one of the wood burners. Wood had kept him warm for over 60 years and there was always a plentiful supply on one of the wood lots the family maintained. Coal had to be hauled in and he wasn’t yet willing to trust his family’s comfort and safety to outside sources.

Jimmy shuffled across the kitchen, pulled a chair from the table where his father and Gramps were drinking coffee and sidled up to the stove.

“You finish your chores, son?” asked Charlie.

“Yes sir,” said Jimmy.

“Did you remember to close up my chickens?” Helen asked from across the room. She didn’t have time to sit; tomorrow was Thanksgiving and she wanted her turkey stuffed and trussed before she went to bed.

“Yes Mama, I threw them some feed and grit and locked them in tight.”

“How’s that calf looking, Jimmy?” Charlie asked.

“Pretty good, Dad. He’s eating just fine and seems to be putting on some weight. I saw him out in the east pasture before school this morning.”

Mollie had calved late in the season. She dropped her son on a cold, rainy November evening then apparently returned to the comfort of the barn. Charlie found the calf the next morning, standing on shaky legs, shivering and bleating for his mother. He carried the calf a half mile and reintroduced it to its mother. Mollie played coy for awhile, but the young bull was persistent and Mollie finally allowed it to feed.

“Good,” said Charlie, “I’d hate to lose a fighter like that one. Might even make a good 4-H project for you, Jim.”

“That’d be neat, Dad,” said Jimmy, “I’ll be sure to keep a real good eye on him.”

Gramps, who’d been quietly nursing his coffee, finally spoke. “Jimmy I’ve been talking to your mom and dad about something that concerns you. Your mom doesn’t care for the idea but it’s her job to keep the apron strings tight for as long as she can. But it’s okay with your dad; Jimmy, would you like to go bird hunting with us tomorrow?”

Jimmy, who’d been trying to squeeze some warmth back into his shoeless feet, stopped and slowly looked up at his grandfather. “Really? Are you serious, Gramps?”

“What do you mean ‘am I serious’? When am I not serious?”

Jimmy smiled. “You’re not serious a lot of the time, Gramps.” He was a notorious and relentless teaser of children.

“Well, this isn’t one of those times, boy,” Gramps declared. “Why you’re almost old enough to drive a car…”

“Gramps, I’m only 12.”

“I didn’t say legally. Besides, your daddy wasn’t much older the first time I took him out, ain’t that right son?”

“He’s right, Jimmy,” said Charlie. “I think I was 12, maybe 13 on my first hunt. Had a ball, too. In fact, it was probably the most fun I’d ever had till I married your mother.” He smiled and winked at Helen.

“Be careful there Mr. Smith!” Helen returned the wink.

Gramps asked Jimmy, “What’s the matter son, don’t you want to go?”

“Well yeah Gramps, of course I want to go. I just figured…”

“Well then, it’s settled. A huntin’ we will go!”

For as far back as he could remember Jimmy’s dad and grandfather had opened their personal hunting season on Thanksgiving Day. The state of Illinois allowed hunting two weeks sooner, but on the farm Mother Nature was the setter of schedules. By late November the crops were in, machinery was repaired and stored for the winter and there was finally time for R&R.

Every Saturday (and even a few weekdays) until the season closed in mid January Charlie and Gramps would load the pickup and head out in pursuit of anything with wings. Pheasant and quail were plentiful, and every so often a grouse or woodcock showed up for dinner. Land was plentiful too; they knew nearly every farmer in central Illinois and had permission to hunt thousands of acres with every conceivable type of cover.

Jimmy was sad that an important player would be unavailable for his first outing. Gramps’ beloved yellow Lab “Gunner” had to be put down in early spring. Gramps had hunted upland birds his whole life but in ’49 he got duck fever. He’d always had a pointer or setter in the field with him and figured he’d better have a dog in the blind with him too. He bought Gunner from a reputable breeder in Wisconsin and trained him himself; to both their credits, the Lab turned into a fine, dependable duck dog.

One summer evening Gramps went to the barn to feed him and Gunner was nowhere to be found. The dog was a true “chow-hound”, and if his bowl wasn’t full by 5:00p.m. he’d be up at the house barking the riot act at 5:05. After calling for 20 minutes and getting no response Gramps saddled up Blue Boy and went looking for his dog.

About a quarter mile south of the house he found a dead squirrel in the road. A cold chill swept through his body and beads of sweat formed on his forehead. He climbed off Blue Boy and bent over to look up and down the rows of corn. There, about three rows in, was a motionless puddle of yellow fur. Gramps bent over the dog and laid a callused hand on the massive rib cage; Gunner’s burnt-sugar eye slammed open and the chest started heaving. “One, maybe two cars a day on this road and you manage to chase a squirrel in front of one of 'em.” Gramps cradled Gunner in his arms, tucked Blue Boy’s reins in his belt and headed for the barn.

By the next morning Gunner had come around. Gramps took him to the vet in Seymour who said nothing was broken. But he couldn’t put any weight on his left leg so he spent the next week in a sling. Then early one morning Gramps found him lying in the barn damned near dead again. The skin on his left shoulder was cracked and oozing pus, a sure sign of gangrene. Helen drove them back to the vet while Gramps stroked Gunner’s head in his lap. “Hang in there boy, you’ll be just fine.” Gramps figured that Gunner wouldn’t dare die while he was talking to him.

The next afternoon Helen drove Gramps back to the vet to pick up his duck dog. He’d removed his leg and shoulder blade but when the door to the waiting room opened Gunner walked out. “God damn, dog, you got courage,” said Gramps. It was the first time Helen had heard Gramps use profanity and it was the first time she’d seen him cry. And that night, with Gunner lying beside Gramps’ bed, was the first night a dog had slept in the Smith house.

Gramps gave up duck hunting that fall. “Too much time sitting around waiting for something to happen,” he told Charlie. But Charlie knew he didn’t want Gunner chasing dead ducks in frigid waters, despite the fact that he still could swim like a fish. Charlie suggested they take the Lab with them on their opening day ’52 hunt and after some convincing, Gramps agreed. He said the dog could use the exercise and it would be nice to have him fetch the birds they shot. Five minutes into their first fence row Gunner stopped dead in his tracks about 20 yards ahead of them. “You don’t think…” said Gramps.

“I don’t know,” answered Charlie, “but I sure am gonna hustle up there and find out.”

As they came into gun range of where Gunner was standing both men eased off their safeties. Gramps could feel his heart pound and his arms shake as he told the dog to mark. Gunner didn’t budge. “Charlie, walk up to that clump of grass he’s looking at and give it a kick.” No less than 15 bobwhites launched; Charlie and Gramps pumped and squeezed until every shell was shot, and a total of two birds went down. By the time they lowered their guns the Lab was on his way back with a bird which he spit out in front of his master. Then he turned, headed into the corn stubble and found number two. “Gunner, BACK!”, yelled Gramps, and in a few seconds the bird was in hand. “Jeez Dad, do you believe what just happened?” asked Charlie. “That dog just pointed a covey of quail!”

“I’m not sure I’d call it a point, but he sure as heck found them for us, that I gotta admit.”

Friday night the Smith family feasted on a limit of pheasant and six quail, all of which Gunner the duck dog located and retrieved the previous day. For the next five years he accompanied the Smiths and a few of their fortunate hunting partners every time they went afield. And over those years the legend of the one-legged duck dog that pinned quail and could sweep a field clean of pheasant grew. When he died, neighbors sent flowers.

“You sit right there, Jimmy, I’ve got something for you.” Said Gramps. He walked through the living room past the Philco and heard Edward R. Murrow talking about something called ‘Sputnik’. He returned to the kitchen from his bedroom with a cloth gun case and handed it to Jimmy. “Here boy, you’ll be needing this tomorrow.” Jimmy unzipped the case and removed the Ithaca Featherlight 20-gauge pump.

“Gee Gramps, it looks brand new!”

“It is new Jimmy, almost. I picked it up last year in Springfield, fired it a time or two to make sure it worked okay. But it’s never been hunted with, you’ll be the first.”

“So where we gonna hunt tomorrow,” Jimmy inquired.

Charlie answered, “We’ll meet Dale Otterbein over at his place about 7:00, then head to one of his corn fields. He’s got a wood lot with a stand of red pine at one end and says he’s seen some grouse in it. Should kick up some pheasant in the corn.”

“Maybe meet Gentleman Bob, too,” added Gramps.

“Doesn’t Mr. Otterbein have a new huntin’ dog?” asked Jimmy.

“Yep,” said Gramps, “got him a made pointer. Three years old, trained by a pro…”

“And runs like Jesse Owens from what I hear,” added Charlie.

“I’ve seen the dog,” Helen chimed in. She had tears in her eyes from peeling onions for her sausage stuffing. “I took some eggs over to Ruth and saw him in his kennel. He’s real skinny, got tan patches all over his head and body. He looks like he means business.”

“He’s a ‘lemonhead’,” said Gramps. “That’s what they call that coloring. And for what I hear Dale paid, he darned well better mean business.”

“How much Gramps?” Jimmy wanted to know.

“A hundred bucks is what I heard, but that’s none of our business Jimmy.”

“Wow!” Jimmy tried to imagine what a hundred dollars looked like.

Helen put her preparations in the refrigerator then fixed the family a light supper of fried bologna sandwiches, creamed corn and potato chips. Normally an excellent cook, this was the worst meal she would feed them all year; it was a tradition like the hunt, and no one forgot to thank her and tell her how good it was.

After dinner they all retired to the living room to watch TV. No one paid much attention, though, as Charlie and Gramps got heavily into their “remember when” routine. They told stories to one another about their escapades in the field over the years, the same stories they told every year on this evening. Jimmy had heard them all, but this time they took on a new significance. He knew that from now on he would not just listen, he would tell stories of his own. By the time the grandfather clock chimed nine times he was so full of anticipation he thought he would burst. “Time for bed, honey,” Helen said. “Come and give me a kiss.” Sleep came hard that night for Jimmy.

He woke well before daylight, sure that no one would be up yet, and ran to the kitchen for a glass of water before starting his chores.

“Good morning honey,” said Helen.

“Hi son,” said his dad.

“You gonna sleep all day kid?” chided the teaser of children. “Let’s get those chores done, Jimmy, we’re burnin’ daylight!” Jimmy looked out the big window; it was pitch dark.

“Good morning everyone!”

Helen fixed her big strong hunters bacon, eggs and Wonder bread toast. At 6:40 Gramps said it was time to pack it up and head for Otterbein’s. Charlie went after the pickup and met Jimmy and Gramps in the driveway. The morning was crisp and dry, the forecast called for a high in the mid 30’s and sunshine--perfect weather for a hunt.

“Jimmy,” said Gramps, “stow those guns behind the front seat and put the shells in that toolbox in the bed.”

“Yes sir, Gramps.”

“We ready?” asked Charlie.

“I believe we are, son,” Gramps replied. “Oh wait, I almost forgot something. He walked to the back of the truck and dropped the tailgate. “Bullet, come on boy, get up here!” The dog made a beeline for the truck and cleared the tailgate effortlessly.

“WHAT?” cried Jimmy, “what’s he doing? He can’t go with us!” Charlie turned his head to hide a smile. He knew the Jimmy/Gramps debate was under way.

“What do you mean he can’t go with us, Jimmy? He’s in the truck, isn’t he?”

“Yeah Gramps, sure he’s in the truck. But Bullet ain’t no huntin’ dog!”

“I beg to differ, son. Fact is, that dog hunts all the time. He hunts squirrels, he hunts chipmunks and he hunts moles; I’ll show you the holes he’s dug in the lawn if you’d like proof! And when you’re at school, he hunts for you!” Charlie was having a difficult time containing his laughter.

“Gramps” said Jimmy, “that’s all true, I know, but he don’t hunt birds!”

“You’d have a tough time convincing your mother’s guineas of that!”

“But Bullet ain’t a bird dog Gramps! He’s just a ol’ brown-dog!”

Gramps stood erect, planted his hands on his hips and looked Jimmy straight in the eye.

“A what?”

“A brown-dog, Gramps, you know a, a, a…”

“Mutt?”

“No sir, not exactly, that is…yeah, a mutt.” Jimmy’s voice had lowered and he looked at the ground. “Father forgive me, for I know not what I just said,” he thought. Bullet stood in the back of the truck smiling a dog smile and wagging his tail.

“I see,” said Gramps. “So Bullet is a dog of questionable lineage and that somehow makes him unworthy of accompanying his best friend on this outing. Do I have it right?”

“No sir, I mean yes sir, that is…I don’t know what I mean.”

“Then I suggest we do this: let’s let this ‘brown-dog’ as you call him join his friends for a day in the great outdoors. After all, he could use the exercise.”

Helen watched the debate from the kitchen. She couldn’t hear the words but she knew what was being said. Two hardheaded Dutchmen going at it head to head, each trying to ram his opinion down the other’s throat. She’d seen her father-in-law use the ‘proper gentleman’ tactic before; hands on the hips, the Queen’s English. She felt a little sorry for her son when she saw the hands on the waist for she knew Jimmy was dead in the water. As the men climbed in the truck and drove down the driveway she went to the back of the pantry, opened a Calumet jar and pulled out a cigarette. The next four hours belonged to her and her alone.

“Howdy boys,” Dale Otterbein greeted, “glad you could make it! Watcha got in the back of the truck?”

“I believe you’ve met ol’ Bullet, Dale,” replied Gramps. “He’s a dog; specifically, he’s a ‘brown-dog’.”

“Brown-dog, eh? Looks more like a tan dog to me.”

Bullet was in fact tan. And he was big and had lots of hair, too. Weighed close to 100 pounds and stood nearly 27” at the shoulder. “Brown-dog” was a term the farm kids used to describe, well, just a plain old farm dog. It wasn’t necessarily derogatory; in fact, most of the kids’ families owned one and afforded it all the love and respect due a canine family member.

Bullet was a gift to Jimmy from his grandmother, Gramps’ late wife Bessie. Most of Jimmy’s free time during his seventh year was spent chasing imaginary desperados around the farm in a fashion akin to his TV hero Roy Rogers. Bessie had a penchant for spoiling the lad; she’d bought him a cowboy hat and figured little Roy needed a wonder dog too. Bessie was a practical and frugal woman though, so a full-blooded German Shepherd like Roys was out of the question. But a friend of hers in Sidney had an unplanned litter of pups and was happy to find a home for one of them. Enter Bullet the brown-dog.

“Brown-dog is Jimmy here’s name for a dog of questionable lineage, right Jimmy?”

“I guess so Gramps.” Jimmy was tiring of Gramps’ teasing and Charlie came to his rescue.

“Well boys, we gonna talk dogs all day or we gonna hunt?”

Dale led the Smiths south, then west down gravel county roads. A wooden crate sat at the front of the bed and held, all assumed, his well-bred and costly pointer; introductions had not been offered. Dale stopped to open a gate that allowed acces to one of his fenced fields and let the Smiths pass through. "Here we are boys; bird paradise."

It didn’t look like paradise to Jimmy but he didn't know enough about bird hunting to recognize likely cover. They would be hunting a ‘section’, 640 acres bounded by county roads each 1 mile long. The section was divided into several fields by rows of trees and scrub that had been left by the settlers who originally cleared the land. In the middle was a "wood lot", a stand of trees where early farmers went for wood used in the home for heat and cooking. Though typically comprised of native hardwood, Dale’s wood lot held a stand of red pine at one end. That’s where Dale occasionally found ruffed grouse.

Jimmy ran to the back of his father’s truck and dropped the tailgate. He was feeling guilty for betraying his best friend and knew he’d feel terrible until he’d made amends. “Come ‘ere buddy, come on, that’s a good boy!” Bullet graciously accepted Jimmy’s face rubbing and returned the affection with a vertical lick across the lips. “Ugh!”, Jimmy moaned in mock disgust. He was glad Bullet didn’t hold grudges. “Come on boy, let’s go hunting!” Meanwhile, Dale was opening the crate. “Gentlemen, I’d like you to meet Popeye.”

The pointer stepped from the crate and walked quickly to the rear of the truck. His stance was arrogant, sophisticated, almost regal. He held his tail high, tip pointing straight up toward a cloudless November sky. His dark brown eyes were wide-set beneath his square brow and seemed to demand an answer. Nostrils flared and head tilted up, he looked left, then right, over the corn stubble. He was General Montgomery sweeping his binoculars over the legions of Nazis waiting to be slaughtered. Bullet woofed; Popeye shot a quick glance of dismissal at him, reared up on his muscular haunches and launched. Seconds later he was a missile streaking toward the horizon.

“Nice to meet you Popeye,” Charlie called.

“Fine looking animal you got there, Dale,” Gramps said. “At least what I saw of him.”

“Jimmy whispered to Bullet, “Looks more like Olive Oyl!”

“He’s a little high spirited at first,” Dale explained, “needs to blow off some steam. Trust me though; if there’s birds out there he’ll find ‘em!”

The hunters unpacked their guns and stuffed shells into their pockets. As they waded into the corn stubble Gramps reminded Jimmy of the rules: no more than two gunners at once; safety on until its time to pull the trigger; “And don’t shoot the dogs!”

Popeye was headed back now, apparently having discovered that the world was flat and if he went too far he’d fall off the edge. About 80 yards out he turned abruptly upwind and locked on. “Gentlemen, we got us a point!” Dale declared triumphantly.

“By golly Dale, I believe you’re right,” answered Gramps. “Too bad it’s in the next county. Charlie, you and Dale move on up for the shot; Jimmy you and Bullet tag along. Don’t let him bust Popeye’s point; I’ll be along directly.”

“Yes sir, Gramps. Come on Bullet, let’s go!”

Jimmy almost tripped several times as they trotted through the corn spikes. “Hold your gun like this,” Charlie offered, demonstrating ‘port arms’. “And lift your feet way up.” They slowed about 10 yards from Popeye; “Whoa!”, Dale commanded. Jimmy reached down and grabbed Bullet’s collar; “Whoa Bullet”, he mimicked.

“It’s your bird, Charlie,” said Dale. “Walk in and flush it—I’ll back you.”

“Fair enough,” Charlie said, and moved up next to the pointer.

By now the senior Smith had joined them. “No hens, Charlie,” Gramps reminded him.

A cock pheasant burst from the corn screaming a diatribe of profanity. Straight up to gain altitude, then he leveled off and headed west. Charlie drew a bead with the Model 12, shot, shucked the spent shell, then finally silenced the fleeing bird. “Good shot, Charlie!” “Way to go, son!” “You got ‘im, Dad!”; the accolades poured in.

“It took me a while, though,” Charlie apologized.

Popeye headed for the dead bird and Jimmy realized that Bullet had slipped his grip. Both dogs converged on the pheasant. Popeye gave it a cursory sniff then headed into the corn to find his next victim. Bullet lingered, stunned for a moment, then apparently felt an overwhelming desire to frolic. He picked up the bird and tossed it with his head then mouthed it again. “Jimmy--call your dog,” Gramps told the boy.

Jimmy screamed, “Bullet, drop that bird!”

“No!” said Gramps, “tell him to bring it to you.”

“Huh?”

“Like you threw him a stick in the yard, tell him to bring it to you! Tell him back!”

Skeptical, Jimmy obeyed. “Bring it here Bullet, bring it back.”

Bullet knew the drill, he’d done it hundreds of times before. Only this time it wasn’t a stick Jimmy wanted, it was the warm, soft pile of feathers he held tenderly in his maw. He hesitated and stared at Jimmy thinking that if this played out the way it had in the past there was some pretty good petting at the end of the line. But then there was this bird.

Along with the dog the three adults stood perfectly still, frozen in the necessity of the moment. They sensed that the big brown-dog’s next move would severely impact his future station in life, and each of them silently willed Bullet to run to Jimmy. “Bullet, BACK!”, Jimmy called, his voice suddenly calm and authoritative. Two thousand olfactory nerves tingled; taste buds swelled and the dog’s brain seemed to explode with primal ecstasy. But as much as he wanted that bird for himself, Bullet knew Jimmy’s approval meant more to him. His jaws clasped just hard enough to maintain a grip and he bolted toward his reason for living.

The hunters returned home with eight pheasants, six quail and no ruffed grouse. They cleaned their birds, wrapped them first in wax paper, then tin foil and put them in the Fridgidaire where they would await their opportunity to be honored guests at a Smith supper. The men returned to the kitchen where Helen was putting the final touches on Thanksgiving dinner. Gramps filled his coffee cup and took a seat by the stove while Charlie did the honors of carving the turkey. Jimmy helped his mother put the multitude of side dishes on the table.

“So Jimmy, how was the hunt?” she asked. “Did you get any birds?”

“Yes ma’am, I shot two pheasants and maybe a quail!” Jimmy proudly replied.

“What do you mean ‘maybe’ a quail?”

“Well mom, they’re real small ya’ know, and they fly real fast, and Bullet flushed a covey and about a hundred birds started flying every which way. And it was me and Dad’s turn to shoot and three birds got shot and I think one of them was mine. But I’m not sure.”

“It was yours Jimmy,” said Charlie. “I only shot three times and frankly, I’m not that good.”

“Wait a minute; here Jimmy, put these oysters on the table.” Jimmy hated scalloped oysters and took a deep breath as he reached for the baking dish. Helen continued: “Did you say Bullet flushed a covey of quail?”

“Yeah Mom, he was incredible!”

“But how can this be?” she asked sarcastically, “Bullet’s no hunting dog. He’s just a brown-dog.”

“He’s not just a brown-dog, Mom!” Suddenly Jimmy was defensive. “I mean he is a brown-dog, but he hunts, too! Fact is, he hunts better than Popeye!”

“The Sailor?” asked Helen, still toying with her son. Gramps and Charlie couldn’t help themselves from laughing at Helen’s chiding.

“No mama, not the sailor, Mr. Otterbein’s dog! His dog is named Popeye, and if you ask me that hundred-dollar dog don’t hunt as good as ol’ Bullet! Bullet flushed more birds than he did and he went and picked them up, too. Brought ‘em right back to us. Somebody’d shoot a bird and Bullet would run and pick it up and I’d yell ‘Bullet, BACK! and he’d bring the bird right to me. Ain’t that right, Gramps?”

“Helen, what the boy says is true,” said Gramps. “I can hardly believe it, but I saw it myself. Ain’t that right, son?”

“As I live and breathe, Dad,” added Charlie. “Saw it for myself.”

“Well,” said Helen, “perhaps we’ve all underestimated that dog.

“Jimmy, it’s supposed to get real cold tonight, maybe below zero. Bullet’s had a tough day, he’s worked real hard. Maybe it would be a good idea to let him in the house; I wouldn’t want him to get sick or anything.”

“Mama, are you kidding? Bullet can come in the house? Can he sleep in my room?” Jimmy asked.

“Maybe just this once, son”, Helen replied.

The Thanksgiving feast was finished and by 9 o'clock an exhausted Jimmy was ready to turn in. Bullet's dog house was in the back yard and he went to the mud room to invite his hunting buddy in the house. He opened the door and was punched by the frigid air.

"Bullet!" he called, "come on boy, c'm'ere Bullet!"

A harvest moon perched high in a cloudless sky cast a silvery light over the frozen lawn. Jimmy watched the big dog lumber slowly toward him as if he were in no hurry to see his friend; it would be many years before he understood the toll an uncommonly active day could take on an old body. He held the door open and invited his friend in.

“C’mon Bullet,” he encouraged, “Come on in!”

Bullet was reluctant at first to enter the house. The sights, the sounds, the smells—they presented a confusing mixture of sensory inputs to him, but the warmth and sense of security were irresistible. He followed Jimmy through the kitchen, the family room, and then upstairs to his bedroom. Bullet’s nailed clicked sharply against the wood floor as he reconnoitered his strange surroundings. Having determined he was safe, the reassuring proximity of his friend and the softness of the room’s rug presented an irresistible invitation to much needed slumber. Bullet walked three tight circles then dropped heavily onto the floor next to Jimmy. He’d staked his claim for the night and returned to it every night for the rest of his life.

Hell

I was thinking about hell the other day. Well, no, that’s not really true. Actually, a thought came to me, a revelation of sorts, that totally and completely explained hell. I felt both blessed to have received this vision and enlightened. And I feel a need to pass on what was passed to me.

The picture of hell that I got as a Catholic schoolboy was incorrect. The priests and nuns explained hell as a place of eternal punishment, a place where people who killed or touched their genitals for pleasure were condemned to eternally suffer agonies that we mortal humans could not even imagine. Not a few months or years or even a lifetime, mind you, but eternity. My mental image of this place had much to do with fire and maggots and people whose mouths were forever frozen in the shape of a large “O”. The inhabitants of hell were dead of course, but their eternally damned and tortured souls remained encapsulated inside their earthly bodies. In hell it is important that the human senses be maintained, lest the indescribable agonies of the subterranean torture chamber not be felt.

The maggots were there to consume the rotting flesh created by the heat from the eternal fires. Should I be so sinful as to end up “down there” the worms would be my constant companions. They would crawl in and out of my nose, my ears, my mouth, my eye sockets and my butt. Unlike here on earth where maggots serve a real purpose, in hell their only function was to take a bad situation and make it all that more unbearable. I did not want to go to hell, but I did want to touch my genitals for pleasure.

Catholics paid less attention to God than they did His incarnation on the earth in the form of His only begotten son Jesus. My image of this great man is as vivid as my image of the place where those who disobey God’s will end up. I envision Jesus sitting on a grassy hill in long robes, beard gently rustling in the breeze. Next to him is a lamb and sitting in front of Jesus is a group of innocent-looking children who are obviously listening intently to what He has to say to them. There’s a black kid, a white kid, an Oriental kid, and a kid with a little turban; some are male and some are female. They are all smiling gently and obviously at peace in the presence of the Son of God. As a child I compared the image of hell with the image I had of Jesus and was very confused. Is the father of this kindly man really going to condemn me to eternal damnation for exploring my uh, private parts? I decided the answer was ‘NO’, and left it at that until the other day.

You see, hell is not a place for punishment, it’s a place for correction. Kind of like prisons are supposed to be but are not. Hell is where you go when you die to learn lessons of kindness and compassion before you get shipped back to another earth-like place to fall on your face again. Then you go back to hell for a while. And when you finally get it right, when you finally understand what being one with God is all about, you go to some third-world planet and you sit on a grassy hillside and educate children of different cultures while a lamb sits at your side. You become the teacher instead of the ‘teached’. And the way you learn your lessons is to experience first hand the consequences of the rules you broke in your last incarnation. In other words, you go to hell. For instance…

Jeffery Daumer will become an exploited sexual toy and food for his own kind. Adolph Hitler’s soul will be divided 6 million times (God can do that sort of thing) and each one will experience a horrific death. Wilt Chamberlain will have sex with 20 thousand women, but not a one of them will care one iota about him and will only use him as a sexual toy. The theory here is that if you experience your own sins from the point of view of those whom you committed those sins against, you will erase from your spiritual psyche the need to commit those sins again. Which leads us to my own personal hell.

It’s safe to surmise that Wilt Chamberlain committed transgressions other than the 20 thousand that had to do with women. All of us do, and our sins range from the simple to the abhorrent. So we will progress through the ‘many mansions of hell’ one at a time, staying briefly in some and lingering longer in others. Here are a few I envision for myself.

I am sure to visit the “Mansion for People Who Didn’t Spend Enough Time With Their Dogs.” I love dogs and have treated the ones I’ve owned, I believe, very well. But there are some subtle nuances that I missed. In this hell I will live with a mixed bag of dogs, some purebred and some plain ol’ mutts. Each will have a specific love and each will spend his day doing what he likes to do the most (my hell may in fact be these dogs’ Heaven). There will be a herding dog, a terrier, and most assuredly a bird hunter or two. Each morning the dogs will leave for the day and the last one out will hand me a little tidbit, an old stale Oreo cookie perhaps, close me into a small room that offers no mental stimulation and say to me “You stay right here! And if anybody tries to come in, you bite ‘em!” Then the last dog out will pat me on the head (a real annoyance; I wish they’d scratch my back instead!) and leave me on my own for 8 or 10 hours. If I get hungry there will be a bowl of corn flakes from which I may draw nourishment. The bowl will have been filled from a 50# bag of corn flakes and it is the same food I eat every day save an occasional bit of leftover Alpo after the dogs’ evening meal. And if I need water? The toilet is right around the corner.

Next I will visit the “Mansion of Addictions”. I’ll have to wait in line a long time to get in (a lesson in patience, no doubt) because virtually everyone who goes to hell will spend some time here. Upon entering a fallen angel with mean eyes and little horns protruding from its head will hand me a clipboard and direct me to check the boxes for the wings I need to visit. Just to be sure I don’t cheat, the angel will remind me that dishonesty will send me to the Mansion of Liars. As much as I’ll want to spend time in the Sex Wing, I’ll forgo it in favor of those where I truly need to spend time. I’ll check “Alcohol”, “Drugs, Light”, and “Tobacco, Smoking”. In each wing I will spend a lifetime experiencing the progressive ill effects of that particular addiction. For instance, I see it going something like this: “Good evening sir, may I take your drink order?” “Why yes you may! I’ll have a Scotch, please, a double with just a touch of water.” Mmm boy, that first one sure will taste good! And by the time I’ve finished the second, I’ll begin to feel much more relaxed and less afraid of hell. By the time I’ve finished my 26,000^th I’ll be pretty drunk though not drunk enough that I don’t notice the puke all over my shirt. Or that I’m no longer drinking Dewars in a nice wood-and-brass cocktail lounge, but that I’m huddled up underneath a few pieces of the New York Times in a 40 degree drizzle with a jar of Sterno cupped between my filthy, trembling hands. I’ll end up lying on dirty sheets in a cheesy hospital wing where fat nurses with hair under their arms will ask me how I feel while not really giving a shit. My liver will die, and just before I’m about to die with it everything will freeze-frame. Then a guy will walk in, dressed in a tailored Armani suit and cradling a lamb. He’ll have long, flowing brown hair and a perfectly manicured full beard. “Get it?” he’ll ask. “Jesus Christ man, please get me outta here!” I’ll plead. Then in all sincerity “Yes, yes, I get it!”

He’ll take me by the hand and lead me out of the hospital and into a garden. After we sit and I begin to feel better he’ll set the lamb down to graze on the grass and lead me to a gate. “Go on through, I’ll see you again in about 80 years. And here, take these, you’ll be needing them.” He’ll hand me a pack of Marlboros and return to his lamb while I trudge dejectedly back toward the Mansion of Addictions’ ‘Tobacco, Smoking’ wing.

Another chamber that awaits me is the “Tuba Fitz Mansion”. This is a very personal hell just for me, named in honor of a recipient of the endless bullying I did as a grade school lad. Tuba Fitz (not his real name) was a pretty good guy, but he was fat and freckled and had red hair. Not at all the swaggering stud that me and my prepubescent friends were. So we kind of picked on him. And I was the leader of what turned out to be the pick-on to end all pick-ons.

There was a big, vacant grassy area across the street from St. Michael’s school where the 6^th, 7^th and 8^th graders went for recess. The boys would roughhouse with one another or stand around and talk about girls and brag about all the things they were going to do when they got pubic hair and very large penises. The girls would forgo the roughhousing, but they would stand around in big circles and talk about all the things they were going to do when they got pubic hair and very large breasts. Or at least that’s what we boys assumed they were talking about. So one day I’m standing around talking to John and George and Dennis and the rest of the hoodlums I’d befriended and someone says “Let’s de-pants Tuba Fitz!” I think it was George. Being the biggest kid in my class at the time and therefor the leader of the group, (and I’m sure the only one currently sporting pubic hair and, I might add, a very large penis!) I seized upon the idea that not only would we de-pants Tuba, but once we’d gotten his drawers down around his ankles, we would hoist his bulbous fat ass over to the girl’s circle and deposit him in the middle of it. Needless to say, my brainstorm was greeted with great enthusiasm and the deed was commenced.

Four of us each grabbed a limb and carried the de-pantsed blubber-boy towards the girls. They screamed at our approach, hands over their gaping mouths, but the only ones that moved were the ones that allowed us entrance to the circle. We deposited Tuba on the ground in their midst and I could see in their eyes the wonder, the awe, the curiosity as for the first time in their lives these Catholic schoolgirls got a glimpse of what lies hidden under the trousers of a male not related to them. Though our act was nothing short of cruel, it probably postponed the loss of virginity for several of the girls in that circle. The sight of Tuba’s fat, white, freckled legs and the dingy Jockey shorts that swaddled his big butt most certainly etched in some of their minds an image of male sexuality that served to keep them chaste better than the nuns’ promises of eternal damnation.

Tuba split out the crotch of his pants during the melee and had to walk home and change. He lived close and would be back before the bell rang to end recess and, being our buddy, we knew the incident would go unmentioned. We did not know, however, that Tuba’s father was at home and that upon seeing his split-pantsed, teary-eyed son enter the house demanded an explanation. Tuba fought the fight of his life, he assured us later, trying to protect his friends and tormentors. But dads were once 7^th-graders and they know what meanness 7^th grade boys are capable of. As I returned from recess and walked in single file to my classroom I glanced into Sister Mary Margaret’s office--she was the principal of St. Michael’s school. Her eyes were wide and her lips were pursed. Her back was straight as a two-by-four and angled forward toward the man and the boy sitting across the desk from her, and her hands were folded as if in prayer. The man was obviously agitated and the boy at his side sat quietly with his head down, his tousled red hair shining at me like the red bubble-gum machine on top of a city policeman’s patrol car. I turned my head to face forward again, wide-eyed with fear, and I saw virtually every one of my classmates staring back at me. Their eyes expressed deep, abiding sympathy, for they knew what was sure to ensue here in the next few minutes.

I was summoned to the principal’s office and surprised by her actions. Rather than unleash the righteous wrath of God upon me, as I had expected, she very calmly asked me if I had indeed initiated the humiliating act upon Tuba Fitz. I considered lying but with Tuba and his father sitting there in the jury box I thought it best to admit my misdeed and take whatever punishment was forthcoming. “Yes Sister,” I replied to her query and hung my head to indicate the remorse and sorrow I was supposed to be feeling. And then, as an added bonus, I turned to the plaintiff and his father and apologized. “I’m sorry Thomas. I’m sorry Mr. Fitzpatrick.” They said nothing and I was excused.

The rest of the afternoon went quite normally and by the end of the school day I was feeling quite cocky again. I was barraged by questions from my partners is crime and assured them that the best way to handle ol’ Sister Mary Margaret, should the occasion ever arise again, was to simply feign remorse and apologize sincerely for your sins. Not at all unlike going to Confession on Fridays, something we were all familiar with. I boarded the school bus and went home, grabbed my mitt and joined the kids in the neighborhood for our regularly-scheduled afternoon game of baseball.

I waived to my father as he pulled into the driveway, knowing that in just a few minutes he’d be out on the pitcher’s mound, serving up gopher balls and offering advice on the finer points of the game to all assembled. But he did not show. Rather, my mother marched out of the house, stern-faced and car keys jingling from her hand. She grabbed my little brother and marched him toward her car. “Jerry, your father wants to see you in the house,” she said over her shoulder. We were not very good friends, my mom and I, but I detected a look of real concern in her eyes, a look that a mother might give to a son who was about to board a train that would eventually lead him to the battlefields of a war-ravaged foreign land. For a minute I was confused but then the cold, hard reality of what was about to happen hit me right between the eyes—“Oh shit! She called my parents!”

And indeed she had, that sly old nun. She’d been around the chapel a few times and she knew the difference between the mischievous pranks of an 8-year-old schoolboy and the outright meanness of a young adolescent headed for real trouble. And she knew when the limits of her disciplinary authority had been exceeded. And I think she must have known my dad too, or at least she suspected he knew how to steer his son in the right direction. What followed between me and my father has gone down in the annals of Grinkmeyer discipline as the coup de Gras of whuppin’s; the long-term punishment was so severe that upon hearing the details of it, the nuns began to look at me with both sympathy and respect. In fact my teacher and former detractor, Sister Agnes Regina, befriended me. But despite the penance I did here on earth that spring, there still remains unfinished business that can only be atoned for in the “Tuba Fitz Mansion”, for the need to bully never totally left me.

As I pass through the door I’ll be greeted by familiar faces, the faces of people I’ve tormented in my life. It will be a mansion full of nerds and wimps and ugly little girls, the kind of people I, always the cool and popular one, abused in order to bolster my secretly low self esteem while in the company of my cool friends. There will be band members, members of the chess and debate teams, non-smokers, non-drinkers, ROTC kids, non-athletes, people who declined the use of drugs, people who cared about grades more than popularity. There will be Negroes, old folks, poor people, retards, homeless, queers and all manner of people who were the objects of my disdain and derision over the years; these will be my companions in this manse.

Everyone in the mansion will be friends with everyone else with one exception—me. I will be an outcast, a minority, an object to be scorned. They will tease me, besiege and beset me with insults, shower me with chocolate milk and French fries when I eat, possibly even de-pants me. I’ll act as if they don’t bother me when they’re around, but I’ll stain my pillow with tears at night until the solace of sleep grants me temporary respite from the pain. Nightly I will pray the perverted prayer of one who is desperate to fit in. “Lord, let me be a Negro.” “Lord, let me be gay.” “Lord, let me be a non-smoking, non-drinking, pocket-protector-using debate team member for just one day!” But none of those things will I become.

And then, after maybe 70 or 80 years of mental anguish and emotional torture, clarity will prevail. I’ll realize that I’m neither black nor gay nor a debater, that I am only who I am. And I’ll realize that despite what others think, that’s good enough. I’ll pray “Lord, let me be me!” and into my room will walk a man dressed in a tailored Armani suit and cradling a lamb. He’ll have long, flowing brown hair and a perfectly manicured full beard. “Get it?” he’ll ask.

“Yes,” I’ll say, “I get it!”