Stories

Religion Stories

Neal Squitieri

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His name was Neal Squitieri. I met him and talked with him on and off for 16 years. I liked him, and I know he liked me too. It would be accurate to say that we were friends. We were unlikely friends, however, because our roles in life at the time were a great distance apart.

I was pastor of a church in the Washington D.C. area where Neal mainly lived. He was a “homeless man” or “unhoused man” or “displaced person” or “street-involved individual” or whatever term is now politically correct. Privately I sometimes referred to Neal as “my favorite bum.”

I dealt with quite a few bums in those days. Our church had a room for donated clothing, and one for donated food, and a budget for cash assistance to the needy that I was in charge of. Neal came to me over time for assistance with each of these needs, but he began to linger for conversation. This contrasted with most other assistance-seekers who would get what they came for and then were out the door.

I remember one man who was hungry and wanted food. I took him upstairs, and what he selected was a large can of peaches with a pull top. He followed me to the elevator and when we arrived on the main floor and I turned to speak with him, I found that unknown to me he had opened the peaches and eaten the entire can on the way down. Including the syrup. I showed him to a waste basket to throw away the can. This man was a regular and I could tell other stories about him, but I will always remember the experience with the peaches.

Every of these occasions tended to be different. I remember a younger man who was likely drunk or high on something and who demanded a large quantity of money. When I refused, he promised to return and burn down my church. I had experienced people being mad at me on enough occasions, but not the threat of church burning. After I finally got him out the door, we advised the police and provided a description. But nothing ever came of it.

Neal Squitieri was a different case. He liked to sit with me in my study and talk. We talked of many things, some casual and some otherwise. Philosophy was of particular interest to Neal. Philosophy and some theology and some history and some politics and current affairs. Neal was intelligent, despite his unkept appearance. I looked forward to our conversations and I know he did too.

Neal was a Vietnam War veteran, honorably discharged. I know this because after some years he one day handed me his discharge papers and asked me to keep them safe for him. I was honored to do so.

There were many Vietnam veterans who, like Neal, became homeless in their own land after their return home. Many struggled to return to a normal life after the war. Issues such as post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), substance abuse, and societal rejection complicated their reintegration. It is estimated that 15-30% of Vietnam veterans experienced PTSD at some point, with many of them never fully recovering. By the mid-1990s, it is estimated that one in four homeless men in America was a Vietnam veteran.

We now know that societal rejection was a great blow for many. The country was tired of the war and angry about the political deceptions that had stretched it out for so long. Losing the war was an added humiliation. People wanted to forget about it and move on. There were remembered images of soldiers as baby killers and looters and village burners. Although most of the soldiers were there by force of the draft and not by choice, they got the blame.

One cold winter day I got a phone call at the church. It was Neal. It was the first time he had ever called me on the phone. He was in jail and needed help. It turned out that he had entered the basement furnace room of a nearby Presbyterian church to sleep and keep warm. The police had arrested him for trespassing. The pastor of that church was a good friend, and I called him and accused him of involvement in this disgrace.

“Jesus tells us to care for the hungry and the homeless, and you have them arrested,” I complained (not an exact quote, okay, but something like it). It turned out that he was unaware of the arrest, had helped Neal in the past, and wanted us to work together to fix this.

So together we drove to the county jail, identified ourselves with our ministerial faces on, and demanded Neal’s immediate release. The stern-faced lady in charge was used to such demands, and immediately told us no. It was something like a f—k off. I remember the Presbyterian pastor argueing that this was his church building, and they would not press charges, and he wanted them dropped. The lady replied that it was the police who had charged the man, not the church, and the case must run its course. Despite our protests and best efforts, it took three weeks for Neal to be freed.

Neal was the type of homeless person who liked to be alone and on his own, as opposed to spending time in a homeless shelter with groups of people. There were numerous shelters in the area that served meals and provided a place to sleep. Some were in church buildings, and I had done volunteer work with one of those. I had slept on the floor in my sleeping bag among those men. I had observed the comradery among them and the informal but effective group self-discipline among them. One of the men told me to just let him know if anyone got out of line and he would take care of it. But Neal lived on his own and avoided groups like that, even when it could have made life easier.

On one of our trips to the jail, my pastor friend and I discussed what to do next. We decided to try to help Neal really get back on his feet. We would get him a place to live and the stuff he would need to keep house. And we would get him a job that would start him toward self-sufficiency. We would pay his deposit and rent for some time until he was able to pay for himself. We had it all worked out, Neal’s future and better life.

We presented our plan to Neal. He listened and nodded his head and seemed to appreciate our efforts. We were eager for him to agree, and we thought he did. We proceeded to find and rent an apartment, buy stuff to furnish it, take him there and get him settled, and get him a job. The job was working at a local landfill which could be reached by public transportation. We had everything in place for Neal to begin a new and normal life. Everything we could think of. It was an exciting time for us. We had done well, we thought.

But Neal never went to the job, and he disappeared from the apartment in a short time.

Thinking back on this, I am reminded of two great movie roles where the characters faced a similar effort by others to help them leave their old lives and begin a new and “better” one. That would be Francis McDormand in “Nomadland” and Jack Nicholson in “Ironweed.” Both finally chose to reject the offered life upgrades and return to their old and accustomed ways. Just as Neal did.

It was a long time, perhaps a year, before Neal came back to the church. When he did, he said nothing about our past efforts, nor did I. I gave him whatever he asked for and we sat and talked as before.

When I finally resigned and left the church, Neal was nowhere around. I carefully gave the church office his military discharge papers with instructions to give them back whenever he appeared again.


 

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Stories

A Travel Curiosity

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Being now some years old, and having loved to travel all my life, and having stopped to use the rest rooms more times than I could guess, I saw something I had never seen before on any rest room wall. This sign.

We were driving from the New York Finger Lakes down to home in Pennsylvania, and this was in a highway rest stop. It was straight ahead of you as you entered the men’s room. The place was a state welcome stop. I wish it has been New York, but I think it was actually Pennsylvania. It was clearly not a state sponsored sign and clearly belonged to this particular place.

PLEASE DO NOT BARGE INTO STALLS

Several questions arose immediately in my loose mind. Who created and put up this sign? What barging incident(s) had prompted it? How effective had this sign been in preventing other barge-in happenings? Had the incidents been accidental or intentional? Were there other posted instructions on the inside of this rest room, I wondered as I entered?

There were, indeed, other posted notices. “Remember to take your cellphone when you leave.” “Don’t forget your car keys.” “Be sure you have your billfold.”

Obviously, the resident sign creator had wished to be helpful to all the rest stop patrons. I wondered if this was the station manager, or one of the attendants? Or was it left there as a joke by someone passing through and unaffiliated with the management? It crossed my mind that I myself might have done this at some early point in my life.

There were other potential rest room signs I thought about as my mind wandered further.

PLEASE AIM CAREFULLY WHEN USING THE URINALS

REMIND OTHERS TO WASH THEIR HANDS

AVOID BUMPING THOSE USING THE URINALS

NO DRYING HANDS ON OTHER PEOPLE’S CLOTHES

EYES FORWARD WHEN USING THE URINALS

PLEASE FLUSH UNTIL TOILET BOWL IS CLEAR

DO NOT URINATE IN WASH BASINS PLEASE

But after these diversions, I was still most curious about the stall-barging sign. I was especially curious as to why the burden of prevention was put on the barger and not the bargee. In other words, why not have a sign inside the stalls reminding the occupant to latch the damn door. Something like this.

PLEASE LATCH THE DOOR TO PREVENT SOMEONE BARGING IN

So now, please consider, if a stall is occupied, and the latch unlatched, and thinking it is empty and available someone barges in, who then is at fault? Who then is the victim here? Who then should have a sign advising them on the proper course of action? I rest my rest room case.

Is any of this nonsense very important?

No, it is not.

But when you travel long hours and see something curious, the mind will wander some.


 

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Stories

I Call Them Buzzards

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When I was a young boy in Blount County, East Tennessee, one of the things my buddies and I loved to do was explore caves. Any cave would do, and the object was always the same: to explore every passage, room, opening. Sometimes we would find names or initials and maybe dates scratched on the walls. Our goal was to go further and leave our marks beyond where anyone else had gone.

I once came to a narrow opening in the back of a cave, but the flashlight revealed a much larger opening beyond it. Maybe a big room no one had ever been in. I tried to crawl through that opening, but it was slightly too small and tight. How did I get through? I found that if I let out all my breath I could just squeeze through. Had I not been able to struggle through with no air in my lungs, I would not be writing this recollection today.

We had another close call in Cades Cove up in the Smokies. We had explored to the very end of Gregory’s Cave, perhaps a quarter mile. This cave has a long history dating back to the Cherokee Indians who were known to use it. We found some dry wood back there and decided to make a fire. We were sitting around the fire when we noticed the roof of the cave had disappeared. Instead, there was a new roof made of smoke, and the smoke was coming lower as more rose from the fire. There was no water to put out the fire. By the time we hurried back to the entrance we were crawling down low to stay under the smoke and be able to breathe.

What do caves have to do with buzzards? That connection took place at the Sheep Pen Cave, located on the banks of the Tennessee River near our hometown. I remember we came there in a small boat which was tied up down below the cave. I know we brought our sleeping bags and slept the night in the large cave entrance. I recall that during the night a tugboat hauling cargo on the river shined its searchlights up on us.

The next morning, I was crawling into a nearby cave opening and happened upon a mother buzzard sitting on the dirt floor. Not knowing quite what was expected of me, I reached out and grabbed hold of her. She responded by struggling and then vomiting profusely on the floor beside me. Sheesh! I launched her out the front of the cave and off she flew.

Vomiting, or regurgitating if you prefer, is a known defense strategy for buzzards. The odor is extremely strong and emptying their stomachs also makes them lighter to takeoff and fly away. I somehow doubt that this mother buzzard had been physically grabbed by many young boys, but this was her natural response.

After she was gone, I noticed that she had left behind a single large egg on which she had been sitting. What to do?

I decided I would take home this egg, hatch it, and raise myself a young buzzard. I know this does not sound like a promising plan, but this is exactly what I tried to do. I got the egg safely home and asked for my mother’s heating pad. I guessed at what the appropriate heat setting ought to be. I put the egg in a soft place and covered it with the warm pad. From day to day, I watched for a hatching buzzard chick, but none ever appeared.  However, this effort did ensure that I have always had a soft spot in my heart for buzzards.

This brings me to an article I read about the fate of buzzards in India.

As we know, buzzards are scavengers. They mostly eat dead animals, often road kills and predator kills. This isn’t appetizing, but it is an important contribution to the environment we live in. Buzzards are a vital part of the cleanup crew.

In India, buzzards feed on the caucuses of dead cattle. But along came a drug (diclofenac) used to treat sick cattle, and this drug kills buzzards if they feast on cattle that have had it. Most of the buzzard population died before the drug was finally banned. And it has now been established that this virtual end to the buzzard clean-up function has led to the deaths of half a million people over a five-year period. This is reported in a study published in the American Economic Association journal.

Vultures are considered nature’s sanitation service because of the important role they play in removing dead animals that contain bacteria and pathogens from our environment – without them, disease can spread, says this study. Efforts are now underway to revive the vulture population in India, a slow and expensive process.

The decline of the vulture population in India has been the largest and fastest ever recorded for any bird species anywhere in the world.

So far, the population in the U.S. is stable and functioning well as nature intended. This stability is supported by legal measures. Our buzzards are protected under the Migratory Bird Treaty Act. Populations are also relatively safe in Europe, but under considerable threat in Africa and Asia.

The next time you see those buzzards circling around overhead, say a little prayer of thanks. They are helping to keep you safe.

I realize my early effort to raise a young buzzard failed, but I did my best.

Afterword

I have always called them “buzzards.” To be factual and scientific, they are “vultures,” and “turkey vultures” in our part of the country.  But “buzzard” was the common term where I grew up. I use this term just like I say “possum” and not “opossum.”  I also say “lightning bugs” and not “fireflies.” And groundhogs are not “woodchucks” – never have been and never will be. Just saying.


 

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Stories

Free-Range Boys

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Down in East Tennessee where I grew up, we had the Great Smoky Mountains standing tall out there in the distance. But then we also had “the foothills” which lay between us and the big mountains. In later years they build a fine and scenic road along those ridges called the Foothills Parkway. It has great views of the higher mountains and is a resource often overlooked by visitors. It is also a great bicycle ride.

Down on our side of the foothills was an area known as Montvale Springs. There had been a YMCA summer camp there, and before that a luxury hotel. Local tradition had it that the area was first discovered by Sam Houston, who taught school nearby and later became governor of Texas. Close to the remains of the camp there was Montvale Lake, a small mountain lake with an old concrete dam and cold mountain water.

Morton and I were out there one February day just messing around. We hiked down to the lake and walked out along the top of the dam. We were somewhat at loose ends and looking for something to do. Even something crazy like jumping off that dam and down into that winter-cold water. Fully clothed. Gosh darn!

Someone said, “I dare you” and we jumped. Wheee! Oh my gosh!

The jumping distance to the water was not extraordinary, but the water temperature was. We appeared on the bank in a very short time, but soaking wet and shivering. No one had thought about the lack of any shelter or warmth nearby. It wasn’t long before we were wondering why on earth we had done this.

Why had we?

There was another day with Morton that was quite the opposite of that cold one. It was HOT. We were on the Maryville College campus where my father taught. We were walking around and came near the tall water tank that stood up behind Pearson’s Hall. I never knew if this tank supplied water for just the college, or for the town in general. This question did not concern Morton or myself as we considered this situation and what to do.

We approached the water tank, observing there was no one around. We found that one of the tank’s four legs had a ladder. It might be cooler up high there, yes. We started climbing. Up we went like two young squirrels. The day was looking better now.

From the top of this tank, we had a great view of the college and the town of Maryville. We could see the Blount County courthouse and the line of buildings along Main Street. We also discovered that there was a swinging trap door at the top of the ladder.

It would be locked, of course. We could check on this, though. So, we checked. But, no, it was not locked. We swung open this door and looked down inside.

Yes, there was water. Lots of water. And, yes, there was a ladder going down, just like the one we had come up on. What to do?

It felt cool down there. Cool on this very hot day. This water may have been pumped out of a cool nearby spring.

On this hot day and having already come this far, we climbed down the inside ladder. We hung our clothes on its rungs, and went swimming in our underwear.

I know this does not seem like the right thing to have done. This being the same water that would be coming out of people’s kitchen faucets, filling bathtubs, boiling corn, brushing teeth, filling the dog’s water bowl, and washing hands. And I swear I would never recommend it today to any young boys faced with the same opportunity. “No, boys,” I would say. “Don’t do what I did, and you won’t have to regret it like I do.”

This is just a story, boys. Just something you read about in books and magazines. Go on back to your homework now.

And if a young boy should ask what you are reading about on the internet just now . . . ?

Well . . . I’ll leave that up to you.

Afterword

Some may be wondering how two young boys can be running around like this and unsupervised. Why aren’t their parents looking after them?

In Montgomery County, Maryland, where I used to live, we had a case some years ago where neighbors observed two children walking unaccompanied to a nearby park and called the police. The children, Danielle and Alexander Meitiv, were aged 10 and 6. The parents were brought before the Child Protective Services to explain their neglect. It turns out they were quite good parents who were teaching self-reliance to their children. The case sparked a national debate and was later dropped in some embarrassment. What was accused of being “parental neglect” was actually just the opposite.

In the small East Tennessee town where I grew up in the 1940’s and 50’s, children were not supervised, managed, and watched over as they are now. Kids were expected to entertain themselves, not to be entertained. We walked or rode our bicycles to school unaccompanied. Our parents kept no calendars of activities they had arranged for us. Homework was our responsibility to manage, along with various household tasks, known as “chores.” No chores done meant no allowance money handed out. “Go out and play” was our instruction, and the rest was up to us.

Today’s child rearing experts can find fault with this system, but that’s the way it was. We may have been self-managed and done some things we should not have done, but many of us turned out okay regardless.

Related Resources

Here are some highly regarded books that discuss the overprotection of children and youth and the importance of developing self-reliance:

1. “Free-Range Kids: How to Raise Safe, Self-Reliant Children (Without Going Nuts with Worry)” by Lenore Skenazy
• This book is a pioneering work advocating for the free-range parenting movement. Skenazy argues against the overprotection of children and encourages parents to allow their children more freedom to explore and learn independence.
2. “The Coddling of the American Mind: How Good Intentions and Bad Ideas Are Setting Up a Generation for Failure” by Greg Lukianoff and Jonathan Haidt
• Lukianoff and Haidt explore the consequences of overprotection in schools and parenting, discussing how this approach can lead to increased anxiety and decreased resilience among young people. The authors provide insights into how to foster self-reliance and critical thinking.
3. “Grit: The Power of Passion and Perseverance” by Angela Duckworth
• Although not solely focused on overprotection, this book delves into the importance of resilience, perseverance, and developing a strong character. Duckworth’s research highlights how fostering grit in children can help them become more self-reliant.
4. “The Gift of Failure: How the Best Parents Learn to Let Go So Their Children Can Succeed” by Jessica Lahey
• Lahey, a teacher and parent, discusses the benefits of allowing children to experience failure and learn from it. She argues that overprotection hinders children’s ability to develop self-reliance and resilience.
5. “How to Raise an Adult: Break Free of the Overparenting Trap and Prepare Your Kid for Success” by Julie Lythcott-Haims
• This book provides a critical look at overparenting and offers practical advice for raising self-sufficient and independent children. Lythcott-Haims draws on her experience as a dean at Stanford University to highlight the pitfalls of overprotective parenting.
6. “Simplicity Parenting: Using the Extraordinary Power of Less to Raise Calmer, Happier, and More Secure Kids” by Kim John Payne and Lisa M. Ross
• Payne and Ross advocate for a simpler, less hectic approach to parenting that encourages independence and self-reliance. The book provides strategies for reducing the over-scheduling and overprotection that can stifle children’s development.
7. “Bringing Up Bébé: One American Mother Discovers the Wisdom of French Parenting” by Pamela Druckerman
• Druckerman explores the differences between American and French parenting styles, noting how French parents encourage independence and self-reliance in their children from a young age. The book offers insights into fostering a balanced approach to parenting.


 

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Stories

Redemption

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His name was John P. Murphy. We called him just plain “Murphy,” as I was called just “Briggs” and Morton just “Morton.” I know Murphy worked at the nearby Alcoa Aluminum Plant in Alcoa, Tennessee. I believe he was a supervisor of some kind. The most important thing about him was that he was our scoutmaster, and he was a man we loved and admired. Unlike many of our other adult leaders. No one of us spoke a bad word about Murphy. If you had, you would have been looked at strangely, or worse.

Murphy loved hiking in the mountains. Our small town was right in view of the Great Smoky Mountains, and Murphy took us everywhere. Cades Cove, Silers Bald, Gregory’s Bald, Charlie’s Bunion, Mount LeConte, Balsam High Top, Rich Mountain, Turkeypen Ridge, Thunderhead Mountain, the Ch imney Tops, Hen Wallow Falls, Snake Den Ridge, Spence Field, and many more. Excepting the short and popular “tourist walks” we all scorned.

I thought that Murphy liked me and I know now that he did. But looking back on it, I do believe now that every one of his boys felt the same. Every one of us felt like we were special to Murphy.

Murphy didn’t do discipline. There was no shouting or cussing or demanding. But if he asked us to do something, we did it. If he asked us not to do something, we didn’t do it. Things were that simple.

Then there was the overnight hike to Icy Water Springs.

I see now on the maps that it is called “Icewater Spring.” And that is okay, although inaccurate. It is near the intersection of the Boulevard Trail and the Appalachian Trail, and we parked at Fontana Dam to hike there, sleep in the trail shelter, and come back the next day.

My story begins on the hike back. Morton and I were hiking by ourselves and behind all the others. When we hiked, we preferred to be in the lead up front or bringing up the rear.

So, Murphy and all the others are down the way in front of us, out of sight, maybe some already sitting and resting in the shade at the parking lot. And Morton and I are hiking, talking, not too far to go now, and then we see something there in the woods, and we stop in our tracks.

We see an old car. It is parked in a clearing down off the trail. Is it junk or what, we wonder? We look at each other. It is agreed we must find out. We look and listen all around. No sight or sound of anyone. So, we approach this car.

The car is clearly still in use and also unlocked. But why would it be parked way up here in the woods? A moonshiner maybe? Someone up to no good, for sure. What would be our duty in a case such as that?

We raised the car hood, unhooked all the spark plug wires from the distributor cap, removed the cap and threw it in a nearby bush. Now, no car in those days would ever start or run without its distributor cap. We had taken this car out of service. We had excused it as citizenship but knew it was only mischief.

Then we decided we should get on our way, and did. We put on our packs and started down the trail to join the others in the parking lot.

Wait! There was someone coming up the trail down in front of us. Shit! Better hide. We ran off the trail and into some bushes and were lucky that a mountain man walking the trail had not seen us. Oh shit! He went straight to the old car, which apparently was his car, and he got in and tried to start it. This failed of course. Puzzled, he got out of the car and lifted the hood, immediately seeing the hanging spark plug wires and no distributor cap. He looked around on the ground and saw nothing. And now he was no longer puzzled, he was mad. Mad as hell.

He turned and started back down the trail, going fast. He had remembered the bunch of young boys in the parking lot at the bottom of the trail. One of them had done this. He must hurry before they get away. He will call the police. They will pay for this.

Morton and I discussed what to do. We had no good alternatives. The mountain man blocked our path of escape.

Down at the parking lot the angry man told Murphy what his boys had done to the car. Which one was it? All shook their heads. Is this all of you, the mountain man wanted to know. Well, no, Briggs and Morton had still not arrived. Murphy told the man forcefully that Briggs and Morton would never do such a thing. The mountain man said the Bryson City police were on the way and nobody leaves, and he started back up the trail.

I can still see him coming as if had been filmed and replayed for me to watch over all these years later. He was striding fast, and his big fists were clenched. We were two scarred kids and wanted any way out of this. We came out of hiding and met him and told him we would fix his car and we were sorry, sorry, sorry. For a minute there I thought he was going to beat us up, but the offer to fix the car made a difference. We found the missing part and fixed the car. The man escorted us back down the trail to meet the police. We were put in the police car while Murphy and the other boys watched. I can still see their watching stares, and that of Murphy.

I now think that Murphy had talked with the called policeman before we arrived back with the mountain man. Murphy who was mortified, but still our friend and leader. The Bryson City policeman drove out of the parking lot with us in his back seat. He drove around for awhile and talked with us about what we had done, almost like a Murphy himself. Before he brought us back, he mentioned that the same mountain man who called him had been in his jail before. He knew that man. Then he drove us back and set us free. The mountain man had departed.

I recall no lectures from Murphy. Perhaps he was depending on the policeman for that. But I can recall my deep sense of shame around him for some time afterward. We never thought this little prank would have led to such dire consequences. We had planned to join the group and say nothing about it on the long ride home.

I knew Murphy had liked me before, but I did not know if he would like me any more. Morton and I were both in a repentant state, and it would be a long time before we could joke about this occasion. It would be a long time before I could give up the thought that every time Murphy saw me, he would be thinking about what we had done. I desperately wanted this to change.  And I think it did, and I know when.

It was Youth Sunday at our church. There were to be three youth speakers. I had volunteered and was one of them. Hard to believe, Briggs up there in the pulpit being religious. That seemed as unlikely as getting caught by the mountain man up there with his old car.

It was my first time ever up in a church pulpit addressing a congregation. But I “did good” with my 10 minutes, they said. And it served as my redemption, for looking down into all those faces, the one that mattered most was that of Murphy. Murphy looking up to me.

He was smiling. 


 

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Nature Stories

A Rattlesnake Kill on Little Shuckstack

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Down low in the Great Smoky Mountains is
Cades Cove where my wife’s ancestors once lived.
High up above it is Gregory’s Bald, where I
hiked and slept the night as a young Boy Scout.
My very first overnight hike.

And down the far side hovered over Fontana Lake is
Big Shuckstack. There a lookout tower stands tall above
the trees, and rangers gaze out over Sassafras Gap,
Ekaneetlee Creek, Piney Ridge, Proctor Branch, Cheoah
Lake, and Long Hungry Ridge for signs of smoke and
reason to call the fire crew into action.

Lower down still more is Little Shuckstack, the trail so
steep between those two that the knees let you know
right off.

But there on top of little stack is a level stretch
where knees rest, and a rattlesnake might too. Rest there
nearly under some dead leaves about his own color.
Where I hiked alone with thumbs hooked under the
pack straps, just putting one foot in front of the other until
motion caught the corner of the eye, a strange sound
in the ears, and short hairs stood up straight along
the back of the neck as DAMN!
mountain time slowed to frame-by-frame as I
tried to get the legs to MOVE or JUMP or
something, which they finally did.

I landed some distance away.

He was coming after me, NO. He was
watching me, YES.

Back off, he says, I can kill you.

Usually his prey is mice, rats, squirrels, birds, eggs,
lizards, toads, even insects if he has to. Coiled up tight
with his tail raised shaking at one end and his head pointing
fangs at the other. Forked tongue flicking out, eyes shiny
like beads as I felt behind for the hunting knife on my belt.

Maybe throw that knife like Tarzan. Pin his head to the
ground with perfect aim.

Not likely. Or maybe

quick as a cat I could fake him with one hand and then
grab him just behind the head with the other.

A kid like me would think such thoughts, then turn and go
safely looking for a forked stick.

No time to think of animal rights at a time like this.

Approach with the stick as the rattle gets louder and faster,
louder and faster. Just like my heart.

Swipe down there with the stick now. Swing and a miss it was.

Please now, once again for God’s sake and . . . and
THERE . . . got him, pinned down now. Just the head though,
the tail still going strong.

The head is still but the body writhing. My left hand is
going back for the knife as the right hand holds the stick
tight, and tighter.

And now comes the hard part because I must reach down
THERE with him, my bare hand THERE with HIM, and
hope to hell this works as was advised in the book someone
wrote. Someone writing with no snake whatever in sight.

And praise be to God it does work . . . somehow . . . and
the snakes head is OFF, cut clean although the wiggling
snake body doesn’t seem to know it yet.

I should get a merit badge for this, and a big ceremony
too. Mom and Dad both there and proud. What I
thought of in that trembling mountain air where a
snake’s head lay still down there on the ground.

So then I dug and buried that thing as the
Boy Scout manual said to do. Because some
good animal might eat it and get poisoned by that
bad snake.

Animal rights did play some part you see.

And after all those years now gone by, I still have
that rattlesnake’s rattle somewhere in its
proud little box.

It still rattles too.

Afterword

This story from my youth needs a word of explanation. Although the story is true and I did in fact kill that rattlesnake, I do not now advocate their killing. Rattlesnakes perform important natural functions and pose little threat to humans. Rattlesnake bite deaths in the U.S. average 5-6 per year. With firearms in our own hands we kill ourselves and one another at the rate of 40,000 a year, exceeding the 38,000 deaths in car crashes.

I did not need to kill this snake. All I needed to do was say hello there and goodbye and walk on down the trail. I suppose I believed there was something grown-up and manly in my actions. I thought my father and my friends would see it that way.

I needed to add this explanation. I hope it doesn’t ruin the story for you. I do still have his rattler and wouldn’t think of parting with it.


 

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Stories

Me and PeeDab

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About 10 minutes into my run I happened to notice a beautiful naked woman lying right at my feet.  I do see interesting things on my runs, especially in this nearby park with its deer and squirrels and herons and beavers and people having picnics and throwing frisbees.  But this was the first time I had seen a naked woman along my route. 

I picked her up to get a better look.  She was in a magazine called “The Girls of Penthouse.”  But why had she been discarded? And in this park of all places?  One does not often discard a naked woman.

Finding her recalled a boyhood experience on a Scout hike with Milton Bardin, who was known to us all as PeeDab.  I am guessing at how “PeeDab” should be written since I never saw it in that form.  PeeDab and I were friends because our dads were friends and teaching at the same college.  We never agreed about who saw the magazine first, but I know it was me.  The name of the magazine was “Eyefull.”  It was lying right beside the road we were hiking on. It had no actual naked women, but it did have the closest thing either of us had seen at the time.

You don’t know quite what to do with a naked woman you pick up off the ground.  Especially if you have 6 miles of running still ahead of you.  Nice as a naked woman is, you probably don’t want to carry one all that distance.  But I did roll mine up and carried her as I resumed my run, unsure about what to do next.

PeeDab and I had not been unsure about the Eyefull magazine.  I would grab it from him and start looking, and then he would grab it back and do the same.  Although we disagreed about who had found it or whose turn it was, we agreed on its value.  It was priceless and would be kept forever.

Eyeful was a men’s magazine published by Robert Harrison, starting in March 1943. The magazine had a bi-monthly, 65 issue run, ending April 1955. It was popular with soldiers during the latter years of World War II.  Its popularity dropped sharply after the initial publication of Playboy magazine in 1953. Playboy featured nude center-folds, which Harrison refused to do, and so Playboy soon put him out of business.

PeeDab and I knew nothing about Robert Harrison, but we could have advised him on the issue of nude center-folds.

It is hard to run and study naked women at the same time.  In a short while the woman had been moved about a mile from her original spot.  It crossed my mind to discard her in the woods beside the trail.

The Eyefull magazine was kept hidden in the traditional spot beneath the mattress, shoved far enough so Mother wouldn’t find it making up the bed.  Mother would not understand about the Eyefull magazine.

There were few people in the park that day, but I did keep thinking about meeting up with someone.  I rolled the magazine tightly enough to pass for Newsweek.  But still it seemed funny to be carrying a magazine while running.

When the Eyefull magazine was there under my mattress it meant it wasn’t under PeeDab’s mattress.  So I knew to expect that he would want it back.  And we would argue about whose turn it was and who had kept it the longest.

I decided not to put the magazine in the woods.  There was a nice, shady spot along the trail beside the lake, and I laid it down there in plain view.  Perhaps a young boy will come along and give it a good home.    


 

Commentary Stories

Light-nosed

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I met this man who trains dogs to sniff out explosives.  They call them bomb dogs.  He does this for the police department in Washington, D.C.  Of course, a lot of people both home and abroad would like to plant explosives in Washington, D.C. our nation’s capitol.  Even some people who work there in-and-out seem to want to blow the place up. It isn’t clear these dogs can save the day, but who knows?

The man I talked with told me they get the dogs from Germany, and a fully trained dog is worth over a hundred thousand dollars.  One reason is that it takes the trainer a year of full time work to get a dog ready.  An untrained dog will smell all the smells there are, and there are so many it must be hard to get a dog focused on the few things a bomb can smell like.

The trainer I talked with said they get very attached to their dogs, and the dogs to them. He said they even get bereavement leave if their dog dies or gets killed.  He said the thing that makes a bomb dog’s day is to do his job well and have the trainer pet him and tell him he’s a good dog.  But it has to be the trainer telling him that.  Anyone else tells him “good dog” and he’ll say “well who the heck are you?”  He has one master, and what the master says about his work is the only thing that matters. Bomb dogs are very clear about this.

It must be hard, working every day as a bomb dog. You’re trained you to go in where the bombs are so people don’t have to. People used to do this themselves, but now they have you to do it so they can stay safe. 

So you have to work alone in there where a bomb may be.  You have to make your own decisions.  There’s no such thing as calling over a fellow dog and asking him to take a whiff please.  Ask him what this smells like to him.  Have a conference on it there like those umpires do when they throw down their little flags.  They huddle together and try to decide why they did that.  But these dogs have to make the decision alone and in a hurry.

And speaking of in a hurry, it would be easy to get heavy-nosed while in a hurry. The bombs are lying there just waiting for a heavy-nosed dog to set it off. A bomb dog can’t get heavy-nosed or he won’t be staying on the bomb squad long. Rush in there and hard nose right down on a bomb and BOOM! His trainer who spent a year just with him wouldn’t appreciate this. Instead of “good dog” he’d be hearing something else.  Or hearing nothing at all. His memorial service would get scheduled.

When you’re in an explosive situation, the first thing you have to do is stay light-nosed.

Think about this.


 

Stories

Advice Not Taken

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I went out running the neighborhoods on a Saturday afternoon. Soon after I started I heard the sound of helicopters overhead and discovered they were spraying. 

It gives you a funny feeling to be running along and have a helicopter fly over you and spray you.  But I kept on running.  And after awhile I came upon the woman who was directing all this.

She had a balloon way up in the air on the end of a rope and was sitting in her car with a radio talking in the sky with the helicopters.  I noticed she had all her car windows rolled up, hot as it was. 

She saw me coming and got out of her car as if something important was up.  She met me in the road and I thought maybe she wanted directions to somewhere else in the neighborhood.  Since I run these streets all the time I could have helped her with that.

But instead of this she had advice.  She said “It’s not a good time to be out running, because we’re spraying.”  And I thought fast and said, “Well, it’s not a good time to be out spraying, because I’m running.”  And I suppose we each had a point.

Well, they kept right on spraying. And I kept right on running.  And I’m alive to write about it all these years later.  So I guess no harm was done to me, and certainly not to them. 

People who try to tell you what to do may have a balloon and seem official, but think twice before you mind them. When you need to run, just run.

Commentary Humanity Stories

Meeting A Woman at the Pool

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I drove to the pool with maybe a few problems on my mind. Eighteen strokes to the lap, thirty-six laps to the mile, half an hour of hard exertion, counting down, counting down.

My left hand is getting better. It used to start the pull too soon. The timing now is even and the stoke is smooth. It has taken years of daily swimming to accomplish this.

But what a feeling! To glide to the wall that last lap and let the body go loose. Let it hang free while the breathing slows to normal. While the day begins to form again, and the arms pull me up. Feet go under and the legs lift, and I am now like people suppose they were meant to be instead of swimming in water like a frog or fish. Hands take off the goggles and rub the eyes.

I headed for the small pool in the corner where you sit in hot water that churns at you from all sides. Good for the circulation but don’t stay too long and don’t use if you have a bad heart, they say. And I found a woman there, a woman all alone.

She was a friendly woman. Smiling and saying hello and wanting to talk. Talk I do not remember not much of, as you will soon understand.

For what I kept from that day till now was the sight of her body. Her body I tried not to be caught looking at. But whenever her head turned, or I dared a glance, I did look. Over and over I looked, as if forced and powerless.

And what I saw more of, each time, was always what I knew from the first. That she was a dying woman here in this water. Of cancer that was somewhere, maybe everywhere. A body looking dead already. As if nothing were left between her bones and the covering skin. Nothing.

It made me look strangely at the parts of myself I could see along with her parts. Mine were no stuff for a magazine cover, yet what a contrast. As if I were rich and famous and beautiful now. A different class of person from her. It felt good and bad both. Proud at first, then guilty. Conspicuous even, as if I was the one who should hide myself from view, not her. The lesser person there, and not the better one.

And I remembered there those troubles I’d brought. They came at me with a vengeance, as she smiled her bright smile, and chatted about the water and how nice the day was. Then said goodbye, pulling up to leave. And was sadly beautiful as she made her way.

 

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