kelly

Did you take your kids fishing this year?  My kids are all grown up with kids of their own now.  And I think grandkids are the most fun because of course I can spoil them and send them back home.  Really though, I absolutely love my kids and my grandkids, so much so that I take them fishing about as often as I can. 
This all started back when I was a kid and like many of you we went fishing with one or both of our parents or maybe a grandparent or other family member or even a friend.  It doesn’t matter who we went with it just matters that we got to go fishing.
I can still remember what I believe was my first fishing experience.  It was at a little body of water in Oklahoma called Hula Lake.  My mom and dad took us kids to the lake and while I don’t remember my brothers being there with me I do know they were there, and since they were older they were probably off fishing on their own.  Anyway I was seated on the concrete dam dropping a worm and cork in the corner of two concrete walls.  I pulled up fish after fish and I remember laughing out loud each time and the fact that I couldn’t wait to get my rig back in the water. 
There was a man there who, as my dad explained was going to set a trot line that day and he wanted all the perch I could catch for him.  I was more than happy to oblige him, of course and never even gave a thought to his taking my fish.  I remember knowing what a trot line was or at least knowing he was going to catch big fish with my little fish.
I guess one of the advantages of growing up in a family of hunters and fishermen is that one receives an education in such things without knowing it.  I suppose I learned most of the basics about life just listening to my folks talk with other people about what was going on in their lives. 
My dad owned a second hand furniture store in Bartlesville, Oklahoma called the Idle Article.  I used to spend days there before I was old enough to go to school and during summer break when I was older.  I always tried out the bicycles as soon as they hit the store and he took me with him sometimes to pick up a load of furniture he had bought.
I don’t know how long he owned it but I do remember when a new street project was planned he sold out and went into business with his brother making horse trailers in Dewey, Oklahoma.  Now that shop was a dangerous place for a little kid, what with all the cutting, grinding and moving machinery.  I did get to go with him sometimes but it was usually on Saturday when only a few people were there.
I remember my mom driving me by the old store on the new street, which was actually a much wider by-pass sort of thing and seeing the outside of the building and a concrete retaining wall just six or so feet from the front wall of the building.  The parking lot in front was gone and without having it explained to me I knew just why dad didn’t have a business there anymore.
That’s progress though and I’m sure it created more opportunities than it erased.  That word progress is sure used a lot.  We use it to describe the good things that go on and we use to define the failures of government also.  Personally I like to use the word “progress” to describe my fishing prowess.
I started out fishing by myself in a pond behind our house with my best friend Tony Parker.  Please understand the words “by myself” mean without my dad or mom or brothers you know, the people who told us we couldn’t jump in the pond or off the back of the dam into the creek.  This little pond was a perfect spot for a couple of kids to explore.  We sought out bullfrogs and bass along with all the trotline bait we could catch although, we never baited a trotline.  I also saw the absolute biggest snapping turtle I had ever seen.  Thinking back now it was probably only sixteen or so inches across but that was one third of my height back then.
When we got a little older, like maybe ten we began fishing the creek that ran by the park a little farther from the house.  I later learned that creek was the Caney River or maybe the Little Caney.  I still don’t know which but I’ll bet I could look it up on Google Maps real quick and find out… now that’s progress.
My folks took us fishing in a number of places.  I remember we camped for a week or so at Beaver Lake in Arkansas the year it opened for fishing.  We were there with my Uncle Donnie and Aunt Joyce and my Grandpa “Pappy” and Grandma “Pansy”.  This is the only memory I have of grandma Pansy as, sadly she died later that year. 
I believe we caught all the Sand bass out of Beaver lake year that trip and I’m sure my mom got tired of cold hot dogs in her sleeping bag but she didn’t complain.  That was the year my dad tried to explain to me what blacktop was.  Let’s see now, was it the whole road or just the black stripes we actually drove on that made up the blacktop.  One can probably figure out the questions I had and the exasperation my dad must have felt as he patiently told me again what it was. 
I’m all grown up now with kids of my own and grandkids too, as I mentioned earlier and I can hear myself in the questions that all of them have asked over the past thirty years.  Why is Deer poop so small when a Deer is so big?  Why do Coyotes howl at night?  Do Channel cats really talk to you when you unhook them?  Will you take me fishing?
Parents probably have no idea how many questions they answer over the lifetime of raising kids but it has to be in the bazillions.  I seriously doubt if all those questions were ever answered but I didn’t mind, I just asked again.
When kids ask you to take them fishing and you are tempted to put them off with being too tired or it’s too windy or cold or you’re too busy please remember that one day our kids will have memories randomly pop into their heads about their parents and what we did with them when we were little.  I just hope my kids remember me taking them and not putting them off. 

Did you take your kids fishing this year?  My kids are all grown up with kids of their own now.  And I think grandkids are the most fun because of course I can spoil them and send them back home.  Really though, I absolutely love my kids and my grandkids, so much so that I take them fishing about as often as I can. 
This all started back when I was a kid and like many of you we went fishing with one or both of our parents or maybe a grandparent or other family member or even a friend.  It doesn’t matter who we went with it just matters that we got to go fishing.
I can still remember what I believe was my first fishing experience.  It was at a little body of water in Oklahoma called Hula Lake.  My mom and dad took us kids to the lake and while I don’t remember my brothers being there with me I do know they were there, and since they were older they were probably off fishing on their own.  Anyway I was seated on the concrete dam dropping a worm and cork in the corner of two concrete walls.  I pulled up fish after fish and I remember laughing out loud each time and the fact that I couldn’t wait to get my rig back in the water. 
There was a man there who, as my dad explained was going to set a trot line that day and he wanted all the perch I could catch for him.  I was more than happy to oblige him, of course and never even gave a thought to his taking my fish.  I remember knowing what a trot line was or at least knowing he was going to catch big fish with my little fish.
I guess one of the advantages of growing up in a family of hunters and fishermen is that one receives an education in such things without knowing it.  I suppose I learned most of the basics about life just listening to my folks talk with other people about what was going on in their lives. 
My dad owned a second hand furniture store in Bartlesville, Oklahoma called the Idle Article.  I used to spend days there before I was old enough to go to school and during summer break when I was older.  I always tried out the bicycles as soon as they hit the store and he took me with him sometimes to pick up a load of furniture he had bought.
I don’t know how long he owned it but I do remember when a new street project was planned he sold out and went into business with his brother making horse trailers in Dewey, Oklahoma.  Now that shop was a dangerous place for a little kid, what with all the cutting, grinding and moving machinery.  I did get to go with him sometimes but it was usually on Saturday when only a few people were there.
I remember my mom driving me by the old store on the new street, which was actually a much wider by-pass sort of thing and seeing the outside of the building and a concrete retaining wall just six or so feet from the front wall of the building.  The parking lot in front was gone and without having it explained to me I knew just why dad didn’t have a business there anymore.
That’s progress though and I’m sure it created more opportunities than it erased.  That word progress is sure used a lot.  We use it to describe the good things that go on and we use to define the failures of government also.  Personally I like to use the word “progress” to describe my fishing prowess.
I started out fishing by myself in a pond behind our house with my best friend Tony Parker.  Please understand the words “by myself” mean without my dad or mom or brothers you know, the people who told us we couldn’t jump in the pond or off the back of the dam into the creek.  This little pond was a perfect spot for a couple of kids to explore.  We sought out bullfrogs and bass along with all the trotline bait we could catch although, we never baited a trotline.  I also saw the absolute biggest snapping turtle I had ever seen.  Thinking back now it was probably only sixteen or so inches across but that was one third of my height back then.
When we got a little older, like maybe ten we began fishing the creek that ran by the park a little farther from the house.  I later learned that creek was the Caney River or maybe the Little Caney.  I still don’t know which but I’ll bet I could look it up on Google Maps real quick and find out… now that’s progress.
My folks took us fishing in a number of places.  I remember we camped for a week or so at Beaver Lake in Arkansas the year it opened for fishing.  We were there with my Uncle Donnie and Aunt Joyce and my Grandpa “Pappy” and Grandma “Pansy”.  This is the only memory I have of grandma Pansy as, sadly she died later that year. 
I believe we caught all the Sand bass out of Beaver lake year that trip and I’m sure my mom got tired of cold hot dogs in her sleeping bag but she didn’t complain.  That was the year my dad tried to explain to me what blacktop was.  Let’s see now, was it the whole road or just the black stripes we actually drove on that made up the blacktop.  One can probably figure out the questions I had and the exasperation my dad must have felt as he patiently told me again what it was. 
I’m all grown up now with kids of my own and grandkids too, as I mentioned earlier and I can hear myself in the questions that all of them have asked over the past thirty years.  Why is Deer poop so small when a Deer is so big?  Why do Coyotes howl at night?  Do Channel cats really talk to you when you unhook them?  Will you take me fishing?
Parents probably have no idea how many questions they answer over the lifetime of raising kids but it has to be in the bazillions.  I seriously doubt if all those questions were ever answered but I didn’t mind, I just asked again.
When kids ask you to take them fishing and you are tempted to put them off with being too tired or it’s too windy or cold or you’re too busy please remember that one day our kids will have memories randomly pop into their heads about their parents and what we did with them when we were little.  I just hope my kids remember me taking them and not putting them off. 

Did you take your kids fishing this year?  My kids are all grown up with kids of their own now.  And I think grandkids are the most fun because of course I can spoil them and send them back home.  Really though, I absolutely love my kids and my grandkids, so much so that I take them fishing about as often as I can. 
This all started back when I was a kid and like many of you we went fishing with one or both of our parents or maybe a grandparent or other family member or even a friend.  It doesn’t matter who we went with it just matters that we got to go fishing.
I can still remember what I believe was my first fishing experience.  It was at a little body of water in Oklahoma called Hula Lake.  My mom and dad took us kids to the lake and while I don’t remember my brothers being there with me I do know they were there, and since they were older they were probably off fishing on their own.  Anyway I was seated on the concrete dam dropping a worm and cork in the corner of two concrete walls.  I pulled up fish after fish and I remember laughing out loud each time and the fact that I couldn’t wait to get my rig back in the water. 
There was a man there who, as my dad explained was going to set a trot line that day and he wanted all the perch I could catch for him.  I was more than happy to oblige him, of course and never even gave a thought to his taking my fish.  I remember knowing what a trot line was or at least knowing he was going to catch big fish with my little fish.
I guess one of the advantages of growing up in a family of hunters and fishermen is that one receives an education in such things without knowing it.  I suppose I learned most of the basics about life just listening to my folks talk with other people about what was going on in their lives. 
My dad owned a second hand furniture store in Bartlesville, Oklahoma called the Idle Article.  I used to spend days there before I was old enough to go to school and during summer break when I was older.  I always tried out the bicycles as soon as they hit the store and he took me with him sometimes to pick up a load of furniture he had bought.
I don’t know how long he owned it but I do remember when a new street project was planned he sold out and went into business with his brother making horse trailers in Dewey, Oklahoma.  Now that shop was a dangerous place for a little kid, what with all the cutting, grinding and moving machinery.  I did get to go with him sometimes but it was usually on Saturday when only a few people were there.
I remember my mom driving me by the old store on the new street, which was actually a much wider by-pass sort of thing and seeing the outside of the building and a concrete retaining wall just six or so feet from the front wall of the building.  The parking lot in front was gone and without having it explained to me I knew just why dad didn’t have a business there anymore.
That’s progress though and I’m sure it created more opportunities than it erased.  That word progress is sure used a lot.  We use it to describe the good things that go on and we use to define the failures of government also.  Personally I like to use the word “progress” to describe my fishing prowess.
I started out fishing by myself in a pond behind our house with my best friend Tony Parker.  Please understand the words “by myself” mean without my dad or mom or brothers you know, the people who told us we couldn’t jump in the pond or off the back of the dam into the creek.  This little pond was a perfect spot for a couple of kids to explore.  We sought out bullfrogs and bass along with all the trotline bait we could catch although, we never baited a trotline.  I also saw the absolute biggest snapping turtle I had ever seen.  Thinking back now it was probably only sixteen or so inches across but that was one third of my height back then.
When we got a little older, like maybe ten we began fishing the creek that ran by the park a little farther from the house.  I later learned that creek was the Caney River or maybe the Little Caney.  I still don’t know which but I’ll bet I could look it up on Google Maps real quick and find out… now that’s progress.
My folks took us fishing in a number of places.  I remember we camped for a week or so at Beaver Lake in Arkansas the year it opened for fishing.  We were there with my Uncle Donnie and Aunt Joyce and my Grandpa “Pappy” and Grandma “Pansy”.  This is the only memory I have of grandma Pansy as, sadly she died later that year. 
I believe we caught all the Sand bass out of Beaver lake year that trip and I’m sure my mom got tired of cold hot dogs in her sleeping bag but she didn’t complain.  That was the year my dad tried to explain to me what blacktop was.  Let’s see now, was it the whole road or just the black stripes we actually drove on that made up the blacktop.  One can probably figure out the questions I had and the exasperation my dad must have felt as he patiently told me again what it was. 
I’m all grown up now with kids of my own and grandkids too, as I mentioned earlier and I can hear myself in the questions that all of them have asked over the past thirty years.  Why is Deer poop so small when a Deer is so big?  Why do Coyotes howl at night?  Do Channel cats really talk to you when you unhook them?  Will you take me fishing?
Parents probably have no idea how many questions they answer over the lifetime of raising kids but it has to be in the bazillions.  I seriously doubt if all those questions were ever answered but I didn’t mind, I just asked again.
When kids ask you to take them fishing and you are tempted to put them off with being too tired or it’s too windy or cold or you’re too busy please remember that one day our kids will have memories randomly pop into their heads about their parents and what we did with them when we were little.  I just hope my kids remember me taking them and not putting them off. 

We played cops and robbers the other day. My son set it up with his wife and included two of his three boys, ages four and two as the cops, (a two month old cop just wouldn’t work). The call came in about 1530 hours of an armed robbery of cookies at Sissy’s house.


We arrived at the scene with the boys dressed in their kaki’s and polo’s sporting badges and notepads. The victim was interviewed and foam dart bullets were seized as evidence. A description of the perps was taken down and footprints were photographed.


The victim managed to photograph the getaway car and license plate, which was a real bonus. After they processed and cleared the scene the boy cops were on the hunt strapped in their car seats in Grandmas van.


Detective R.J. told us the victim said she heard the robbers say they were headed for a pink building in the woods so we looked around town for some place that fit the description. We settled on the Arboretum where we soon spotted the somewhat pink building. The detective boys asked a couple of girls playing Frisbee golf if they had seen any suspicious characters. They looked them up and down and smiled at their SWAT vests, helmets and toy guns and said “I think they went that way”.


We located and approached the suspect vehicle and confirmed the tag with the notes Detective R.J had written in his notebook and then spotted the bad guys eating cookies in a shelter house surrounded by woods. The scene was surveyed and an approach plan was hatched.


Detective Ivan and I quickly put a tree between us and the bandits and began our stalk while Detective R.J. and Grandma skirted around to the side. One of the bandits spotted us and shouted “It’s the Cops” and headed for the hills, right into the waiting arms of Detective R.J., who ordered him to his knees and slapped the plastic cuffs on him saying “You’re under arrest Daddy”. In the meantime Detective Ivan swooped in and secured the other bandit with “Stop right there Mommy”.


The bandits were escorted to the patrol vehicle and transported to jail, Grandma’s spare bedroom closet, while the Detectives munched on evidence. The culprits were soon afforded bond and released from jail to the waiting arms of their little Detectives, who immediately wanted to do it all over again.

Back in the day as a Sheriff's Department Detective one of my jobs was as a sniper. Now don't go getting excited, It never really amounted to much, thankfully. I spent a lot of time punching holes in paper and was called to a few situations which resulted in deployment and then peaceful surrender.

The most noteworthy call came one hot summer day from the local stockyards. The owner called the Sheriff's office to ask for a sharp shooter to cull a Black Angus bull that had gotten loose and was causing considerable trouble.

I happened to be close by and took the call. I soon found myself among some cowboys on horseback on the North edge of town. The story, as told to me went something like this. A very large and cantankerous Angus bull of about a thousand pounds had gotten loose from the stockyards and, after wooling a couple of cowboys and charging a horse or two had left the compound and headed southeast toward town.

The last report had him wandering the brush in a creek bottom with some cowboys in pursuit. I enlisted the aid of a local PD officer whom I trusted and asked him to bring along his shotgun loaded with slugs as backup. I uncased my trusty Ruger M77.308 complete with a Leupold 4-12 x 50 Vari x 3 scope and recoil arrester. I loaded up five Winchester Silvertip 165 grain boat tail rounds in the magazine and closed the bolt. It was time to go hunting.

We entered the brush, which was a forty or so acre creek bottom and very low flood plain area, undeveloped and unused. Visions of Capstick stalking African big game danced in my head as I moved forward at a slow pace, my trusty gun bearer trailing.

Now having never hunted anything larger than a Whitetail Deer and certainly nothing intent on doing me great bodily harm I couldn't help but recall the tails of the aforementioned Peter Hathaway Capstick. Capstick was a professional hunter in Zimbabwe back in the sixties and always recounted his adventures with precise detail. Usually with much flare and humor. He also told of the damage an angry Bovine could inflict on the human form if he so desired.

Now this was no Cape Buffalo we were hunting but I was not going to take any chances, I mean, after all how romantic would the story be of a cop being stomped by a cow up by Wal-Mart. Never the less I employed what stalking skills I had and finally located our quarry.

He stood at the edge of the creek breathing hard with his butt to the high bank. There were three cowboys sitting atop their horses a considerable distance west while we stalked in from the north. I whispered to Jon that I could see him and pointed him out. The brush was quite thick and it did take a bit of looking to make him out, but once we saw the whole of him he couldn't be missed.

The bull was standing his ground looking back and forth at us and the cowboys. I maneuvered to my left for a better shot and closed the distance to about thirty yards. This bull was actually pawing the ground and blowing snot with each breath. To say that he was somewhat perturbed would be an understatement. He continued watching us until we stopped, then one of the horses made that noise that horses make for which there is no real literary term, especially when it startles the bejeebers out of you. This was the break I was looking for. I took careful aim and settled the crosshairs on his massive neck, trying to calculate the distance between the bullet's path and the crosshairs in my scope so as not to muff it and BOOM. The rifle had no kick and I saw the animal drop like a bag of hammers.

A cowboy whooped and shouted good shot, while another replied "Well it was only thirty yards". Reality bites, and at the right time too. We approached the bull while the cowboys stayed where they were. I should have wondered why they did this but... I poked the bull with my gun barrel and determined he was dead. I then pulled a rookie mistake and sat atop the behemoth with his left foreleg sticking out from between my knees, sticking straight out between my knees mind you. With my rifle, fortunately in my left hand I smiled at Jon who smiled back and to this day I wonder if he saw it coming.

The old bull was hit through the neck and momentarily paralyzed. As I perched atop his mass of black hide and muscles he suddenly came to life and snorted a breath and kicked his two left legs, which if you will remember were sticking straight out and one of them between my knees. For a second I thought I was a goner but then my training kicked in and suddenly my .40 caliber Smith and Wesson was in my right hand and headed for the base of his brain. I don't know if it made contact before it went off or not but it did its job well and the beast went limp.

Suddenly I realized I was about ten feet away and looking at the bull from a different angle than before. The owner, standing up the hill on the road shouted at us asking what was going on. In true Capstick fashion I replied, "just paying the insurance".

We played cops and robbers the other day. My son set it up with his wife and included two of his three boys, ages four and two as the cops, (a two month old cop just wouldn’t work). The call came in about 1530 hours of an armed robbery of cookies at Sissy’s house.


We arrived at the scene with the boys dressed in their kaki’s and polo’s sporting badges and notepads. The victim was interviewed and foam dart bullets were seized as evidence. A description of the perps was taken down and footprints were photographed.


The victim managed to photograph the getaway car and license plate, which was a real bonus. After they processed and cleared the scene the boy cops were on the hunt strapped in their car seats in Grandmas van.


Detective R.J. told us the victim said she heard the robbers say they were headed for a pink building in the woods so we looked around town for some place that fit the description. We settled on the Arboretum where we soon spotted the somewhat pink building. The detective boys asked a couple of girls playing Frisbee golf if they had seen any suspicious characters. They looked them up and down and smiled at their SWAT vests, helmets and toy guns and said “I think they went that way”.


We located and approached the suspect vehicle and confirmed the tag with the notes Detective R.J had written in his notebook and then spotted the bad guys eating cookies in a shelter house surrounded by woods. The scene was surveyed and an approach plan was hatched.


Detective Ivan and I quickly put a tree between us and the bandits and began our stalk while Detective R.J. and Grandma skirted around to the side. One of the bandits spotted us and shouted “It’s the Cops” and headed for the hills, right into the waiting arms of Detective R.J., who ordered him to his knees and slapped the plastic cuffs on him saying “You’re under arrest Daddy”. In the meantime Detective Ivan swooped in and secured the other bandit with “Stop right there Mommy”.


The bandits were escorted to the patrol vehicle and transported to jail, Grandma’s spare bedroom closet, while the Detectives munched on evidence. The culprits were soon afforded bond and released from jail to the waiting arms of their little Detectives, who immediately wanted to do it all over again.

We played cops and robbers the other day. My son set it up with his wife and included two of his three boys, ages four and two as the cops, (a two month old cop just wouldn’t work). The call came in about 1530 hours of an armed robbery of cookies at Sissy’s house.


We arrived at the scene with the boys dressed in their kaki’s and polo’s sporting badges and notepads. The victim was interviewed and foam dart bullets were seized as evidence. A description of the perps was taken down and footprints were photographed.


The victim managed to photograph the getaway car and license plate, which was a real bonus. After they processed and cleared the scene the boy cops were on the hunt strapped in their car seats in Grandmas van.


Detective R.J. told us the victim said she heard the robbers say they were headed for a pink building in the woods so we looked around town for some place that fit the description. We settled on the Arboretum where we soon spotted the somewhat pink building. The detective boys asked a couple of girls playing Frisbee golf if they had seen any suspicious characters. They looked them up and down and smiled at their SWAT vests, helmets and toy guns and said “I think they went that way”.


We located and approached the suspect vehicle and confirmed the tag with the notes Detective R.J had written in his notebook and then spotted the bad guys eating cookies in a shelter house surrounded by woods. The scene was surveyed and an approach plan was hatched.


Detective Ivan and I quickly put a tree between us and the bandits and began our stalk while Detective R.J. and Grandma skirted around to the side. One of the bandits spotted us and shouted “It’s the Cops” and headed for the hills, right into the waiting arms of Detective R.J., who ordered him to his knees and slapped the plastic cuffs on him saying “You’re under arrest Daddy”. In the meantime Detective Ivan swooped in and secured the other bandit with “Stop right there Mommy”.


The bandits were escorted to the patrol vehicle and transported to jail, Grandma’s spare bedroom closet, while the Detectives munched on evidence. The culprits were soon afforded bond and released from jail to the waiting arms of their little Detectives, who immediately wanted to do it all over again.

This evening I had the chance to head to the creek. It is spring, despite what the weather seems to say about it and that means White Bass. (Sand Bass for those with an accent).

I arrived about two hours before dark thinking this water is too much like chocolate milk to catch fish, but fish have to eat so I stayed. I managed to catch about fifteen Whites before it got dark and, I had a good time doing it.

The real fun was in my head of course, remembering the times I brought my dad there and all the fish we caught together. I also thought about the times mom fried fish and Morels for lunch or made her delicious catfish gumbo for supper.

I heard a deer snort behind me. I knew what that was because my dad taught me to recognize the sound and imitate it myself. He could call crows with his voice, you know. A beaver slapped the water in front of me and I remembered the time late at night, us fishing the strip mine pits and I heard that noise for the first time and my dad had to show me what it was… and reassure me it wouldn’t get me.

There were Ducks on the creek tonight and Geese honking around the bend. Then about dark the owls began their chorus of “Who cooks for youuuuu” and that evil laugh they make. My boys used to listen with young wide eyes to the owls when we entered the woods before daylight on a deer hunt. I guess it sounds like a Sasquatch when one is ten years old…or fifty-three.

When I walked out of the woods tonight I thanked God for my family who taught me to pray, took me fishing and went fishing with me, taught me to survive in the woods, build a fire and eat something I found on the ground. You know… the important things in life.

I went to a funeral today. It was not a normal funeral as one would think of as normal but rather something like I had never experienced before. This man was a veteran of the Vietnam War. He was just ten years older than I and had passed away in a nursing home. I was there because a friend had invited me to come along and basically keep him company.
I obliged him and we met shortly before 9:00AM and headed for the Ft. Scott National Cemetery. If you’ve never been there, it is quite a place to see. Row upon row of white headstones just like on T.V. with meticulous care taken to make the grounds look just so. I had driven through the cemetery on a couple of occasions but never had a reason to be there before.
When we arrived we were met by a man who led us to the ceremony sight where eight VFW Honor Guardsmen stood at attention. We unloaded the casket, draped with a US flag and they escorted it to the proper place under the canopy.
Military rights were afforded, prayers were offered and a beautiful rendition of taps was played. Salutes were snapped at the proper time and the flag was properly folded and placed upon the casket.
I guess I haven’t told you that the people I’ve mentioned here were the only ones in attendance. This veteran had no family, no wife, no kids, no nieces or nephews. No close friends to come pay their respects. The national cemetery provided the plot and needed services upon proof of his being a veteran. The funeral home, knowing there would be no payment provided their services anyway because it was the right thing to do.
I did not know this man, I saw his name but did not recognize it but I was thinking the whole time how sad it was that this man died alone save a few acquaintances from the nursing home. I cannot imagine being that utterly alone and facing death here on earth. I’ll admit I shed a tear during taps as I stood with my hand over my heart and these old soldiers saluted with shaking hands genuinely sorry to see one of their own being buried in this lonely manner.
I played no part in this event, like I said I was just “along for the ride” but I am ever so much more honored to have had the opportunity to witness this military sendoff of a boots on the ground nature, if you will. I am also thankful that in this country fraught with so much turmoil there are still people willing to take time out of their busy lives to see to it that a soldier, whom nobody knew was given the proper honor and respect when he was laid to rest.
I am thankful for all the friends I have and especially for my family, without them I would not make it through my days here on earth. But mostly I am thankful for my God whose promise of eternal life would be enough for me had I been in this man’s situation. If you see an old soldier, be sure to tell him or her thanks. One never knows, that might be the last time they hear it.

My Dads Deer rifle was a Ruger RL in 257 Roberts. He accurized it himself and, boy could he drive tacks with it. Then one day he got the itch to improve it again. We took it to an old friend of his named Marion Reed who lived along Butler Creek near Bartlesville, Oklahoma, a gunsmith of no small talent. He had it a week and viola a 257 Ackley Improved. 117 grain bullets now flew at 3100 fps. He charged $100.00 because he had to make the cutting tools first.

Marion Reed did a lot of work for the late Frank Phillips and his son and at one time had an exhibit at the Woolaroc museum near Pawhuska, Oklahoma in his honor.

I was hunting with this rifle one day and I scanned the woods with the thought in the back of my mind that since it was near the end of deer season this place was hunted out. I managed to make it to the west side just before dark and low and behold...Deer. One, two, three...fourteen Deer, and a couple of them bucks, were just standing... in the middle of a cut field... 300 yards away... on property across the fence.

Hmmm... Think fast boy. I called the owner of the property I was hunting and asked for the number of his neighbor. Then I called him and told him I was looking over his fence at fourteen deer. He just simply asked “why don't you shoot one of them”. I'm pretty sure I said thanks before I hung up.

Taking a rest with Dads rifle over a post, I leveled down. Gloves, they get in my way. I usually don't wear them when I hunt but my left hand gets cold real fast anymore.

I bit my middle finger trying to pull the right one off, picked out the biggest Doe and... well, let's just say that Dad's old gun performed like he would have wanted it to.

A long shot is no big deal for an expert marksman, but I never claimed to be that and I guess it goes to show that an expert's gun can make anyone look good.

I looked skyward and thanked the Lord for a deer to eat, then said quietly, thanks Dad.

I went to a funeral today. It was not a normal funeral as one would think of as normal but rather something like I had never experienced before. This man was a veteran of the Vietnam War. He was just ten years older than I and had passed away in a nursing home. I was there because a friend had invited me to come along and basically keep him company.
I obliged him and we met shortly before 9:00AM and headed for the Ft. Scott National Cemetery. If you’ve never been there, it is quite a place to see. Row upon row of white headstones just like on T.V. with meticulous care taken to make the grounds look just so. I had driven through the cemetery on a couple of occasions but never had a reason to be there before.
When we arrived we were met by a man who led us to the ceremony sight where eight VFW Honor Guardsmen stood at attention. We unloaded the casket, draped with a US flag and they escorted it to the proper place under the canopy.
Military rights were afforded, prayers were offered and a beautiful rendition of taps was played. Salutes were snapped at the proper time and the flag was properly folded and placed upon the casket.
I guess I haven’t told you that the people I’ve mentioned here were the only ones in attendance. This veteran had no family, no wife, no kids, no nieces or nephews. No close friends to come pay their respects. The national cemetery provided the plot and needed services upon proof of his being a veteran. The funeral home, knowing there would be no payment provided their services anyway because it was the right thing to do.
I did not know this man, I saw his name but did not recognize it but I was thinking the whole time how sad it was that this man died alone save a few acquaintances from the nursing home. I cannot imagine being that utterly alone and facing death here on earth. I’ll admit I shed a tear during taps as I stood with my hand over my heart and these old soldiers saluted with shaking hands genuinely sorry to see one of their own being buried in this lonely manner.
I played no part in this event, like I said I was just “along for the ride” but I am ever so much more honored to have had the opportunity to witness this military sendoff of a boots on the ground nature, if you will. I am also thankful that in this country fraught with so much turmoil there are still people willing to take time out of their busy lives to see to it that a soldier, whom nobody knew was given the proper honor and respect when he was laid to rest.
I am thankful for all the friends I have and especially for my family, without them I would not make it through my days here on earth. But mostly I am thankful for my God whose promise of eternal life would be enough for me had I been in this man’s situation. If you see an old soldier, be sure to tell him or her thanks. One never knows, that might be the last time they hear it.