You never forget your first time

I thought I had run out of stories to write about dumb things I've done in the past or minor tragedies that happened simply because I was involved.  A short consultation with a few of my childhood and early adult friends proved that idea to be far from the truth.  After being reminded of many accounts of past blunderings, I believe I have enough raw data to last until May 4th, 2064.  I don't know where I'll be on that day, but I know I won't smell very good. 

For Ralph, the best hunting guide I've ever known.  

A huge rite of passage in our area, as well as most of rural America for a boy or girl is the bagging of their first buck deer.  Every story is unique and memorable. Mine was no exception.  

My father and I drove into the ranch owner’s yard early in the morning and met with Ralph while he was finishing chores.  He told us he knew where a deer was I might be interested in taking.  I didn't understand that because to be honest I wasn't picky about what deer I was trying to harvest.  One polished six inch antler would have been a victory for me.  We got into his pickup and he drove us out to the mammoth sized pasture he owns.  Though the ride was bumpy it was perfectly fine, due to the anticipation of what might happen during the hunt. 

I had been riding along during deer hunts with dad and my brother since I was in diapers.  I kind of knew what was going on, but this time it was my turn.  As we approached the first big draw, Ralph told me that the deer may be at the bottom so, “Be ready”.  They weren't.  They weren't over the next hill either.  I was beginning to wonder if he knew where this herd of deer actually were. 

We drove a bit further and he said, “Here, I'll show you an old deer hunting trick”  We began to peek over the edge of the hill and sure enough the small herd of mule deer were lounging out of the high wind near the bottom of the opposite hill-side.  Being an inexperienced hunter and a very experienced hyper-active child, every move I made for the next few moments were the opposite of what they should have been.   

The one buck deer in the herd stood out like a sore thumb.  It antlers stretched to the sky like a tree trying to reach the clouds.  Well, at least from a 13 year old boys perspective they did.  I threw open the door with a burst of adrenaline and started to bolt out of the truck.  The door bounced back at me with the help of the strong wind blowing from our front and nearly knocked me and my gun to the ground.  The deer all stood up looked at us as if to wonder what all the commotion was about.  I put my gun up and tried to get the big deer steady in my scope.  Nope, that wasn't going to happen.  I leaned against the open door to help steady the gun from my shaky hands and blowing gusts of winds.  The wind was moving the pickup a lot, so that wasn't going to work either.  I dropped to a prone position thinking that was the answer to this dilemma, but all I could see through the scope was grass.  I stood back up and my dad calmly said, “They aren't going to stand there forever, you know”  That's when I just shouldered the gun, noticed the deer happened to be in the scope and fired off a round to see what would happen. 

Judging distance has always been one of my strong points.  I am able to accurately tell the distance of almost anything by estimating how far I could throw a football, hit a golf ball or things of the like.  This deer was 770 yards or 120 yards depending on whom in the hunting party you tend to believe. 

When my eyes opened from flinching, the deer was on the ground motionless. I ran down the hill like my pants were on fire.  The few seconds it took to get there calls in question one person's estimated distance, but we'll get past that eventually.  

As I came to within a few feet of the downed animal, I noticed a trickle of blood between it's antlers.  My thought was that I had broken the skull and the antlers were going to be all floppy and unable to mount as a trophy.  They appeared to be in place, so I sat down my gun and grabbed both sides of the antlers to check their structural integrity.  After a gentle squeezing motion, I could tell they were fine.  But, it also told me the shot had only grazed him and knocked him out.  It wasn't until the deer began to stand up right underneath me that I figured that out.  This caused the quickest and most violent “horsey ride” I'd ever been involved in personally.  After thinking, “No time for that cowboy” in my mind, I crawled the short distance to my gun.  I figured it was better than standing up and taking a possible antler enema.  In the meantime dad and Ralph were watching the show from on top the hill and we're likely taking bets on the eventual outcome. 

Once I had my gun in hand, I spun around and located the deer just a few yards away slowly walking up the hill.  His obvious headache was impeding his escape.  Three more wild shots later, it was over.  I walked up to my prize and laid down my now empty weapon.   In the valley the wind wasn't blowing and things were calmer when Ralph and dad drove up to the scene.  I didn't know what to say or do and I'm sure dad was as speechless as I was.  

I'll never forget what Ralph said though.  With a partial smile and total honesty he said, “Now, that is the wildest thing this ol' boy has every seen, and I've seen a lot!”

From bad judgements, come great stories

I don't think it was bad judgement for my brother to sell me my first car when I was 15 for $200. I don't think it was bad judgement for me to buy the car for what seemed like a small amount of cash at the time. As an active 15 year old boy, I was positive my parents were not using bad judgement by allowing me to obtain a driving permit. However, I do think it was bad judgement for the Universe to allow the union of this particular car and me as a 15 year old boy  to happen.
Those of you who lived in my neighborhood or perhaps the entire town of Winner, may remember the 1972 Ford Galaxy 500 with a large V-8 engine sporting a rather open exhaust system that had a tendency to rattle windows from time to time as far away as Colome or Hamill.
The car sported beautiful maroon paint with a white vinyl top as well white vinyl seats and black carpet. Being a two door car it was tricky getting in and out of the back seat. My driving skills, as well as social skills were such that there was not a long list of people clamoring to get in the back, so it wasn't much of an issue.
The car ran well, looked OK and sounded mean. The 8-track player was "iffy", but seemed to work more often than not. I'm not sure a boy could ask for anything more, except gas money. Cooking part-time at a local burger joint provided all the gas money I could burn up. We used to be able to know exactly how many "U's" we could flip in one evening on exactly $10 of gas, assuming we didn't get side-tracked and end up at Goat-man bridge or something, but I digress.
My friends and I drove this beast around the town so much that first couple months, we even discovered if you drove two miles per hour below the speed limit that you would hit the stop light perfectly going both east and west, putting the nose of the car at the edge of the intersection at the exact time the light turned green without letting off on the gas or applying the brakes. It drove other passengers, drivers and a cop or two nuts. Oh we thought we were the funniest guys in town pulling off stunts like that, but I'm guessing it was ONLY us that thought that way.
My sister had a nick-name for the car. She called it "The Shark" It was right after the movie "Jaws" came out and the car did have a small unexplained deformation in the left front fender that actually resembled a shark's tooth. That physical attribute and the fact the car never seemed to stop moving as if in a territorial prowl for victims made the nick-name suitable, I guess.
One day, The Shark's carpet needed vacuumed before the evenings activities. I turned on to the highway by my house from the alley. The previous night's rain provided a little mud-hole in that alley.  That's where my back tire picked up some chunks of sticky gumbo. I had put my two quarters for the public vacuum machine on the transmission hump of the floor of the car. Once the car was straight on highway, I heard and felt clumps of mud and goo knocking around the tire and wheel-well. That's when I decided to stomp on the accelerator (bad judgment one). I figured the big V-8 motor would break the tires traction and spin off the excess mud on the tire. That activity caused the quarters to fall off the transmission hump on the passenger side floor. I'm sure they were safe there, but I reached across and down to pick them up immediately (bad judgement two). The stretching and torquing of my body caused my foot to press down on the gas pedal even further.
I grasped the coins and sat up in my seat just in time to see the back end of a giant white Buick Electra 225. The 225 means "225 inches long". That's 18 and 3/4 feet of iron stopped in the highway waiting to turn in to the Dairy Queen when The Shark attacked it from behind. I've never heard a sound like that nor have been tossed about inside a car like that, except for one time when I called a girl the wrong name. When the smoke cleared and the cars had come to rest, The Shark was missing its nose and bottom jaw. The giant buick looked like a white turkey with its tail in the air. Nobody was injured and a small traffic citation was issued to the other driver for the infraction of "Driving in Front of an Idiot" Atleast, that's the way I remember it.