For the 29th Time...

Dear Dad,

                In 1982 you took my mother out on a date and you allowed a fat two year old to tag along.

                In 1983 you gave me a new last name, even though no one pronounces it correctly it is incredibly easy to spell, so kindergarten would be that much easier.  Thank you.

                In 1984 you gave me my first Spaghetti-O’s with meat balls.  I thought it was poop in the bowl. I still don’t like meatballs, much to my wife’s frustration.  You also gave me a little brother that year.  He would become my sparring partner, my best friend and my worst enemy.

                In 1985 you taught me how to ride a bike, and as if that wasn’t enough you also taught me to catch a Frisbee with my face.

                In 1986 I rode my bicycle directly into the side of your vehicle.  I remind you that you trained me.  You didn’t get too mad though.  After all this was only the first time I broke one of your cars.

               In 1987 you began making me pick up the monstrous large piles of dog poop in our yard.  I still do not like meatballs.

               In 1988 you taught me a few jokes that mothers might not approve of.  I would say you birthed my sense of humor.  Many people today hold you responsible.  You also made the mistake of sharing with me the rebel rock music of the 60’s and the 70’s.  I am sure the resulting attitude of my teen years was not your intention, but there you go, it’s your fault.

               In 1989 you gave me the responsibility of walking my little brother to school.  He does not become my best friend for some years yet.  We were at the time of course sworn enemies, so thanks for that.

               In 1990 you allowed me to have a paper route, and then you didn’t allow me to quit the first Sunday I had to get up at 6 am.  Thanks for the work ethic.

              In 1991 you let me take martial arts classes.  I used this of course to deter my brother from being a pain in the butt.  It did not work however.  I give you credit though for trying.

              In 1992 you evened the playing field by sending my brother for martial arts lessons.  Then you sent our mother so that she would be better equipped to separate the two of us.  As an adult and a studier of men, I now realize this was just a ploy to earn you more napping time.

             In 1993 you gave me a little sister.  Almost immediately she pooped all over me.  I will never eat a meatball.  Thank you.

             In 1994 I snapped the tree off the steering column of your car.  I understand it was quite expensive to fix.  You didn’t get too mad.  It was only the second car I broke.  You cut all my hair off that year too.  Thanks.

             In 1995 you never once embarrassed me in front of a girl, even though you promised to every day that year.

             In 1996 you bailed me out….sorry.  Oh yeah I also ruined the clutch in your car that year.  I believe it upset you a bit that time.  It’s not your fault, the third time is the charm after all.

             In 1997 you helped me buy my first car.  To my utter disappointment you also taught me the difference between a Pontiac Firebird and a Pontiac Sunbird.  It was still a wonderful car, and to this day remains my favorite.

             In 1998 you turned me loose on the world.  We said our goodbyes and you did a good job of not scowling at the hole I called my first apartment.

             In 1999 you moved away to Phoenix, Arizona. I stayed in Missouri and began my quest to spread your noble name.  I was having fun practicing for this task.

             In 2000 I succeeded in letting the world know how old you are by bestowing the title of Grandpa upon you.  I also married that year.

             In 2001 you met your grandson and shared in the joy with me.  You taught me the true value of a nap.  A value I have not been blessed with for some time now.  I am enrolling my family in martial arts this year.  Thanks.

             In 2002 my house was hit by a tornado.  You instilled me with calm and assured me that all was not lost.  Turns out you were right. (Rainbows are round though.)

             In 2003 I began what would inevitably become a divorce.  You assured me that there is nothing wrong with a practice marriage.  You pointed out in all your wisdom that greater men than I had trod that path.

             In 2004 I met the woman who would become my second wife.  Yes it was quick work, and while I would like to credit you with the genetic passing on of my good looks, I am afraid that has to all go to my mother.  You did give me the spirit that won the girl though. Sorry and Thanks.

             In 2005 I remarried and introduced you to my wife.  After our 3 day visit you declared her a mute, and I cannot blame you.  Although I assure you she talks as much as any woman we have ever met.  I believe that in your presence many young people find themselves speechless.  Take it how you will.

             In 2006 I gave you a granddaughter.  I know you were pleased.  Pleased to have a granddaughter and pleased that I would now suffer the burden of raising two children.

             In 2007 I bought my first home.  It still needs a lot of work.  I remember how good you are with tools, so I will take this opportunity to thank you for not helping.


              In 2008 I gave you your 3^rd grandchild. Another boy, to carry on the mispronounced name of Hise.  I had finally fully inherited the curse to be as burdened as you were with children.  Thank goodness I had such a great teacher.  Both my boys pick up the dog leavings.

               In 2009 I surpassed your burden and had a fourth child.  Another boy.  I am sure you are still laughing.


               In 2010 I turned 30.  It’s amazing how old you must be!

               Well Father it is 2011 and for the 29^th time I bid you a HAPPY FATHERS DAY!  You sir, are indeed ‘THE MAN!’

                                  Love,
                                           Your truly grateful and sarcastic son.

The One that Got Away

Dear Dad,

               The other day I found out that I would have to leave the state an entire month for work. It’s all part of the job so it doesn’t usually bother me, but this month happens to be snagging season. Not just snagging season but the first season I have participated in. I promised myself that I was going to catch a spoonbill this year and now with thirty days left in the season I only have one last opportunity. I got up this morning at five a.m. At five p.m. I was driving three hundred miles to my hotel room in Indiana. I knew this would prove to be a long day. I woke up my oldest son and we crept out of the still sleeping house. I knew that my wife would understand and I promised myself I would be back by eleven to spend time with her and my other three children. She had seen the gleam in my eye when my friend called and offered to get me out on the river one last time, she knew there would be no stopping me.

               My boy and I arrived at the river at 6 sharp. The sun was still down and it promised to be a nice morning. My buddy pulled up with his boat and away we went. I have spoken to you before about snagging. It is an interesting way to fish. Basically you just jerk incredibly large treble hooks through the water and hope for the best. You cannot catch a spoonbill paddlefish any other way. We did have a fish/depth finder so that gave us some idea of where to cast.

               Two hours into the adventure nary a bite (it’s still referred to as a bite, I don’t know why) had come our way. My son was starting to grumble of boredom and my nerves were a little frazzled. This was my last chance and I had bragged to so many people that I would land a monster. My friend suddenly perked us all up by shouting out that he had a fish on. Quickly I reeled in my line and passed my rod to my son. When the fish surfaced the first time, the clouds parted and a ray of sunshine descended upon our little boat.

                “It’s a spoonie!” came the yell, echoing across the water. We got it reeled into the boat, my jealousy subsided a little bit though as we put the tape measure to it. From the eye to the fork of the tail, this fish was only 22 inches long. That’s two inches too short. Bear in mind that a twenty two inch fish is still pretty big when compared to most freshwater fish that anglers keep. So in my mind even though we had to throw it back it was still pretty exciting. We decided to take a picture of it. I handed the fish to my ten year old son. I figured it would look bigger with him holding it, and I knew that his boredom would be almost permanently cured. Sure enough he was all smiles as he turned it loose.

               Now I had proof that these monsters of the deep were indeed lurking in my river, and with renewed vigor I cast back out. Perched up high in a rotating pedestal chair, freshly rewarded with evidence of fish, my deep sea rod held in my hands a bit of song escaped my lips. “Farewell and adieu to you fair Spanish ladies…“

               As we slowly worked our way closer to our starting point I finally received a thrilling tingle. It started somewhere in the deep and crept up my one hundred pound test line and vibrated down the fishing rod through my fingertips finally reverberating somewhere in the center of my brain. Without thinking I set the hook. Immediately the rod jumped in my hands three or four times.

               “FISH ON!” I yelled. I began reeling at a frantic pace. The line was dragging out as fast as I was reeling and the result was comical. In my head I envisioned smoke drifting out of the reel. Thoughts of Ahab and Captain Quint raced through my mind. I adjusted the drag and leaned back against the pull on the rod. Suddenly I was nearly ejected from my seat. It was if my line had suddenly become snagged on a submerged log or rock. For a fleeting moment I believed it. There was just no give at all.

                My friend laughed and said, “you’re snagged dude.”

                “No, It’s a fish!” I cried.

                Still chuckling, he replied “are you sure?”

                 I leaned back against the rod again. It bent to the near breaking point. Twenty yards off the bow of the boat a huge paddlefish surfaced.

                 “One hundred percent sure!” I shouted.

                 My friends jaw dropped and my son stood up in the boat craning his neck to get a better view. We could all tell this one was going to be big. The beast had rolled and my line was wrapped about it’s body several times. I was now dragging it against the current sideways accounting for the sudden difficulty. It was no snag. IT WAS A MONSTER. Finally we got it into the boat. I was shaking from the excitement and physical exertion. My cheeks hurt from smiling so big. I don’t believe that I have ever smiled that big. My heart was pounding in my chest. It was enthralling. We didn’t even bother with the measuring and weighing. I just hoisted it up and had the picture taken. We tied it up and I secured a knot around the pedestal chair on the bow. We slid the fish into the water and turned the boat around to see if there were more monsters lurking in the same spot.

                  As my friend piloted his vessel I leaned over the side and snapped another picture of the fish in the water. I planned on taking many more photos. As I was putting my phone back into it’s holster the fish began to roll head over tail. Right as I was looking, disaster struck. I don’t know if the animals flesh gave way or if the line stretched in the water and slipped through the snap hook. The spoonbill broke free of it’s tether and disappeared in a final ripple and tail slap. The line floated in the water unbroken. Before either my son or my friend even knew it happened they heard the noise of anguish. No swears, no tears no blaming, just a long guttural howl emerged the bowels of my throat.

                 “NNNNOOOOOO0000000oooooooooo…..”

                 Birds lifted in mass from their roosts, taking to the skies. The wind picked up and the waves lashed out at the boat. The sky grew dark and in the distance thunder clapped. My knuckles grew white as I gripped the side of the boat trying to comprehend what had just happened. These are the lessons we learn. I have had a lot of fun telling this story and the best parts of fishing are the catch, the fight and the photos. Still no spoonbill in the frying pan this year. Am I THE MAN, I believe so. I had the most invigorating fishing trip of my life. I left town for a month, but I left my oldest son with a smile on his face. I have a picture that I fully intend to frame, and there is always next year my friend.

                 Love,

                          Your traveling, nautical angling son.

Early Bird My Foot!

Dear Dad,

               You know how I know that spring is here?  It’s the trail of ants in my kitchen.  I came home from work today and my wife informed me that we have ants.  We get them every year.  I spray the perimeter of the house with a mild insecticide and the problem goes away.  It’s easy but tedious work that always turns into a day of honey-do’s.

                Today was my birthday though, and I didn’t want to work so I told the missus what I always tell her.  “Honey, I’ll take care of it on the very next nice weekend.”  I of course was referring to the weather, and since it snowed today, I figured I had bought myself some time.  The problem is I used this same excuse at least twenty times this winter.  The list of things I am going to have to do on the next sunny Saturday is getting pretty extensive.  I sat down and began devising a plan to further avoid all this work.

                Don’t get me wrong I love plying the handyman trade all around the house.  All men do, but we like to do it on our own terms.  Men don’t work well with deadlines.  I like to just wake up one day and decide, TODAY I AM GOING TO CLEAN THE GUTTERS.  When it’s my idea I have fun doing it.  Don’t believe me?  Think about it.  I get to climb on the roof, get dirty, live dangerously, and of course I have a high pressure water sprayer.  It has so much power that last year I had to replace a small section of gutter.  It was AWESOME.

               As I sat pondering this dilemma my eyes fell upon an old ‘Bass Pro’ catalog.  Quickly becoming distracted by the colorful lures and deer antler shaped furniture I drifted to sleep.  Two things occurred to me in my sleep.  The first is that I am finally old enough to enjoy an afternoon nap with out being hung over and the second thing was the simple solution to my problem.  As it turns out I realized that all men have this exact same problem and invented the fix for it years ago. 

               Fish bite ALL DAY long.  They bite all night long too.  All men know this, it’s why fishing trips last so long.  No self respecting man gives up fishing at ten in the morning because it’s not early anymore.  Hundreds of years ago, retired men working Saturdays in their wives’ flower gardens got together and created the legend - “The early bird gets the worm.”  They used this slogan to dupe women into thinking that if their husbands didn’t leave at the crack of dawn then the fishing trip would be ruined.  It’s perfect!  Why it works I don’t understand.  Birds eat worms all day long, and the word fish isn’t in the saying at all.  I guess older generations were smarter, because those guys made it work.  All winter long we promise to fix the chain link fence and spread the mulch.  We say we’ll spray for pests and do the spring garage cleaning, and we say we’ll do all these things on the first nice weekends.  Women are natural caretakers so they don’t really want us out in crappy weather anyway.  The ruse works.  Then on that fateful sunny Saturday, husbands everywhere slip out of the house before the sun (and the wife) comes up.

                Sorry dear, the early bird gets the worm, and then we don’t come back until dinner.  After dinner it’s dark.  Can’t work in the dark.  Sunday is church, brunch and visit the in-laws.  Thank you old men from history for being so dang smart.  Last weekend I actually spent a partly sunny day organizing my fishing gear and building a rack for my rods and reels.  I was way too busy doing that to get out and do any other work.  Now I am fully prepared to get on with some procrastination and avoidance.

               Dad, you might want to kill me for putting our secrets in print but the message to get across here is this.  Ladies need to let us think the work is our Idea and not only will it get done faster but we’ll have fun doing it.  Oh sure there will be the occasional emergency room trip caused by some over zealous power tool usage but the work will get done.  Don’t assign us work because we are way to good at avoiding it.  We will create a story so powerful it becomes a saying that stands the test of time.  WE ARE THE MEN!!
Early bird my foot, come on!  You actually bought that crap!  Now don’t go getting righteous on us ladies, I believe there is another saying about getting to the retail outlet store early also, because all the good deals will be gone.  Come on!  We’ve been in retail clothing stores.  They have four thousand of each shirt, skirt and flowered flip flop on the racks plus extras stored in the back.  Tit for tat.

               Now while I don’t mind ruining lies for you, I would appreciate it if my wife never read this letter.  I really do have some fishing to do.  Thanks.

               Love,
                        Your scheming low down sneaky son.

A Tale of Two Grills

Dear Dad,

                March is here and we have had our first week in the seventy to eighty degree range.  My wife has begun to drop hints about barbecuing, and she is making promises to the kids.  I am probably going to grill some burgers and dogs tomorrow night, just to break in the grill after it’s long winters nap.  In preparation I’ll have to clean the grill inside and out, check and probably replace the propane tank.  All this work for hotdogs and cheeseburgers seems a little crazy and uncharacteristic for me but I like to give my grill a little spring training every year.  You can’t expect your grill to wake up and just knock a brat or steak out of the park, you have to coach it a little.  Send it back to the minors for a day and let it work out any issues it may have.

                All types of grills have their shortcomings and a lot of people scoff at the propane grill calling them less manly and complaining that they can taste the propane.  These same people use microwaves all winter long, so they’re pretty much full of crap.  Besides the charcoal grill is a single mans tool specifically designed to entertain the ladies.  Oh yes, that’s what I said!  Entertain the Ladies.  First the young buck invites them over.  He reduces the standard female inhibitions with alcohol, he arranges the briquettes showing her that he could have been an engineer if he wanted to.  He lights the fire with a match, maybe singeing the hairs on the back of his hand and earning sympathy and hopefully some nursing as well.  Now he gets a half hour of guaranteed time she has to spend with him.  That’s thirty minutes of beer drinking and chit chat all aimed at one goal.  Then he gets to dazzle her with his culinary skills and feed her as she has never been fed before.  If he’s smart he ensures the coals stay hot by adding some more right after the food is done.  This way when dinner is over he can roast her a marshmallow over the white coals and make her a smore.  (That is a freebie for all you youngin’s taking notes.)  Ah yes the charcoal grill is an excellent tool not to be underestimated by young men or for that matter by the young ladies.

                 After marriage and children (4 in my case) a man is in a hurry when cooking out.  First you have to do the dogs for the children.  Then the real food for the adults.  There is more food to make so you need a larger grill.  It doesn’t work to use a charcoal grill to try and hide outside and avoid household chores.  A wife is smarter than that and she just sends the children out to play.  She sticks her head out the door and casually says something like ‘honey keep an eye on them while your staring at those coals.’  Listen close enough after the door shuts and you can hear her laughing softly as she slides into a fresh drawn bubble bath.

                 Needless to say ‘THE MAN’ cannot be fooled.  I purchased a large propane grill several years ago.  Now I produce barbecued animal flesh at an assembly line speed.  I’ve always maintained that married men strive to do everything (except one thing) as fast as humanly possible.  It’s an excellent grill, and if you use sauces and seasonings and good meat then that is what you will taste.  I recommend hickory.  If you're tasting propane then either you're doing something wrong or you need to see a doctor about your mutated taste buds.

                All this barbeque talk reminds me of an incident early in my marriage.  I always used the same Webber grill and employed all the tactics previously mentioned.  Those tactics will work on a wife too if you're still newly weds with one child or less, and you replace the beer with margaritas.  You need a little more kick now, because she knows that if you get what your wanting, she might have to go through labor again.  I picked up a travel size mini grill for free at a garage sale one day while I was on my way home.  When I got home it was a pleasant enough day, so I figured I would use it instead of my classic Webber.  I set it down on the deck and loaded and lit the coals.  I wondered why it wouldn’t come with legs.  Seemed to me that you wouldn’t want to set a grill on a plastic deck table.  I just assumed that the mini grill was manufactured not to conduct heat to the lip the grill’s bowl rested on.  I walked away from it and went inside to my television.  I’ve been married too long to employ the chit chat tactic and I was out of margarita mix.  Ten minutes later my wife came running into the room telling me the deck was on fire.  I rushed outside and picked up the mini fire starter from hell.  I set it on top of my Webber grill and turned to stare at the perfect sphere of scorched deck where the travel p.o.s. had been sitting moments before.  I started swearing and grumbling, I blamed the manufacturer for not putting a larger lip around the bottom of the stupid thing.  I yelled out to the heavens “No wonder it was FREE!”  I shouted to my wife “There should be legs or something on this dang thing!”  Later that night after we ate and the stupid defective grill had cooled down, I carried it down to the trash.  I was even more upset when I noticed that because I had set it on top of the Webber, I also melted the plastic knob of my only other grill.  I felt the same way about that Webber grill as Tom Hanks felt about his volley ball.

                 “WEBBER!!!”

                 As I turned away from my trashcan to head back inside I saw the underside of the nemesis grill.

               There folded inwards, were three extendable legs.

               It’s been years and my wife won’t let me forget about it, neither will the deck.  It reminds me every summer day by winking a giant perfectly spherical black eye at me. 

               It’s OK though, my sweet wife has given me permission to build a new, larger deck as soon as I can afford it.  What she doesn’t know are my plans to drop a hot tub into the middle of the new deck.  Oh yeah!  Who needs tactics when you’ve got a hot tub.  I’ll get to spend hours in hardware stores.  I’ll get to buy new tools and spend half a summer stretching that project out.  No diaper changing, no ‘honey do’ list. Just me, a hammer and my deck.  I also got to purchase my new baby, the propane giant that’s been feeding us for years now.  I can’t wait to attack my wife’s defenses with evenings spent in a hot tub.  So as you can see, even when I am not the smartest man, I AM STILL THE MAN!  Guys need to remember to turn their dumbest mistakes into the greatest of victories.  Also keep several fire extinguishers in the house.

                 Love,
                          Your singed & smoky, super crafty son.

Snagging the West

Dear Dad,

               I would like to break from tradition and talk about something a little broader than just my family and my successes in the realm of manhood.  I have an annual tradition coming up that is as important to me as opening day of deer season is to a hunter.  You know of course that I love to fish and I live very close to the Ozarks.  The Ozarks are a hilly place surrounded in mist.  ‘The Waltons’ lived there I think.  Nowadays the Ozarks are full of boozed up college kids and party yachts.  Fifty year old divorced men from Chicago with too much money, pounding down Busch beer and filling my lake with urine.  Still on the quiet side of the lake and on down past the damn in the rivers, we MEN gather to forage for food and entertainment.  There around the bend pointed south you will find me ‘THE MAN’ searching for the elusive.  I am of course talking about the great Spoonbill spring spawning.  Trout fishing is for weenies and city slickers.  If the fish doesn't weigh more than my children I’m throwing it back.  Snagging is what my friends and I do.  What is snagging you ask?  Let me explain.

               Missouri is a state populated primarily by the great-great-great grandchildren of lazy frontiersman. Few people can admit this, but it is wholly true.  A lot of people will talk about the outlaws that ran amuck around the state.  They will claim to be the descendants of Jesse James or Coleman Younger.  They will tell you that while he shot up New Mexico, Billy the kid spent his childhood in Missouri.  They will point out that Wyatt Earp grew up in Missouri and The Clantons he shot also were from Missouri.  They shout about Bonnie and Clyde and the hills that sheltered Ma and Pa Barker, Pretty Boy Floyd and Dillinger.  Well that is but a small percentage of the population, I assure you.  Most Missourians are far too lazy for bank robbing and such.  That is a lot of work. Let me tell you how Missouri actually came to be.  In the days of exploration and westward settlement, St. Louis was the ‘Gateway to the West.’  Settlers would travel by train to this burgeoning city and purchase the needed supplies to mount their expeditions.  From there they would set off across the Great Plains in search of the perfect piece of land.  They wanted nice flat land with black soil and plenty of clear water.  They searched for the blue skies and purple mountains majestic they sang about back east.  They wanted to toil and work and build their futures with their own two hands; or with the hands of their children who were building character.

               The people who settled the town I live in drove their wagons a mere one hundred and fifty miles. The land was hilly, but they were tired.  There was only an inch of red clay atop hard limestone, but their feet were already sore.  The water was muddy and brown and dangerously fast and large bodied, it tasted like limestone, but the sky was growing dark.  The weather changed every day and the only native wildlife were squirrels, opossum and raccoon.  Still they thought it tasted good with enough salt.  Salt they had plenty of, so they stopped forward progress, and declared themselves westerners.  One man made it an extra twenty miles and named his town California.  As if that would fool anyone.  I figure this is my ancestor.

               We hail from the ‘Show Me State.’ People always ask me what that means, they think it means that Missourians need proof of a thing before they will believe it.  That’s not true.  We believed we were in the wild west and there was irrefutable evidence against that position.  ‘Show Me’ means show me an easier way to do what those other states are doing.  We’re great at it.  Missouri, the land where the mobile home was born.  The beginning of moonshine and hillbillies.  The state where goats have almost completely replaced the lawnmower.  The land of the free, the home of fish that are caught with ease and eaten in great quantity.  I love it here.  I may never leave.

               Missourians have a rich and proud heritage of being lazy.  That is why we invented all these new ways to fish. We cast aside our fly rods and throw nets. Soon rods and reels too went away.  Even regular cat fishing became too tiresome, I mean you have to watch the tip of that rod all night long.  It’s exhausting! Jugging, Trot lines, limb lines and outright arm noodling replaced sportsmanlike fishing in this fine state. I love it!  There is nothing better than setting your lines or floating some jugs, taking a nap and then crossing your fingers and seeing what you've got.

               Now it is snagging season, it is time for me to get prepared. To snag the spoonbill or ‘paddlefish’ we still need rods and reels. We use very heavy rods rigged with salt water sized reels and tackle. We attach a large weight on the end of the line. Three giant treble hooks are spaced apart on the line behind the weight. Next, like police searching for a body in the river the lines are cast out from a boat and said boat is driven at three to five miles per hour. The forward motion of the boat pulls the lines trailing behind it off the river bottom. The cow like fish that hover in mid water eating plankton become ’snagged’ in the hooks and line. These poor fish don’t even have to be enticed to swallow bait. Oh sure every now and then you have to recast and the line is heavy. The lines will get caught on underwater obstacles and that is a hassle. If you do get a fish they are very hard to bring in weighing between thirty and one hundred and twenty pounds. It’s impossible to get rid of all the difficulties. Primarily though you just tool back and forth along the river or lake at a leisurely pace. It’s so easy it should be Illegal. Maybe we are outlaws but if so we are lazy ones. The season opened on the fifteenth and I am itching to get out there. Spoonbill is a delightfully good tasting white fish that goes great with batter and a deep fryer, (goes pretty good with beer too.) Wish me luck.

               Love,
                        Your lazy countrified outlaw son.

NAVY MAN

Dear Dad,

               Your two boys are all grown up now. Two men spending their time doing manly things. There is a difference though between the family mans’ and the unhitched military mans’ activities. These differences slapped me in the face when my little brother came to visit me this past week. I had an assortment of things planned to occupy our time. We went to the shooting range, we went fishing on the second largest river in the country, we even visited the hardware store. Of course that last one was because my wife also had an assortment of things planned to occupy our time. Her list greatly resembled the list of things around the house I haven’t yet fixed. My brother also wanted us to devote some time to our favorite video games and a strategic ‘World War 2’ board game. He also wanted to get out and visit a bar, like he said ‘He’s’ still single. I had four days to make all these things happen.

               We went to the shooting range first. He had just gotten a new pistol and he wanted me to shoot it. I set him up with my favorite exercise. Three shots from three yards, three from seven, three from fifteen, and a final shot from twenty five yards out. It’s a great exercise for scoring targets and improving your ability. We both went through it once with our .40 caliber pistols. I walked towards the targets to see how we did. I hit seven out of ten. That’s not bad, that means I missed two at fifteen yards and the one at twenty five. Oh well, it was just the first set. I looked at my brothers target. There was only one hole in it. That means he missed twice at three yards. Ouch. I figured pistol marksmanship must not be too important in the Navy. He must have known what the results would be because he shuffled towards me with a sheepish grin on his face.

               ‘I think there is something wrong with the sights’ he said. I looked at him a little sideways, a different kind of grin on my face.

               ‘Let me see that thing’ I half laughed it and half growled. I feigned disgust as I snatched it out of his hands. I raised his gun and stepped towards a beer can on the ground. Yes, as unsafe as it sounds there are always beer cans on the ground at the gun range. It’s alright to have a drink at the range, just watch out for a man saying, ’Hey you guys watch this!’ If that happens set your beers down and leave. I loaded five rounds into the clip and let them chew on the beer can. When I was done there was just one gigantic hole in the top half of the can. Four out of five of my rounds hit the can in the exact same place. I AM THE MAN. I handed the gun back to my kid brother.

               ‘Seems to be OK to me.’ The smile on my face couldn’t have gotten any larger. It was a delicious moment and I let the sarcasm drip from my words. My brother is a man though and he took it in stride. I gave him some pointers I inherited from my friends and soon he was hitting the target as often as myself.

              We went fishing in my friends boat later that week. My brother learned what ‘jugging’ was. We taught him one of the laziest fishing methods there is. We tied lines to empty two liter bottles. Hooked them, baited them and sent them floating down the river, we floated after them nursing beers and soaking up the quiet. The way jugging works is simple. The line ties around the neck of the liter bottle or ‘jug’ and when you get a bite, the jug stands straight up and down in the water. Then you just motor over to it and pick it up. At one point in our river trip we stopped to bank the boat. A line was tossed to my brother so that he could tie the boat up. He hesitated and asked me how to tie it off.

               ‘Aren’t you in the Navy?’ I said.

               ‘Yes, but it isn’t my job to tie off the carrier.’ He made a good point. He was always quick witted and even I laughed out loud at that one. So I showed my Navy war veteran brother how to tie a bowline knot. Despite his witty retort, I thoroughly enjoyed every second of tying and retying that knot.
                He whipped me pretty bad those evenings back at home at the video and board games, I have come to realize that I am not as hip to those things as I once was. He drank his beers faster than I did too. The next day I had to go to the hardware store. Things were broken and the Missus wasn‘t having it. The front door wasn’t locking. I had to get a part for it. I already knew how to fix it and what I needed. She wanted me to get a new dead bolt for the door too, but I told her I couldn’t do that until I got a new router and routers are expensive. My wife conceded, and I grabbed my brother and we went to the store. While I was there I looked at some deadbolts and chains and such, but I didn’t see any that I wouldn’t need a router or at least a special bit kit to install. I bought the part I needed and headed home. When we got back my brother told my wife that I almost got her what she wanted but I changed my mind. He thought he was doing me a favor letting her know that what she wanted was on my mind. I saw the frown on her face though. I pulled my brother aside. I had to explain to him that you don’t tell a woman about the gifts you didn’t get her. That just makes her think about it. She’d already forgotten about it. I was in the clear. What a goof ball move. I shook my head, he’s got a lot to learn.

               I’ve been picking on my brother a lot in this letter but there is one more thing that happened. Everywhere we went, women behaved weird around my brother. I couldn’t put my finger on it until one day we made five stops and at each store there was a woman behind the counter. They were flirting with him. It’s been so long since I have seen flirting, I actually thought they were being rude or something. They were out of their minds with the need to get his attention. I thought it was amazing. We look alike, we sound alike, why the hell weren’t they flirting with me. The answer came to me in Wal-mart. We were walking down a main aisle when a young lady stepped from between two displays and slammed right into my brother. In keeping himself from falling down his hand landed on her shoulder, or from my angle her right breast. Whatever though, he says shoulder so I’ll say shoulder. Now most men would auto react with an ‘excuse me ma’am’ or ‘I’m sorry’ or just an ‘oops’ and move on. My brothers automatic, instinctual and immediate reaction was to say… ‘How you doin‘?’ WOW! Well that explains it. It’s the ’Kavorka.’ Pure animal magnetism. ’Kramer’ from ’Seinfeld’ , ‘Joey’ from ‘Friends’ and My Brother. Long story short, while we may be different kinds of men, My brother is definitely also THE MAN.

               Love ,
                         Your hip shooting, lazy fishing, less appealing son.


               P.S.     My wife read this and decided that from this point forward my
                           Brother and I cannot go out unless a female chaperone joins us. 
                           Being THE MAN is tough.

              .

Moving Buddies

Dear Dad,

               One beautiful Sunday the sky was a cloudless blue. The birds were singing and I’ll bet the fish were biting. There was even a gun show in town I was thinking on looking into. The temperature was a perfect seventy degrees, and I had nothing on the immediate ‘honey-do‘ list. So naturally when my buddy called to tell me he was moving I decided to give up my day and help him out.

               I agreed to meet my friend at his house at one o’clock in the afternoon. I got to spend a good portion of the morning moving all my work gear out of my truck and stacking it up in the driveway. I had my ten year old son meet me at the truck. I thought this would be a good character building experience for him. Boys need to learn to work and it seems to me that sweat is the only character building tool in a fathers repertoire. Every now and then you have to make your kids do stuff they don’t want to do, isn’t that right Dad?

              We got to my friends house right on time. The street was a parking lot of suckered men with pickup trucks. All of us marveling at the fact that this was the first nice weekend day of the year and we were going to work instead of play. After the ceremonious milling about and joke telling it was time to get down to it. There were supposed to be four trucks there, we only had three. Someone was probably attending my gun show, or catching my record winning fish.

               The very first thing we had to move was a couch and loveseat combo. Right away we discovered they didn’t fit through the door. Now I am an expert furniture manipulator so I took charge and we turned and twisted that couch every which way possible. Finally I decided to remove the door. After making that decision My buddy said something like, “Yeah, that’s what we had to do to get it in here.“ I was about to hit him a good one upside the head when I saw him fumbling with a small screwdriver. He had already started working on the first hinge. Quickly I went to my truck and grabbed an 18.8 volt cordless drill. It’s difficult to always have the right tool at home and on the road, but I work hard to be prepared. So in my truck is a drill with 3 batteries and a charger.  I strode onto the front porch, my drill resting in it’s patent leather holster on my hip.  Neighbors and local shopkeepers rushed to get indoors as I lightly fingered the handle. An array of bits dangling from my left hand sparkled in the sunlight.  The high afternoon sun cast my shadow over the door. The wind whistled through the trees and my friend feeling the eclipse of manhood, turned and cowered before Craftsmen engineering and glory. I asked him to put his ‘little tool’ away as I brushed him aside. I removed twelve screws in three seconds flat. The doorway was widened.  Angels sang and church bells tolled. Finally the sofa yielded to us (men and boy) and was carried artfully to the bed of my truck. I AM THE MAN!

               After that it was all down hill. We loaded all three trucks and I dug out my tie down straps. At first I couldn’t find them and the impending embarrassment of asking the others for an extra strap loomed on my horizon. As I searched the same bed box for the third time the straps presented themselves. There was no need for panic, I AM STILL THE MAN. I lashed everything tight, and checked the other two pickups. One of the other guys was lashing down his load and the third truck had a strap on the ground waiting to be utilized. Feeling good about my own load and knowing where the destination was, I left well ahead of the convoy. After three miles on the highway I did my due diligence and pulled over to retighten my straps. It struck me as a little odd that no one passed me as I did this. I mentioned it to my son. I knew he would be paying attention to the traffic. Boys love to be in the leading vehicle of convoys. He confirmed it for me, no one had passed us yet. Good, I thought. That means everyone else is being as careful as I was.

              I arrived at my friends new residence and we were indeed first. Ten minutes later the second truck got there, but no third truck. I got out and threw my hands into the air, as if to say “what the hell fellows!” I was then quickly informed that the driver of the third truck neglected to use straps and he lost a box spring mattress on the Missouri River bridge. The absolute worst place for that to happen. I knew that meant the mattress was gone. If you’ve ever seen furniture hit the highway at high speed you know it turns into splinters and shredded cloth. I lowered my head and nodded it slowly side to side. We have talked about preparedness before. Let the judging begin. The driver with the mattress load decided that the strap wasn’t needed. The owner of the mattress agreed with him. The real owner of the mattress (his wife) was pleased to get the leverage she needed for the incredibly expensive bed she had been bugging her husband for.  I offer this up as a lesson to all men that our little mistakes will always cost more than we can realize at the time.

             Of course the door at the new house had to be removed also and the couch still just barely fit. There was only one trip left to make and that was primarily for the big screen television. Considering the mattress fiasco, I decided to volunteer my services. My friend gladly accepted. A man’s television is an important thing afterall. Priority wise it goes Wife, Children, Other Family members, Television. They should make cradles for TV sets, I believe a lot of men would rock them while they are still new. 

              My son and I avoided the highway taking back roads, we even stopped for a second strap check and a soda. Needless to say the television arrived unscathed, and as I headed home for the evening I lectured my young son on the importance of doing something right. He paid heed and nodded at the right moments. I believed I had finally gotten through to him. He will be a Man. When we pulled up in front of the house, he jumped out of the truck while it was still running, ran across the street without looking and tripped on the stairs, scraping his knee. Normally I would yell at him but today I just smiled. Boys will be boys. Whether they are thirty or ten.

              I could use a new television, I think when it is time to move I will have my son and the driver of that third truck come help me out. Sixty inch L.E.D. Sanyo 3-D gateway to heaven here I come! If you want his number give me a call, after all who couldn’t use the extra leverage to get their spouse to agree to buying something new.
           
                       Love,
                                Your tool toting, strap packing, truck driving son.