It was the biggest thing happening my junior year of high school; a party at Marina Langston's house about two weeks before the school year ended. I had flirted with her quite a bit that year, so I was not surprised the day that her best friend Chancel approached me at my locker and invited me to come. Closing my locker door (two hide the magnificent picture of Anna Kornakova lunging for a tennis ball) I quickly accepted. Indeed my locker in high school never did contain anything valuable to my schooling; rather, it contained a pair of boxing gloves (which I would use on my two cronies, Gordo, and Chappy), the picture of tennis goddess Anna Kornakova, and the random, hardly edible concoctions that I would intermittently make to dare my friends to eat or drink at our lunch table.
The worst of these concoctions was one comprised of water from my dog's bowl, six month old previously opened cranberry concentrate, and lintel stew which my friend Gordo drank for five dollars and a challenge to his manhood. Now to visualize this, one must have a clear image of what Gordo looked like. He was a rotund fellow, with a curly red afro and freckles all over his face. His stomach protruded out at least four inches past his pectorals and as he chugged the magical mixture I had created for him it convulsed in noticeable rhythmic beats which the entire table found funny enough to laugh about. With each sip and he made loud gulping sounds attracting the attention of all the tables around us. Upon lowering the empty bottle, his face was red but triumphant at having proven his hardness to the rest of the table. His face turned frighteningly white upon hearing what the mixture had contained, and he suddenly threw up all over our round lunch table.
Chappy was a different character entirely. His upper body was thick but muscless, and was carried by disproportionately thin legs. His feet jetted outward like those of a duck and he when he walked he took up twice his own width with his large strides. Chappy’s structural irregularities ironically played to his advantage on the dance floor. At high school dances his large body could be seen jettisoning above the crowd, limberly carried by his thin legs which would create oddly “hip” angles for those who watched him. People who tried to get dancing lessons from him often left disheartened by the fact that they couldn’t quite create the same movements. His ability on the dance floor, and the fact that he had a car, and I did not, make Chappy an invaluable wingman during my high school years.
Upon inviting me to the party, it was understood that Gordo and Chappy were also invited. Chappy picked me up at my house and we headed over to Pumpkin Lane, in Phillips, Maine. When we arrived it was dark and the field adjacent to Marina’s house was filled with cars and people. Chappy parked the car in the back of the field and we got out of the car and headed over to the giant bon fire. Marina and Chancel ran over and hugged us and we talked for a while (until I noticed that Marina had a boyfriend) and we met up with Gordo at the edge of the field. All in all the there were about 100 people at this party and I couldn’t help but wonder at how kind Marina’s parents were to allow them to destroy their field by making “doughnuts” with their cars, and throwing beer cans all over. The party was lively, music blared from the house across road, and people danced in headlights, and the flickering flames. Soon couples were making their ways to the backseats of their cars, and drunks were falling asleep in random places on the field.
As I stood with Gordo and Chappy and a few other friends from school I suddenly noticed the flashing lights of doom approaching the field from down the road. Blue and red cut through the air as the patrol cars sent out sudden “whoops” from their sirens. As the large spotlights began to scour the field, bewildered high school students began to stampede in every direction. Not wanted to be the only one left to hold accountable I rushed to the nearest woods line and ducked down inside a bush. The lights swung back and forth through the woods as the officers hounded orders from their speakerphones. To my astonishment I suddenly realized that I was lying beside our very drunk, future class valedictorian, Luke. He didn’t look impressed with his situation and began to concernedly tell me of how this could ruin his whole life.
Upon hearing this tragic tale, I begin to think of how evading arrest could ruin mine and stood up once the light had passed my bush and made my way to a part of the field were it would appear that I had been there the whole time. I found Chappy there; he hadn’t moved from the time the police had arrived (apparently his mother had put the fear of God into him about running from police). As the police rounded up the many drunks that were foolish enough to stop within 20 feet of the woods line Chappy’s reasoning that we couldn’t be in trouble for anything, as he and I had not had anything to drink began to make sense to me. Upon checking our breaths for alcohol, the officers apparently decided that Chappy and I were valuable assets when it came to having to move all of the drunkard’s cars off of the field and they quickly began calling us by name in friendly tones. I noticed Marina standing in the center of the field speaking to two officers. She was crying and her boyfriend was hugging her. I overheard her tell the officer that the field was not actually her parents, but that they were merely thinking about buying it (lets hope they did after that). Soon the parents began to arrive, including Marina’s mother who seemed less than impressed with the situation, and even less impressed with Chappy and I for having been present, as she knew us well. We helped move all of the cars off of the field and parked them tightly in Marina’s driveway, and Chappy and I headed back to his house for the night, glad to have escaped this affair without it ever coming to the attention of our parents.
The next day at school the tales of individual responses to the bust began to appear. Apparently a large group of students had escaped by making their way approximately three miles through the woods to Josh Plov’s house and spent the night. Gordo was among them, and somehow picturing his large personage huffing through the dark forests, wondering whether dogs were after him brought a chuckle to my mind. Luke had stayed in the woods with the intention of coming out when the police left, only to awaken at about four in the morning in the very bush I had found him in. Most of the students ended up going home with parents. All in all about 13 had been arrested for underage drinking and rumors were rampant that some big investigation must be underway to determine the names of those who had hid. I assume that this was not the case as nothing else ever came of this. Later that year I would date Marina, and go to many more (smaller) parties at her house but THE famous high school party on Pumpkin Lane would always be the most memorable.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Theme Week Four
1.
At the age of 13 I killed my first deer. While hunting, I shot it while it ran down a hill, in the lower back. When we finally got it in, it weighed in at 189 pounds with 8 points. I found that the experience of killing that deer was similar to that which I felt the first time I had a man in my sights while serving in Iraq.
2.
When I think of my childhood I think of hunting, of the cold crisp morning air waking me in our small country camp. I recall the pedal chill of my worn and still frozen boots as I prepared for the adventures of each day, and of the smell created by my father's burnt, thick morning coffee. I'm reminded of the joy at owning my first gun, the excitement of my first hunt, and the shocking reality of my first kill. Yet, my greatest and most surprising connection to hunting is the things it taught me about life itself, things that would indeed find me through the tempests that destiny had yet in store for me.
I can remember the first time I held my gun; I was thirteen and it was mine, and as I ran my young fingers across its form, its textures thrilled me. The depth of the colors present in the shining, smooth, wooden butt-stock reminded me of the vast oceans of forests in which it had been born. Cold steel stung the barrel and trigger, powerful reminders of the elegant force within its chambers. It was a WWI British rifle, and I wondered about whom the men were that had held it before me. I was curious as to whether my predecessor had trembled when his finger pressed its deadly trigger. Had sweat stung his eyes as he aligned them with its iron sight? I held it up, measuring its stature against my own, ensuring that I was worthy of filling the shoes of its former owners. My eyes gleamed with joy and pride. My enchantment with my new gift was overshadowed only by my ambitions for its use.
The forest was silent, but for the chirping of a chubby and obnoxious blue jay. Beautifully painted leaves swayed to the forest floor, taking their places among the sea of acorns and roots. Had it not been for the sudden and startling snapping of a branch I never would have heard the approach of the one hundred and ninety pound buck that was moving in my direction. I turned my head, looking to the ridgeline with its vivid colors, overshadowed now by the rapid movement of the large brown juggernaut quickly approaching my position. He hadn't seen me; I had been still and raised my gun to my shoulder. Time stood still; heartbeats spaced by hours thundered through my brain sending tremors down my spine. I felt the cold bite as my naked finger touched the trigger. I aimed. The first shot stunned him sending a horizontal waterfall of red through the air. He turned toward me, still dazed and unsure of what had happened. Leaves flew beneath his hooves as he charged forward, finally spotting me and turning sharply. I chased him, running as hard as I could, deep into the thickets. My mind was racing, filled with doubt at what had just happened.
He had not gone far. He was lying there placidly, head raised, looking directly at my. I stopped in my tracks, stunned at the unexpected moment of accountability. I had not been trained for this. This was not in the stories that I had been told, stories of the grandeur of hunting. I stood there, unable to move or think. His nostrils flared, opening and closing, blowing engines of steam toward me through he cold air. His shining coat was now bloodstained and ruffled. Looking into his eyes the shame overpowered me. What had I done? We stayed like that, locked in gaze until he slowly lowered his head, his deep black eyes, fading to grey. I had killed him.
When my polished boots hit the pavement in Baghdad, Iraq, I thought I was ready. Russian AK-47 rounds snapped over my head, striking the walls behind me. I ducked down, wishing I could somehow melt in o the tank beside me. Peering out to the roof of the adjacent building I spotted muzzle flashes. A dark figure jetted out, firing rapidly at the other side of the tank and then ducking back. I raised my weapon. My sweaty hands squeezed the wet grip of my rifle. My trigger was not longer sharp and cold. Its heat stung my finger as I checked my mark. Time stood still, the sounds of the helicopter above throbbed in sequence with each heartbeat. I could see his eyes, white and big, and strangely similar to the eyes of my past. My sights rose up and down with each breath. I knew that it would be quick, and unrelenting in my memory. Caught in the sudden accountability of life and death once more, I stumbled, and as I did so, I heard an explosion to my right. His dark figure keeled forward, falling from the window to the streets below. Someone else had killed him.
Had it not been for the lessons of my childhood hunt, I never would have paused that second before I fired to ponder the importance of life. I would have killed, instinctively, instantly, as I had when I was young. Thankfully the question of whether or not I would kill again did not need to be answered on that day. The unexpected intervention of the memory of my hunt had been just enough to halt me, that one moment necessary, and save me from the trauma that such a thing could cause. I might never have been free of the guilt. My memories of Iraq haunt me to this day, but they will always be the memories of the things that I saw, and not of what I did.
3.
When I think of my childhood I think of hunting, of the cold crisp morning air waking me in our small country camp. I recall the pedal chill of my worn and still frozen boots as I prepared for the adventures of each day, and of the smell created by my father's burnt, thick morning coffee. I'm reminded of the joy at owning my first gun, the excitement of my first hunt, and the manliness that I felt after my first kill. Yet, my greatest and most surprising connection to hunting is the things it taught me about life itself, things that would indeed find me through the tempests that destiny had yet in store for me.
I can remember the first time I held my gun; I was thirteen and it was mine, and as I ran my young fingers across its form, its textures thrilled me. The depth of the colors present in the shining, smooth, wooden butt-stock reminded me of the vast oceans of forests in which it had been born. Cold steel stung the barrel and trigger, powerful reminders of the elegant force within its chambers. It was a magnificent new high powered 300 winchester, and I marveled at how lucky it was to have me as its first owner; for I was to be the greatest hunter of all time. My eyes gleamed with joy and pride. My enchantment with my new gift was overshadowed only by my ambitions for its use.
The forest was silent, but for the chirping of a chubby and obnoxious blue jay. Beautifully painted leaves swayed to the forest floor, taking their places among the sea of acorns and roots. Had it not been for the sudden and startling snapping of a branch I never would have heard the approach of the two hundred and twenty pound buck that was moving in my direction. I turned my head looking to the ridgeline with its vivid colors, overshadowed now by the rapid movement of the large brown juggernaut quickly approaching my position. He hadn't seen me; I had been still and raised my gun to my shoulder. Time stood still; heartbeats spaced by hours thundered through my brain sending tremors down my spine. I felt the cold bite as my naked finger touched the trigger. I aimed. The first shot ripped through his chest sending a horizontal waterfall of red through the air. He turned toward me, dazed and unsure of what had happened. Leaves flew beneath his hooves as he charged forward, finally spotting me and turning sharply. I chased him, running as hard as I could, deep into the thickets. My mind was racing, filled with doubt at what had just happened.
He had not gone far. He had run into a fallen tree and was motionless lying before me. I saw his great antlers, 12 points, powerful symbols of a hunters ability to all those that would see my kill. I was surprised by my own strength in this moment; I had killed and felt nothing. I was a man.
When my polished boots hit the pavement in Baghdad, Iraq, I thought I was ready. Russian AK-47 rounds snapped over my head, striking the walls behind me. I ducked down behind the tank beside me. Peering out to the roof of the adjacent building I spotted muzzle flashes. A dark figure jetted out, firing rapidly at the other side of the tank and then ducking back. I raised my weapon. My sweaty hands squeezed the wet grip of my rifle. My trigger was not longer sharp and cold. Its heat stung my finger as I checked my mark. Time stood still, the sounds of the helicopter above throbbed in sequence with each heartbeat. I could see his eyes, white and big; the eyes of my enemy. I took aim at his chest and fired. His dark figure keeled forward, falling from the window to the streets below. Adrenaline rushed through my body; in this the greatest test of my manhood, I had passed through the gates of fire with honor and courage. I had killed him, and I was even more of a man for it.
Had it not been for the lessons of my childhood hunt, I might have paused that second before I fired, afraid of the unfamiliar. Instead I killed, instinctively, instantly, as I had when I was young. I stepped up to the plate and did what my country had asked of me and I was the better man for it. My memories of Iraq will always remind me of the time that I tested myself and became the man that I have always envisioned myself at being.
At the age of 13 I killed my first deer. While hunting, I shot it while it ran down a hill, in the lower back. When we finally got it in, it weighed in at 189 pounds with 8 points. I found that the experience of killing that deer was similar to that which I felt the first time I had a man in my sights while serving in Iraq.
2.
When I think of my childhood I think of hunting, of the cold crisp morning air waking me in our small country camp. I recall the pedal chill of my worn and still frozen boots as I prepared for the adventures of each day, and of the smell created by my father's burnt, thick morning coffee. I'm reminded of the joy at owning my first gun, the excitement of my first hunt, and the shocking reality of my first kill. Yet, my greatest and most surprising connection to hunting is the things it taught me about life itself, things that would indeed find me through the tempests that destiny had yet in store for me.
I can remember the first time I held my gun; I was thirteen and it was mine, and as I ran my young fingers across its form, its textures thrilled me. The depth of the colors present in the shining, smooth, wooden butt-stock reminded me of the vast oceans of forests in which it had been born. Cold steel stung the barrel and trigger, powerful reminders of the elegant force within its chambers. It was a WWI British rifle, and I wondered about whom the men were that had held it before me. I was curious as to whether my predecessor had trembled when his finger pressed its deadly trigger. Had sweat stung his eyes as he aligned them with its iron sight? I held it up, measuring its stature against my own, ensuring that I was worthy of filling the shoes of its former owners. My eyes gleamed with joy and pride. My enchantment with my new gift was overshadowed only by my ambitions for its use.
The forest was silent, but for the chirping of a chubby and obnoxious blue jay. Beautifully painted leaves swayed to the forest floor, taking their places among the sea of acorns and roots. Had it not been for the sudden and startling snapping of a branch I never would have heard the approach of the one hundred and ninety pound buck that was moving in my direction. I turned my head, looking to the ridgeline with its vivid colors, overshadowed now by the rapid movement of the large brown juggernaut quickly approaching my position. He hadn't seen me; I had been still and raised my gun to my shoulder. Time stood still; heartbeats spaced by hours thundered through my brain sending tremors down my spine. I felt the cold bite as my naked finger touched the trigger. I aimed. The first shot stunned him sending a horizontal waterfall of red through the air. He turned toward me, still dazed and unsure of what had happened. Leaves flew beneath his hooves as he charged forward, finally spotting me and turning sharply. I chased him, running as hard as I could, deep into the thickets. My mind was racing, filled with doubt at what had just happened.
He had not gone far. He was lying there placidly, head raised, looking directly at my. I stopped in my tracks, stunned at the unexpected moment of accountability. I had not been trained for this. This was not in the stories that I had been told, stories of the grandeur of hunting. I stood there, unable to move or think. His nostrils flared, opening and closing, blowing engines of steam toward me through he cold air. His shining coat was now bloodstained and ruffled. Looking into his eyes the shame overpowered me. What had I done? We stayed like that, locked in gaze until he slowly lowered his head, his deep black eyes, fading to grey. I had killed him.
When my polished boots hit the pavement in Baghdad, Iraq, I thought I was ready. Russian AK-47 rounds snapped over my head, striking the walls behind me. I ducked down, wishing I could somehow melt in o the tank beside me. Peering out to the roof of the adjacent building I spotted muzzle flashes. A dark figure jetted out, firing rapidly at the other side of the tank and then ducking back. I raised my weapon. My sweaty hands squeezed the wet grip of my rifle. My trigger was not longer sharp and cold. Its heat stung my finger as I checked my mark. Time stood still, the sounds of the helicopter above throbbed in sequence with each heartbeat. I could see his eyes, white and big, and strangely similar to the eyes of my past. My sights rose up and down with each breath. I knew that it would be quick, and unrelenting in my memory. Caught in the sudden accountability of life and death once more, I stumbled, and as I did so, I heard an explosion to my right. His dark figure keeled forward, falling from the window to the streets below. Someone else had killed him.
Had it not been for the lessons of my childhood hunt, I never would have paused that second before I fired to ponder the importance of life. I would have killed, instinctively, instantly, as I had when I was young. Thankfully the question of whether or not I would kill again did not need to be answered on that day. The unexpected intervention of the memory of my hunt had been just enough to halt me, that one moment necessary, and save me from the trauma that such a thing could cause. I might never have been free of the guilt. My memories of Iraq haunt me to this day, but they will always be the memories of the things that I saw, and not of what I did.
3.
When I think of my childhood I think of hunting, of the cold crisp morning air waking me in our small country camp. I recall the pedal chill of my worn and still frozen boots as I prepared for the adventures of each day, and of the smell created by my father's burnt, thick morning coffee. I'm reminded of the joy at owning my first gun, the excitement of my first hunt, and the manliness that I felt after my first kill. Yet, my greatest and most surprising connection to hunting is the things it taught me about life itself, things that would indeed find me through the tempests that destiny had yet in store for me.
I can remember the first time I held my gun; I was thirteen and it was mine, and as I ran my young fingers across its form, its textures thrilled me. The depth of the colors present in the shining, smooth, wooden butt-stock reminded me of the vast oceans of forests in which it had been born. Cold steel stung the barrel and trigger, powerful reminders of the elegant force within its chambers. It was a magnificent new high powered 300 winchester, and I marveled at how lucky it was to have me as its first owner; for I was to be the greatest hunter of all time. My eyes gleamed with joy and pride. My enchantment with my new gift was overshadowed only by my ambitions for its use.
The forest was silent, but for the chirping of a chubby and obnoxious blue jay. Beautifully painted leaves swayed to the forest floor, taking their places among the sea of acorns and roots. Had it not been for the sudden and startling snapping of a branch I never would have heard the approach of the two hundred and twenty pound buck that was moving in my direction. I turned my head looking to the ridgeline with its vivid colors, overshadowed now by the rapid movement of the large brown juggernaut quickly approaching my position. He hadn't seen me; I had been still and raised my gun to my shoulder. Time stood still; heartbeats spaced by hours thundered through my brain sending tremors down my spine. I felt the cold bite as my naked finger touched the trigger. I aimed. The first shot ripped through his chest sending a horizontal waterfall of red through the air. He turned toward me, dazed and unsure of what had happened. Leaves flew beneath his hooves as he charged forward, finally spotting me and turning sharply. I chased him, running as hard as I could, deep into the thickets. My mind was racing, filled with doubt at what had just happened.
He had not gone far. He had run into a fallen tree and was motionless lying before me. I saw his great antlers, 12 points, powerful symbols of a hunters ability to all those that would see my kill. I was surprised by my own strength in this moment; I had killed and felt nothing. I was a man.
When my polished boots hit the pavement in Baghdad, Iraq, I thought I was ready. Russian AK-47 rounds snapped over my head, striking the walls behind me. I ducked down behind the tank beside me. Peering out to the roof of the adjacent building I spotted muzzle flashes. A dark figure jetted out, firing rapidly at the other side of the tank and then ducking back. I raised my weapon. My sweaty hands squeezed the wet grip of my rifle. My trigger was not longer sharp and cold. Its heat stung my finger as I checked my mark. Time stood still, the sounds of the helicopter above throbbed in sequence with each heartbeat. I could see his eyes, white and big; the eyes of my enemy. I took aim at his chest and fired. His dark figure keeled forward, falling from the window to the streets below. Adrenaline rushed through my body; in this the greatest test of my manhood, I had passed through the gates of fire with honor and courage. I had killed him, and I was even more of a man for it.
Had it not been for the lessons of my childhood hunt, I might have paused that second before I fired, afraid of the unfamiliar. Instead I killed, instinctively, instantly, as I had when I was young. I stepped up to the plate and did what my country had asked of me and I was the better man for it. My memories of Iraq will always remind me of the time that I tested myself and became the man that I have always envisioned myself at being.
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