The Tale of the Everlasting Candle

Somewhere close to three hundred years ago, a young business man, his lovely wife and their beautiful daughter lived in a small, but well built and lovely cabin on a coastal island. The man worked for one of the plantation owners on the island, and would often have to spend days or weeks traveling on ships to other ports along the coast. His little family always went down to the docks when he arrived home, where they would cheerfully greet him with smiles and hugs. Sometimes, the father would bring back special treats for his precious little girl. Oh, he loved her so! She was the center of his world!

One afternoon, when the father arrived at the dock, his wife and daughter were not there. He struck out on the sandy road heading home, thoughts racing and wondering as to why his family had not been there to greet him. This was quite unusual, and he was worried. When the cabin into view, he noticed how very quiet it was. He broke into a run and nearly tore the door off the hinges going inside. There, he discovered his wife, lying so very still in their bed, face flushed, and barely alive. She had the fever. His precious daughter was sitting beside her mother, dutifully wiping her mothers brow with a cool, moist piece of cloth. “Oh, father, mama has been so ill! I tried to help her, but I didn’t know what to do and I’m scared father!” cried the little girl. The man took his daughter into his arms and told her she had done just fine for a little girl of only five years. He then sent her outside to get some fersh water from the well.

Throughout the night, the father stood watch over his wife. The nearest doctor would be days away as there was no physician on their island. He bathed her in the cool water, he tried to get her to drink. Nothing he done could save her. The fever had claimed another soul. They lay her body to rest on a small patch of ground under a live oak tree in the church cemetery. Both father and daughter were grief stricken. But, as were the times, life had to go on.

One of the ladies in their little community offered to take care of his daughter while he was on his trips for the plantation owner. She would care of her until he could find another wife, which was customary in those days. The father didn’t want another, as he had loved his wife with all his heart. He also knew that he needed to provide a mother for his daughter, and that he could not continue to take advantage of the nice lady who had offered to care for her. He decided that when the proper mourning time had passed, he would indeed look for a new wife in earnest.

He found her on one of his journeys. She was the daughter of a wealthy client he had worked with in the past. She had never married, and was considered by many to be a spinster. She was quiet, not much to look at, but seemed to have a gentle way. He spent as much time as he could with her, telling her about his little cabin on the island and about his beautiful daughter before asking her to be his bride. She, seeing things through his eyes, agreed.

When they arrived on the island, his daughter was waiting with a pretty bouquet of freshly picked wildflowers for her new mother. The father had a wagon waiting to carry his new bride and all her things to her new home. She greeted her new step-daughter, and carefully took the flowers so as not to soil her gloves. The messy things would leave green stains or dirt on them. She quickly threw them in the back of the wagon. The father, who was excited, didn’t notice this gesture, but the poor little girl did. She knew at that moment that this woman would never be a mother to her.

The new bride was miserable from the very first day. She couldn’t imagine what had made her decide to move to this God forsaken place, or why she had agreed to be a wife and mother. Oh, well, this was her lot in life, she had chosen it, and she would make do the best she could. She quickly learned didn’t like being a wife when her new husband had exercised his husbandly rights, and she hated the little girl that seemed to always be needing something or was in her way. She had servants back home. Here, she had to do everything herself, the cooking, the washing, the mending, the cleaning, the tending to the garden. Oh how she hated her new life. But she never showed this to her new husband.

She learned to look forward to her husbands trips, especially since they were for longer and longer time periods. Sometimes, he was gone a whole month! She dreaded the days he returned. She had already figured out a way to keep that brat of his in line – she kept her locked in the small outside shed most of the time, only allowing her out for small meals and trips to the outhouse. She told her that if she ever told her father, it would upset her father terribly and she’d really be sorry. The little girl loved her father and would never upset him, so she kept quiet about her horrible new life. Her step-mother always made sure to cover her behavior in such a way that the father never suspected a thing. The little girl learned to put a smile on her face so as not to give away the horrid secrets that was her life.

She hated most the absolute darkness. She imagined all the bugs and spiders that must be in the shed. She missed the sunshine, the smell of the woods and the wildflowers, and the sand between her toes. She missed watching the clouds form shapes in the sky and feeling the drops of cool rain on her skin in the heat of a summer afternoon. Day in, day out, every season, the poor girl was stuck in the dark, damp shed. Maybe once a week, if it was sunny, her step-mother would sometimes allow her out of the shed and make her sit in a chair in the sunshine so her pale skin wouldn’t betray her time in the darkness. She wasn’t allowed to move or play, but at least she was out in the sunshine, even if only for a short time.

For several years, this awful behavior continued. The step-mother seemed to become more bitter and evil as time passed, now often beating the girl for some accused wrong before putting her in the shed. She was slowly losing her grip on her sanity, but didn’t realize it. She had allowed her bitterness to consume her. She became more careless, more slovenly in her ways and allowed her appearance to slip, often remaining in her night clothes for days. Yet when her husband was home, all appearances changed. She would keep the girl out of the shed, working herself and the girl in a frenzy to clean up the accumulated mess. When he arrived home, she would always portray the loving wife and mother, never allowing him to see her true ways. He simply never knew.

One spring afternoon, he arrived home a few days early. He had bought new dresses for his wife and daughter, along with a few other special treats to celebrate a new promotion. To keep everything as a surprise, he didn’t notify anyone that he would be home early. He happily took off on his way home, carrying his packages with a bounce in his step and joy in his heart. He was so thankful for his blessings, for his beautiful daughter and his loving wife. He was happy to be home, especially when he had such wonderful news to share. He had no idea as to what awaited him.

He walked up the eerily quiet cabin, fearfully remembering the time he had came home to his first wife. He ran up, opened the door and was appalled at what he found. The inside of the cabin was in shambles. He saw his wife in her night clothes sitting in her chair. She jumped like she had been shot when he burst through the door. He looked around an didn’t see his daughter. Fear gripped him. He ran over to his wife, grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her while he yelled “Where is she? What have you done?” “But, but, you’re not supposed to be here! You’re simply not supposed to be here!” is all she could say. He dropped her and ran through the house, fearfully searching and calling but not finding her. He ran outside and began to call her. He finally heard her weak cries coming from the shed.

He ran to the shed, ripped open the door and grabbed his frightened little girl and sat down sobbing. “Oh, father”, she cried, “I’m so sorry! I tried to be good, I really did. I’m sorry I am so dirty and that I smell so bad, but she didn’t let me out like she usually does. I think she forgot about me this time. I didn’t mean to upset you father! Don’t cry, please don’t cry.” And so they sat for more than an hour, comforting each other and him learning of the terrible, dark filled life his precious daughter had been living for the past 6 years. Never had a man felt so low. And never had a daughter felt such joy. It was now over.

The father managed to keep his temper in check while he gathered the horrible woman’s things and put them onto the wagon. He put her on the first ship headed up the coast and gave instructions for her to be delivered to her family, along with a letter explaining why she was there. She had fully lost her mind, and all she would do is repeat “But you’re not supposed to be here, just not supposed to be here.…” She boarded the ship and they never saw her again, nor did they ever want to.

The first thing the father did was take down all the curtains in the house. He swore to his daughter that she would never have to be in the dark again. He tore down the awful shed that had been her prison for so long. He went into town and bought every candle that was available, along with a new oil lamp and enough oil for a year. Their life took on new meaning. The took pleasure in the simple things that had missed for so long. The father’s promotion allowed him to remain at home now, never having to sail out again. The daughter took over the running of the house, the father enjoyed his time at home.

As the years past, the little girl grew into a beautiful young lady. She was now of the age to begin having suitors. Many young men came to visit their humble home to see her, as she was said to be the fairest of all the young women on the whole coast and would make quite a catch for some young man. But alas, their past problems would come back to haunt them. When a young man seemed to be getting a bit serious, the father would have a talk with him and explain that who ever chose to marry his daughter would have to solemnly promise to burn a candle or a lamp by her bed every night, as she had a terrible fear of the dark. Well, no young man was ready for the expense of such a promise, as candles and oil were expensive and sometimes difficult to obtain. One by one, the suitors would quit visiting.

One evening, a young man that she had met at her father’s work place came calling. They chatted, ate supper, and talked about the current events up and down the coast. They included the father in their conversations, and seemed to enjoy each others company. Months went by, and the father knew it was time for him to talk to the young man. Sadly, he explained the promise, just as he had so many time before, knowing that the outcome would probably break his daughters heart once again. But he was surprised. The young man, instead of fleeing like the other past, replied that if he could have the lovely daughters hand in marriage, then he would gladly burn a thousand candles! The father was overjoyed and gave the young couple his blessing. They were married in the fall.

They moved to a small house just down the road from her father. With him being alone and getting older, she didn’t want to be too far away. Her husband was as good as his word, and kept his promise to her father. Every evening, he would place a candle by her bed, and when he kissed her goodnight, he lit the candle. In the mornings, he would gather the melted wax into a small bowl to reuse. And as always, time passed.

The now old father passed away quietly one winter night in his sleep. He was laid to rest by his young wife from so many years before. The young couple also grew older, seeing their own children grow up and move away to the cities. Life was changing on the island, and there simply wasn’t anything to hold their children there. They took care of each other in their old age, each one doing what the other could not. But the husband still burned a candle by her bed every night. Not one single night had she ever had to be in the dark, just like he had promised.

When she passed away, she was laid to rest near her parents. The old man missed her terribly. He kept his promise though. Every evening, regardless of the weather, he walked down to the cemetery where she now lay. He had built a little shelter of sorts for a candle by the head of her grave. No wind or rain would be able to put it out in the middle of the night. He took her a fresh candle and lit it every evening, often staying long enough to tell her some news of the day, or read a letter he had received from one of the children or grandchildren. He would then walk back to their little home, sometimes waving, smiling or saying hello to a passing neighbor.

Over the years, the island had grown, and most people knew about the crazy old man and his candle, but few remained that were old enough to know the real story or the reason the old man made the walk every evening at dusk. When it was finally discovered that he had died in his sleep, many people couldn’t believe it. The new undertaker said he had been dead at least a week when he was found, but many people said he couldn’t have been, as they had seen him walking towards the graveyard or had seen the candle burning by his wife’s grave. People really began to talk when the candlelight was seen weeks and months after he had been buried beside his dear wife. Many began avoiding the road in the evenings for fear of seeing the mans ghost out for his evening walk.

Over the years, people came and went, the plantations ceased to exist. The island simply changed with the times. More and more people were buried in the same cemetery and any memory of the old couple faded away. In more modern times, pavement replaced the once sandy little roads, large homes replaced the cabins, and automobiles replaced the old buggies and wagons. Now, no one remembers their names, nor exactly where they are buried, but even now, almost three hundred years later, if you walk by the cemetery at night, in between the shadows of the headstones, live oaks, magnolias and the azaleas, if you look closely, you can see a candle glowing in the darkness. Just a soft shimmer that tells the tale of a little girl that will never have to be afraid of the dark, a tale of true love, a promise made, and one single, glowing everlasting candle.



© Dorothy Taylor

The Best of Friends

Lizzie was so excited about moving to the new house. Mama said that daddy would be home more because he would be closer to work, she would be able to walk to school instead of taking a long bus ride, and the new house had a real yard to play in! The apartment they had been living in was so cramped, always noisy, and no place to play except the hallway or the sidewalk outside. Yea, Lizzie was sure she was going to like the new house!

They had been in the new house about 6 weeks and Lizzie was thrilled! She finally had her very own bedroom. It had 4 big windows with pretty white lace curtains. Daddy had made her some bookshelves and a new toy chest and mama had painted the walls a light pink. It was the prettiest room she had ever seen. Since starting school, Lizzie had even made a new best friend. Ashley was so pretty! She had long blonde curly hair, sparkly blue eyes, and always seemed to be running and laughing.

Ashley showed Lizzie around their neighborhood, the local park and even showed her a secret clubhouse that she had found made with old plywood. It was in the woods that divided their neighborhood from the freeway. Lizzie really liked the park, but she didn’t want to tell Ashley that the clubhouse was a bit creepy. It always felt so damp and cool there, and seemed a lot darker than the rest of their neighborhood, even on bright sunny days. But, since Ashley was her best friend, she’d go to the clubhouse anyway, where they would spend the afternoon just telling stories about past friends or things they had seen or done.

Oddly, even though they played together every day, they never went to each others house to play. They always played outside. Lizzie used to have a friend back in the city that was like that, but she knew it was because Tammy’s daddy was always drinking and Tammy was too ashamed. Lizzie figured it must be something like that with Ashley, so she never asked her about it. She’d just meet Ashley at the park every afternoon after school.

One afternoon when they were at the clubhouse, Ashley asked her if she could show her something, but that she’d have to promise not to get scared. Lizzie couldn’t think of anything that would really scare her, unless it was a snake or something really gross, so she promised. Ashley walked over to a pile of old wood and lifted up a piece of plywood. There, laying right on the dirt and covered with a raggedy old blanket, was a little girls shoe and sock stuck on the end of a bone! Lizzie was terrified, screamed and fell backwards. Lizzie just looked at Ashley and asked her why she would show her such a thing. Ashley told her it was because she was her best friend and she thought she should know. Best friends weren’t supposed to have secrets! Lizzie told her that she didn’t want to ever come back to the clubhouse. It was a creepy place before, and now it was just plain scary. Ashley yelled at her, “Well it may be creepy, but you don’t know what scary really is!” They left the woods quietly, not really talking. Lizzie did tell her that she’d meet her at the park the next afternoon. Ashley just nodded, then they parted and went their separate ways.

The next afternoon, Lizzie waited and waited at the park, but Ashley never showed up. She finally went home just before dark. Her mother asked her why she was so down, and Lizzie told her mother that Ashley never showed up at the park. Oh, Lizzie, maybe she’s sick today.” her mother offered. Lizzie admitted that she hadn’t seen her at school, or that afternoon walking home, but she wondered if it was because of what happened at the clubhouse yesterday. Ashley did seem a bit different when they parted, and Lizzie wondered if maybe Ashley was mad at her for acting like such a baby. Lizzie asked her mom if she could take a couple of the fresh baked cookies down to Ashley’s house to see if they would make her feel better. Her mother told her it that sounded like a fine idea. She also said it was about time to meet Ashley’s parents and that since it was dark, she’d walk with her. They wrapped up 4 cookies in pretty plastic wrap and headed out the door. Lizzie showed her mom which house Ashley lived in, and they stepped up onto the porch and rang the doorbell.

A woman came to the door and asked them “What can I do for you?” Lizzie stepped forward and said “My name is Lizzie and I’m Ashley’s best friend and Ashley didn’t meet me at the park today and I thought maybe she was sick so I brought her some cookies. Well, me and mama did anyway.” The woman at the door went suddenly pale and seemed to lean on the door, obviously very shaken. Lizzie’s mom asked her if she was alright? The woman told them to please come in. She offered them a seat on the couch and told them she would be right back.

Lizzie and her mom sat down, and Lizzie got scared. She imagined that something bad had happened or that Ashley was really, really sick and that maybe Ashley was in the hospital or something. Then Ashley’s parents both walked into the living room, introduced themselves and sat down. Ashley’s dad then asked Lizzie when had she seen Ashley last. Lizzie told them it was yesterday afternoon. She told them that she and Ashley were best friends, that they had been ever since she moved to the neighborhood and that they played together every afternoon. Today was the first time Ashley had not shown up and that she was worried that Ashley was sick. Lizzie’s mom was getting quite uncomfortable and asked them “Why the questions? What is going on? Is Ashley missing or something?”

“Yes”, they answered, “Ashley is missing. She has been for 6 years now.” Suddenly, Lizzie knew where Ashley was. She knew why Ashley had shown her what was under the big pile of wood. She knew why Ashley wanted to go there all the time. She had been best friends with a ghost! She knew! SHE KNEW! Lizzie passed out cold.

© Dorothy Taylor 2008

Double Trouble

I am a hunter. I enjoy the outdoors, so I am careful to preserve and protect the environment that offers me so much pleasure. I am equally careful to watch my behavior and safety so as not to give the anti-gun people a reason to take away my hunting privileges, or give them ammunition they could use against my 2^nd Amendment rights as well. I have been a hunter since early childhood, going with my father before I was even big enough to carry a firearm. As a gift, I received my first firearm at the age of 9, a sweet little used Steven .410 single shot that I have to this day. I have killed many rabbits and squirrels as a child with this little gem. After growing up, I have been fortunate enough to increase my firearm ownership, growing familiar with each and every one to the point they feel like an extension of my hands. So what could be the trouble I am speaking of? Well, first off, I am female.

Throughout my growing up, I was often a mis-fit. I didn’t fit in with the girls because I’d rather be in the woods than playing with Barbie dolls. I didn’t fit in with the boys just because I was a girl. I couldn’t relate to either of them. As a teen, I didn’t dress all frilly, or spend hours on my make-up and hair just to impress the boys. The teen boys either avoided me or treated me like one of the guys. Regardless of my age, I did however, fit in with daddy just fine.

When I was born, daddy of course wanted a boy. But according to mama, it didn’t take long for him to have me wrapped around his little finger, and him around mine. He started teaching me early and taking me with him on hunts by the age of 5 or so. I really enjoyed these times, as he was in the military and would often be gone for months at a time. Even though we were never allowed to go over seas with him, being a military brat did give me the opportunity to hunt in many environments, different terrains, and to hunt a wide variety of game. I hunted my first bear at age 12 in northern California, as well as wild hogs in the Georgia swamps, ducks in Texas, rabbit in Ohio, and the usual white tails in these same states. Throw in a nice mule deer in Colorado a few years ago, a few birds such as dove and pheasant, add some squirrel and that about covers it. Luckily, my father took the time to teach me. I was very fortunate to have a father that didn't mind that I was a girl.

According to an article (written by Kevin Helliker of the New York Times) on October 5, 2008 in the Atlanta Journal Constitution, “… the overall number of U.S. hunters declined to 12.5 million from 14.1 million in the 15 years ending in 2006, the number of women hunters rose to 1.2 million from 1.1 million, according to a survey conducted every five years by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.” It is obvious that the number of female hunters continues to increase. Just about all the firearm manufactures now produce weapons with shorter stocks and barrels suited for the smaller frame of most women. Makers of archery equipment are making bows with lighter and shorter pulls. There are now several clothing makers for the outdoors woman. That’s right, full camo gear, boots, hats, the whole nines. And none of it is pink! So if big business has realized this increase, and manufacturers are targeting the female dollar, why do I still get looked at and treated like I am less of a woman because I hunt? Am I less feminine in some way? I can put on pantyhose, a sexy dress, a push-up bra, throw on high heels and compete with the best of’em, but I can also field dress a deer while doing it! Less of a woman? I don’t think so. A more talented woman? Of course.

Oddly, outdoor sports such as hunting are still considered a man’s domain in many places. If a woman does get to go on a hunting trip, she is expected to stay at camp, keep the fire going and coffee on, and do the cooking for their great male hunters. Well, that’s just pure hogwash! And I’m not the only one that feels this way. I am a member of a hunting forum based in Idaho, though there are members from all over the U.S. A female member and I were discussing hurdles we females have to overcome to be considered just worthy of being in the woods. She told me “There have been countless times when I'm out hunting and for instance, when hiking back to camp and have been hiking back on a logging road, a truck of passerbys will go by. I get the double take and heard one truck full say "D**N, That's a d**n woman!" Like DUH! WE DO HUNT TOO! I don't know. It just struck me as ridiculous for a bunch of males to be shocked that a woman would be out there all camoed up, geared up huntin' and hikin' just like they do. Many of them SO underestimate our drive and strength and passion to hunt!” (K.H. in Oregon)

So yes, we have to face a lot being both a woman and being a hunter. That covers trouble number one. Fellows, it’s time to “man up” and accept us for who and what we are – real women with a real love for the outdoors and for hunting.

For trouble number two, being from the south I feel I have to prove all the typical stereotypes wrong. So many people that are not from the south have a very skewed idea of us southerners in general. I know this for a fact because I have lived in all areas of the country. Much of it is based on our celebrities and comedians and the way they portray being southern. Good grief, Larry the Cable guy is a fellow named Daniel Lawrence Whitney that was born in Nebraska! Southern, my foot! In many cases, we are seen as backwards, uneducated, and often ignorant. Someone needs to let the cat out of the bag and tell the rest of the world that we are not like that.

Real southern women are nothing like the Sugarbaker sisters from the sitcom “Designing Women”. That while we may talk similar to them, we really are not as ignorant as the Beverly Hillbillies. We no longer have party line telephones like “Green Acres”. That Hey world! We have indeed moved into the 21^st century. And will someone please let Jeff Foxworthy know that his “You might be Redneck” jokes are getting old. They were cute for a laugh in the beginning, but they have been getting more outrageous and making us southerners look worse and worse as time goes by.

As for being southern hunters, we are often thought of as being indiscriminate, having no regard for legalities or conservation. Nothing more than a bunch of mullet wearin’, mud boggin', beer swillin', monster truckin’, fire huntin', shotgun totin', throw another 'possum in the pot yahoo's shooting whatever comes into our view and yelling Yee Haw! all the way. Yeah, right.

Those of us that have hunted our whole lives often learned from our fathers and grandfathers. There is more at stake here than getting meat for the table. There is the time honored tradition of hunting. The teachings that we have received that are now second nature to us. The memories we have of time spent and first hunts, of our first success in the field, and the pride we have in knowing we are able to provide healthy, fresh meat for our families.

By learning how to be a be a more conscientious hunter, and by teaching my children and one day, my grandchildren, to be the same way, I hope the rest of the nation will begin to see that we are not what they think we are. The sad part is there will always be a few idiots who get the media’s attention, which of course makes the rest of us look bad. So, if you have any pride at all and value your hunting traditions, when you see idiotic and/or unsafe behavior, do the right thing - call the Law Enforcement division of the DNR and turn the idiots in.

So my fellow hunters, when you see me coming, you will know I have fought double trouble for most of my life. Ever since I was born I’ve been both a girl and a true southerner. It’s been a heck’uva fight, and I’ll probably have a few more scuffles along the way. You will know that I won’t be prejudiced against you because you speak differently or assume that because you are from “up north” you’re automatically rude. I won’t down you just because you’re a man. I happen to like men – I’m married to one that I wouldn’t trade for all the gold in… wherever all the gold is kept.. Just do me one favor – when you see me coming, try to look at the real me. It’s one step at a time ya’ll, one step at a time!

Gone Fishin'

My husband, our dog and I left on a Thursday afternoon in late July and went to the Altamaha River. We took our little john boat, food for a few days, some simple camping equipment, and headed to the Altamaha Park. We put the boat in, loaded it down with our things and headed out to find ourselves a piece of “prime” sand bar real estate. He is not from here, so I’m quite a bit more familiar with the area than he is.

Most people in this area that camp know that the best sand bar camping areas are often hard to get since so many people desire them. These are the places where almost everyone who has ever camped there has made some kind of improvement – someone built a table, someone put up a clothesline, someone gathered firewood and left it stacked for the next campers. Sure, there are a few people who do nothing but destroy, tear up and litter, but in general, those of us that camp this way always try to leave the area at least a bit better than when we found it.

When we got to the sand bar, we unloaded our supplies and readied ourselves for a nice weekend. I pitched the tent under a shady tree while he did most of the unloading; he got our fishing poles ready while I put together the “kitchen” area for our stay. We had purchased some bait at the park store, so the late afternoon was spent fishing a couple spots I hadn’t been to in a while. We got back to camp just before dark, which gave us time for a quick supper and a dip in the river before bed. It was clear that night, so we took the rain shield off the tent and enjoyed the stars and the nighttime breeze.

Early Friday morning, he got up a bit before me, had the fire going and my coffee water waiting. While drinking my coffee, I started working on putting together some limb lines to set that evening in hopes of catching a good sized catfish or two. My wonderful husband even made breakfast while I worked. And, get this - he did the dishes as well! Ladies, take notes here – being in the outdoors can often change a man! The only problem we had is something I should have known better than to do. I had left some of the groceries out in the open and the local raccoons decided they needed to get into our loaf of bread. From then on, I made sure everything was covered and out of their reach.

Off for fishing for most of the day on Friday. We went back to camp for a bit of lunch and a nap, then to the park store for some more bait. A small shower of rain had moved in and out and gave us the most beautiful double rainbow to look at on the way down the river. I managed to catch a couple good sized bluegills that we cleaned and put on ice, and he caught some small brim for baiting our limb lines. Just before dark, we set the limb lines and headed back to camp for the evening. After supper, another quick swim cooled us off and allowed us just to enjoy the sounds around us.

It’s odd how we never seem to notice the little things like how the sounds change from day to night. The sound of the day time song birds change to the sounds of the owls, frogs and crickets. The temperatures cool down a bit and the breeze begins to blow in the evening. Even the river seems to take on a slower pace. When at home, most people have a schedule of sorts that they follow and most everything follows the clock. We have a certain time to get up, to go to work, or to get the kids off to school. There is a certain time to eat, a certain time to watch something on television, a certain time to go to bed. When you’re out camping, you never seem to look at a watch. Time doesn’t matter. When you get hungry, you eat. Even without an alarm clock, when the sun begins to rise, the birds start chirping and the fish start jumping, you automatically wake up. When the sun goes down, you instinctively get sleepy and know it’s time for bed. With no electricity, no phones, internet, or television and suddenly, our bodies very quickly seem to revert back to the natural way of things. And it feels good.

Saturday morning found us checking our limb lines and fishing. No luck on the limb lines, but we weren’t too disappointed. After all, half the fun is in the anticipation. Later that morning, our dog decided she needed to protect me by fiercely growling and barking at 3 small raccoons that had climbed into some trees on the bank where we had tied up and were curiously watching us! After assuring her that they really weren’t going to attack us, she calmed down and again took her place at my feet. She’ll make a river dog yet!

We explored a bit for new places to fish, but eventually wound up right back where I started. Good thing, too, as late that evening I managed to land 3 nice bluegills, one of them a little over 10 inches in length! All the fish were cleaned and put on ice for a little fish dinner back home. We baited the limb lines again just before dark and headed back to camp. We spent the evening enjoying an over-the-fire cooked supper, just talking and enjoying each others company. Sometimes, I think all couples need this sort of thing every now and again. I think it kind of keeps us in touch.

Bright and early Sunday morning, we pulled all of our limb lines down to use next time. We went back to camp and began breaking down, cleaning up and packing up. One final trip back to the park docks, boat loaded, and the few minutes drive to get home. We got home about 10:30 that morning. We got everything unloaded, put away and then jokingly fought over who was going to get a shower first! River sand can get into the darndest places!

What a weekend! It was enjoyable, relaxing, and definitely economical, even with today’s prices. In these economic times, often it’s difficult for the average Joe to spend a vacation, much less a weekend doing something memorable with the family. The price of fuel has skyrocketed, slowing down the usual summer travel vacations to a crawl. People are getting laid off left and right, and those that do have jobs are working as much overtime as they can just to make ends meet. It seems there is less money, less time, fewer choices.

Why not consider the alternatives in your area, like a closer-to-home weekend or a day trip? There are so many things available right in your own area that are often overlooked in favor of a week long trip to the mountains or to the usual theme parks. Enjoy what you have and often take for granted or just don’t see. Just look around you – something for everyone, for every budget and every interest. Create memories. Take the kids camping or fishing. Go to local historical sites. Drive to the next town and browse through the antique or book stores. Go walking on a nature trail. Go for a walk in your own downtown and tell the kids how it’s changed since you were a kid. Be a tourist in your own backyard. Rediscover what has been there all along.

Let's Get Real

I was chatting with some friends on a hunting forum and the subject of televised hunting shows came up. The person mentioned being tired of the same old – same old type shows that have a couple guys sitting over a feed plot behind a fancy blind and waiting on something to walk their way. They have their camera crew, state of the art equipment, wear the latest in hunting “fashions”, have all the new technical gear, thousand dollar rifles and scopes and seemingly all the comforts of home. I know the kind of shows they were referring to. And I agreed – I’m ready for something a bit more real.

I personally would love to see more shows get real. Shows dedicated to us "poor hunters" - the ones that are true do it yourselfer’s utilizing public land. Shows for those of us that don’t hunt with fancy equipment, who get in the woods with no guides. Where if we spend the night, we might have a tent on a sandbar or under an oak tree, or even just a couple old quilts in the bed of the truck. Most of us really don’t have a fully equipped cabin to run back to when the sun goes down. Many of us use the same firearm we started out with when we were nothing more than kids, or ones passed down to us from our fathers and grandfathers. I want shows where the hunter has to actually use his/her own wits and learned lessons to be successful in filling their tags.

Too many of the current hunting shows are simply dreams that are out of reach for many us hunters. Even if we already have a firearm, when you consider the cost of ammo, license, tags and transportation cost to get to the woods, often, that takes the whole hunting budget for some of us. There is a lot of difference in hunters that hunt as “professionals” or just for the sake of hunting and those of us that hunt out of need to provide food. Necessity hunters have a lot more riding on their success than just a nice trophy and pretty photo's. I remember several seasons that I simply couldn't afford to go hunting - I had a family and the kids needed shoes or school supplies instead. I couldn't take the money from the family budget to buy the license & tags. So, I sat and dreamed of times past and wished luck to those that could go.

I have never hunted from a stand. I have never hunted over a feed plot. I have never been on a guided hunt or been to a hunting camp other than where ever we stopped for the night. I have never been a member of a hunting club, so all of my hunting has been on public land. And I've done an awful lot of walking, stumbling, climbing, sliding, sweating and shivering through the years! I've fought mosquitoes big enough to mate with turkeys, bled gallons from brier scratches, hobbled with sprained ankles, shivered like a vibrating sander, watched all the pretty color changes in countless bruises, itched to insanity from poison ivy/oak/sumac, ate plenty of smushed bologna or pb & j sandwiches, drank creek and river water, and then swelled with pride when I managed to out-do the fellows!

Speaking of such, lets not forget seeing more females! Being female is difficult enough as it is without having to fight against an antiquated good ol’ boy system and prove ourselves over and over, getting looked at like we have a third eye in the middle of our forehead! In today’s world, there is no reason why us woman should have to stay at camp, keep the fire burning and do all the cooking. Most all firearm manufacturers have models suited to most woman’s smaller frames. Now I’m definitely not one of the smaller framed women, but it’s good to know that the availability is there! Where is a woman’s hunting show?

The same thing goes for taking the kids, boys or girls. Most manufacturers have youth models, so there is no excuse not to take them. And, with the ever changing politics, we never know when we will be really fighting to keep our rights. If our kids don’t grow up learning to hunt, learning to respect the land, learning the joys of hunting and experience the pride of being responsible for the meat on the dinner table, how can we expect them to fight for these rights when they are old enough? I don’t know about you, but I’d much rather pass on my old Winchester to one of the grandchildren instead of turning it over to the government! The children are our future. Give us a show with a youth hunt. I want to see the kids beaming with pride! I want to see them learning and enjoying a time old tradition.

Dear television hunting show producer – Show us some more traditional hunting. Quit showing me the same rich guys with the fat endorsement contracts, their fancy rifles and scopes, wearing the latest in hunting fashions while sitting comfortably on their behinds in a fancy blind waiting on that 6 X 6 elk, monster black bear or 10 point whitetail. Better yet, let’s get real – send those rich guys on a hunt with one of us!

Lost Identity

Somewhere between the wedding vows and the undertaker, women seem to lose their identity. How does this happen? As most of us married women will tell you, we remember being single. We remember being able to go and come as we wished, follow whatever schedule we wanted and we were able to do what we wanted when we wanted to. We had opinions, likes and dislikes, and had friends and hobbies. We had a personality of our own. We were a complete person. We had a name, and it was ours and ours alone. Then we get married.

In many cases, the first thing to go is our name. We take the name of our husband. Jane Smith becomes Jane Jones. Ok, so two become one, I understand this. Now, she is no longer recognized simply as Jane, she is MRS. Jones, or Tom’s wife. She is often treated as if she no longer has opinions or views of her own – it’s just assumed that she feels the same as her husband. She no longer has time for her own things because it interferes with her new wifely duties. Strangely, it doesn’t seem matter if Jane is employed outside the home or not.

Her hobbies are pushed to the back because there simply isn’t time to pursue them. After all, she has to plan the dinner party for her husband’s boss so her husband can win the big promotion. She has to prepare the holiday feast for the whole family since this will be their first one as a married couple. She has to clean the house and do the laundry and pick up the dry cleaning and make the dental appointments and book the flight for her husband’s business meeting. Then right smack in the middle of her already busy life, surprise, surprise, she discovers she is pregnant.

Fast forward about a year. Now, not only is she Tom’s wife, but she is Juniors mom. First at the daycare center and the pediatric office, then later at Junior’s school, she becomes simply Juniors mom. Maybe by this time she is Sally’s mom as well. And let’s not forget she is still Mrs. Jones, Tom’s wife.

Jane is no longer known for her kooky sense of humor, she’s known for the baking the best brownies for the class bake sale. She’s not known for her artistic ability in painting, but for her fantastic avocado & green onion dip at her husbands’ annual company picnic. She isn’t known for her taste in movies or music – she’s known as the band uniform fundraising coordinator and soccer mom. She just isn’t known as the fun loving, intelligent, witty, talented girl she used to be. Where is Jane? Where did she go?

I think too many of us allow ourselves to get lost. We ignore our desires to be who we really are. We deny ourselves the luxury of keeping our identities and no one really knows why. It seems that in today’s world, with all the so-called advances we have made as women in a modern society, we would be able to figure this one out. Have the expectations of society become so ingrained in our nature that it is now genetic? Have we evolved into what society expects us to be?

So how can we keep from losing ourselves? We have to insist and be stubborn about it. We have to remain connected to the outside world. We have to pursue our own interest, keep our own circle of friends. There is nothing wrong with being a wife and mother, but we are women as well. We are individuals with our own opinions, values, desires and dreams. We can not allow ourselves to forget that part.

Remember when you and your friends would meet at the bookstore to discuss the latest romance novel over a cup of coffee? Well, stay connected with these friends and meet at the bookstore every Wednesday evening. Remember how you liked to paint? Buy some cheap canvases, a few brushes, some paints and paint away! Really splurge and go to a spa for a facial or massage. Find some music you used to listen to and turn it up! Dance in your own living room! Spend some time with yourself. If you don’t, who will? Keep yourself active and up to date on current events. Volunteer for a cause that interest you. Offer to speak to a group of young people on a topic that you enjoy. Join a garden club. Go for a drive with the top down and let your hair blow in the wind. Go for a walk in the rain. The point is to keep yourself interesting.

There is nothing wrong with being Tom’s wife or Juniors mother. You just have to be yourself as well. If Tom married you because he found you interesting and a pleasure to be with, don’t you think he deserves to have the woman he married? I really don’t think the Toms of the world want an automaton partner with no personality. They have blow-up dolls for guys like that.

Junior may be a bit harder to convince – after all, you’ve always been just mom to him. He needs to know that you are a person, not just a figure in the household. How else is he to learn that you have feelings? Once he knows that you are indeed a person in your own right, you’ll be surprised how the relationship will change. Suddenly, Junior will be coming to you for advice, asking your opinion, and realizing that, hey, that mom lady really has a sense of humor!

It just takes a bit of practice and lots of discipline. We have to really want to hold onto ourselves. If you are truly happy being no more than the window dressing and the cook for your husband, or the housekeeper and transportation to your kids, then by all means, just forget everything you’ve just read. If, on the other hand, you really miss the woman you used to be, get off your behind and go looking for her. She’s still there you know.

Monsters In Our Midst

This article was first published in Going South Sportsman magazine in March 2008. Thanks to Roger for letting me get this off my chest. Since this was written, Gary Micheal Hilton has been indicted for the murder of Cheryl Dunlap, and is fighting extradition to Florida. It has not yet been decided whether the John & Irene Bryant case will be prosecuted by the state of North Carolina or whether it will be federally prosecuted.


Monsters In Our Midst

I know this is not the usual type of article that Going South usually prints, but I think this kind of affects us all. I also know this is a difficult topic -it’s the kind of stuff nightmares are made of. We are all outdoorsmen, and there are real life monsters in our midst.

The day is January 1, 2008. It’s a brand-new year. The weather is nice, but cool. It’s a perfect day to go hiking in the mountains of North Georgia, a perfect way for Meredith Hope Emerson and her beloved dog, Ella, to start the New Year. She leaves her home in Gwinnett County, Georgia and heads to Vogel State park in Union County, Georgia. She is never seen by her family or friends again. A “person of interest” was soon listed.

The person of interest was found January 4 and arrested on an unrelated charge in Dekalb County, Georgia. On January 7, her body was found in a wooded area in Dawson Forest in Dawson County, Georgia, which is about 50 miles from where she was last seen. The “person of interest” led law enforcement to her body in exchange for them not seeking the death penalty against him. According to the released information from the autopsy a few days later, she was alive approximately three days after being kidnapped and had died on January 4 from blunt force trauma to the head, with decapitation following her death.

The monster that is currently in jail for this horrible crime, is a 61 year old monster named Gary Michael Hilton. He had apparently been a drifter for quite some time. I won’t go into all the timeline details of this case, as that information can easily be found by anyone with access to a computer. Believe me, just Google the names involved and there are hundreds of sites, from newspaper articles, television news programs and open public forums full of everything from speculation and rumors, to actual good information.

Hilton has been seen by many visitors along both the hiking trails and in the wilderness areas that he and his dog, Dandy, frequented. On October 26, 2007, he had been given a warning ticket by a deputy in Cherokee County, Georgia for trespassing/camping on private land. The deputy ran his usual checks, found nothing, and released him. On November 17, a U.S. Forestry agent in the Apalachicola National Forest ran his tags. Another Forestry agent in the Osceola National Forest ran them on December 28. Hilton was obviously quite the traveler. Many of the people who had seen Hilton at various locations described him as “creepy”.

On January 31, Hilton pleaded guilty to the brutal murder of Meredith Emerson. He was immediately sentenced to life in prison with the possibility of parole in 30 years. In 2038, Hilton would be 91 years old. The medical problems Hilton supposedly has, along with his age, pretty much means he’ll never again walk our streets. But, it also means we, the taxpayers, will be paying for any of his medical needs, his food, clothing, shelter and protection, for as long as this monster lives.

After much investigation, it seems this monster is connected to and will be possibly charged in at least a few other murders as well. Law enforcement agencies in four states have tracked his travels since October 2007, and have him linked to the murders of at least four hikers from North Carolina, Florida and Georgia. Yet even more agencies are looking to see if there are more connections that can be made in other unsolved murder cases, some going back many years. The most publicized connected cases at this time are John and Irene Bryant in North Carolina and Cheryl Hodges Dunlap in Florida.



A retired, but very active couple, John (80) and Irene (84) Bryant, a North Carolina couple, were last seen alive on October 20 in the Pisgah National Forest located in western North Carolina. Mrs. Bryant’s body was found 3 weeks later about 50 paces from where their vehicle had been parked. She died from blunt force trauma to the head and her body was covered with leaves. The remains of her husband, John, were found on February 2, 2008 by a hunter in the Nantahala National Forest. Sheriff Mahoney from Transylvania County, NC stated on (or about) January 17 at an afternoon news conference that “This investigation has resulted in the investigative team being able to establish a positive link between Gary Michael Hilton and Transylvania County and, more specifically, to the case involving John and Irene Bryant.” They are now trying to resolve whether the state or the federal government will prosecute Hilton.


Cheryl Hodges Dunlap (46) of Crawfordville, Florida went missing on December 1. Her body was found by hunters on December 15 in the Apalachicola National Forest. Even though the law enforcement officials in this case have not officially released definite details, speculation is that Ms. Dunlap was also decapitated; possibly even her hands had been removed.







As I stated above, the body of Ms. Emerson was found due to the “deal” made with Gary Hilton – You take us to her body and we won’t seek the death penalty. I am sure that her family wanted to find her body, to have her body available to them for proper burial and perhaps a slight amount of closure. My question is, at what cost should a deal be made? Emotions can often make someone say or do things they normally would not in normal circumstances. Don’t you think the law enforcement involved should have considered this fact, rather than jumping so very quickly to cut a deal with such a monster?

What about the recent “deals” made for the person(s) responsible for the Christopher Barrios murder? This poor six year old little boy was abducted, raped, murdered,by strangulation, put into a trash bag then dumped into a small wooded area not too far from where he (and the killers) lived. Donald Dale – “Guilty but mentally retarded” and a few years in a mental institution and that’s it? Peggy Edenfield – No death penalty in exchange for her testimony against her husband, her son, and Donald Dale? You’ve got to be kidding me! Just how many more “deals” will be made for any of the monsters currently in the news before we say enough is enough?

How many “deals” have been made by law enforcement personnel that have allowed monsters such as Gary Hilton to be possibly released back into society or be given ridiculously reduced sentences? How many monsters get away with horrible crimes because some idiot feels sorry for them because they have a low IQ? How many of these monsters will we, the tax payer, have to feed, clothe, provide medical care, and house for the rest of their lives? How many monsters have to be treated with kid gloves, guarded by the authorities “for their own protection”? Who the hell was “protecting” their victims? We’ve simply got to make some changes people.

As for protecting yourself from these predators, most anyone with common sense knows they need to be aware of their surroundings. Many of us may even have what is known as a “Concealed Weapons Permit”. Now here’s what is funny – did you know that even if you have a permit, you ARE NOT allowed to carry on either State Park or National Park lands? It’s true, just look it up. If you have access to a computer, go to www.GeorgiaPacking.org. This site kind of takes the “legalese” of the laws and makes them easier for us regular folks to understand. Unless the new bills currently proposed pass, (www.georgiapacking.org/bills.php ) , according to Georgia Code 12-3-10, it is unlawful for any person to use or posses in any park, historic site or recreational area any firearms, bows and arrows, spring guns, air rifles, slingshots, or any other device which discharges projectiles by any means, unless the device is unloaded and stored so as to be not readily accessible or unless such use has been approved within restricted areas by prior written permission of the commissioner of natural resources or his authorized representative. According to National Parks Federal Regulation 35 CFR 2.4, it is unlawful to carry a firearm in a National Park unless it is unloaded and secured.

That’s right; you can’t even carry a slingshot! What this means is that if you are one of the many people who happen to enjoy just being in the great outdoors, or you enjoy hiking or walking on our state or nationally owned nature trails, you’re on your own, buddy. The State of Georgia does NOT provide guaranteed protection for you or your family if you are in a remote area on any of the many trails that are in our state. Yet, the state prevents us from protecting ourselves. The State of Georgia will provide law enforcement to search for our murdered bodies, they will pay the GBI to investigate our murder, they will pay the prosecutors to convict the criminal (providing they are even caught), but they won’t allow us to protect ourselves. This law needs to change. It needs to change NOW!

Now I realize there are many people who are totally against the death penalty. Some of the reasons might even make a little bit of sense to me. Even though I have weighed the pro’s and con’s myself, I still think the death penalty is the only way justice can or will ever be served when it comes to monsters such as these. There is a part of the brain that makes us human. Somehow, that part of their brain is missing or defective. If you have a dog that goes mad or is especially vicious, the dog is put down, either by a veterinarian or by someone simply taking the dog out and shooting him. Either way, the mad/vicious dog is just as dead. It will never again be a menace, it will never again cause harm to another. I feel the same way about the vicious beings that are lurking out in public or sitting in prisons across the nation. Get rid of the problem, make it permanent, and do it as quickly as possible. No more twenty or thirty years worth of appeals sitting on death row while we, the taxpayers, are paying for their upkeep. According to my research, the average cost for housing an inmate in a maximum security prison is between $25,000 & $28,000 per inmate, per year.

We, the people, simply have to start the needed changes. We need to bombard our law making officials with letters, phone calls, and anything else it takes to make them understand our needs, our wants and our beliefs. We need to let them know that we are tired of the way things are, tired of paying taxes that support the things we don’t believe in or want. We are tired of not being allowed to protect ourselves. We are tired of the justice system that allows pure evil to continue. Case in point is a quote from a friend of mine that lives in Blairsville. She told me to quote this:

“Just how many chances should a murderer get? With all of the advances in DNA and evidence technology, there are no more issues of wrong identity. Why do murderers get 7 appeals? Why should they get to choose how humane it is when given the death penalty? Why should a low IQ factor be figured in when a criminal commits murder? We are all taught right from wrong as little children. If they run, then they know it was wrong. When people choose not to live by the same rules and laws as the rest of us do, then they need to be punished, severely. If they commit murder then they are broken and cannot be fixed.”

The fact is the general public is tired of the way our justice system is working. They are tired of seeing more and more violent crimes being punished with the equivalent of a slap on the wrist and seeing these monsters released back into society.

Let’s take a quick look at some government crime statistics. This info can be found at
www.ojp.usdoj.gov/bjs/
• Fifty-three percent of jail inmates were on probation, parole or pretrial release at the time of arrest.
• Four in 10 jail inmates had a current or past sentence for a violent offense.
• Of the 272,111 persons released from prisons in 15 States in 1994, an estimated 67.5% were rearrested for a felony or serious misdemeanor within 3 years
• State courts sentenced 28% of convicted felons to straight probation with no jail or prison time to serve.
Of the defendants who had State felony charges filed against them in the Nation's 75 most populous counties during May 2002 --
• An estimated 62% were released by the court prior to the disposition of their case. Thirty-eight percent were detained until case disposition, including 6% who were denied bail.
• Of the 22% of released defendants who had a bench warrant issued for their arrest because they did not appear in court as scheduled, about a fourth, representing 6% of all released defendants, were still fugitives after 1 year.
These numbers tell a chilling tale. It really lets us know just how messed up things have become. They also let us know what things we need to change. If you have a computer, take the time to visit www.georgia.gov . Here you can find the listings, the phone numbers and the addresses of your elected officials, both State and Federal. You can also find this information at your local library. Take a few minutes to write a letter or make a phone call. It’s going to be up to us to see that changes are made and the cost of a stamp or the time for a phone call seems well worth it to me.

The Silver Lining
Sometimes, there can be a “silver lining” in even the most horrid and terrifying of stories. The story of Meredith Emerson is no exception. Meredith was a student at the University of Georgia between 2001 and 2005. The University of Georgia has established a fund in her honor. When the fund is fully endowed, The Meredith Hope Emerson Memorial Fund for Study Abroad will go to one student each year for study abroad in French speaking countries. Friends, family and UGA professors have stated it will be a fitting remembrance to Meredith as she was an outstanding student of the French Language, Literature, and Culture.

The Atlanta based duo, Indigo Girls, will donate the proceeds from the eBay auction of autographed, hand written lyrics to one of their hits - “Power of Two”. The proceeds of the auction will be donated to Paws Atlanta in memory of Meredith and her dog Ella.

On January 8, Winton Porter, owner of Mountain Crossings, received a phone call from Candis Jones, a customer that had been touched deeply by the events of the past week. She pitched the idea of a memorial walk and a Cherokee Smudging Ceremony. Winton like the idea and agreed to post the information on the Mountain Crossings Website. Candis emailed a couple of news stations and the walk was mentioned at Meredith’s Memorial Service in Athens on Friday. Margie, Winton’s wife posted the upcoming event on local forums. At first, Winton thought there may be 50 or so people to show up, but with the publicity, he quickly realized it was going to be bigger – much bigger. He said “The little snowball….was getting big.” The event was moved to Meeks Park. On January 20th, despite the frigid 12 degree temperatures, over 300 people turned out in Meeks Park in Union County for the Meredith Emerson Memorial Walk.

Coffee, hot chocolate, donuts and camaraderie were available to all. There were several speakers and the Cherokee “smudging” ceremony was performed. The Humane Society’s Mountain Shelter in Union County, Georgia not only provided neckerchiefs that said “Remember M. E.” for all the dogs in attendance, but also offered free microchip implants to all dogs at the event. The microchips allow the animals to be tracked if lost.

Winton told me “I was walking with a woman who drove 200 miles to participate in the event on that cold 12 degree day… she described the mood perfectly…A walk of frozen tears. I spoke with one reporter… who said that he has covered many murders over his 35 year career and he has never seen one have such an effect on him and his colleague as this incident with Meredith. His message echoed from many of the people I spoke to throughout the week. What, I heard through those conversations was that people needed this ceremony... it offered some closure and a path for healing. ”
Winton also told me “We have had over twice as many people in January on the trail hiking then what is normal. They are coming together mostly, some in single, many who simply feel it is necessary to reclaim.”
His personal feelings – “It is unfortunate that we cannot put up a magic curtain against evil. This man was a human predator, of the worst kind. I lie awake thinking about it, a fall asleep… I dream about it … what could I have done differently. In one instant we all have the ability to change an outcome.”
You can read more from Winton Porter, including the elegy, (the use of “elegy” vs. “eulogy” will be explained on the website) at http://mountaincrossings.zenfolio.com/p207145984/

This article has been difficult to write. Not only with the research involved, but having to scan through and read the horrible details of these and other cases. It will make anyone with a heart feel sadness and makes you hug your loved ones a little closer. It will make you angry to know that the very places we consider safe are not so. I hope this article has opened a few eyes. I hope it will start the process of changes needed in our judicial system. I also hope it makes it hard for us to ever forget the people who have died needlessly at the hands of monsters. The monsters in our midst.

The Little Hunter

It was about an hour or so before dawn. Mama and Daddy had already had their coffee; mama had packed the lunches she knew would be gone shortly after sunrise. Today it was fried potato sandwiches on white bread with mayonnaise. Daddy had both the shotguns in their cases sitting by the front door waiting to be loaded into the trunk, along with their game pouch vest and ammunition. Everything was ready except getting the little hunter out of bed and ready to go, and daddy knew that wouldn’t take long.

The little hunter had recently passed the required hunter’s safety course and was anxious to be able to use their newly acquired knowledge. Well, not new knowledge exactly. The child had been going hunting with daddy almost since they could walk and daddy had taught them well, but this time they had a card. A real official card they had earned and could carry that told anyone who saw it that they were good enough to be in the woods hunting with daddy. They no longer had to feel like they were just a kid that was tagging along.

Daddy popped his head into the child’s bedroom and said “Alright, hot rod, it’s time to go.” The little hunter didn’t have to be called twice. Right up out of bed and into the clothes they had laid out so carefully the night before. The little hunter started with the small thermal shirt, then the flannel one, thick socks, thermal long-johns, then jeans and the all weather, almost knee high boots. The little hunter grabbed the bright orange vest and a knit cap before going to the kitchen table.
Mama had a cup of homemade hot chocolate and a fresh pear preserve tart ready for the little hunter. Both were hot, but it didn’t slow them down. They were anxious to be going, anxious to be in the woods, and anxious to maybe be able to bring home some game for supper. Daddy said it was to be rabbit hunting today.

With everything loaded into the trunk they were off. They were going to a huge field area down by the lake. They often hunted here, sometimes for rabbit, sometimes quail, or ducks down a bit closer to the lake. It was a familiar area, easy to get to, and never crowded. Most other hunters passed up the small game for the larger animals like deer. This field was just about perfect.

They arrived just as dawn was breaking. Daddy had taught the little hunter how to whistle recently. Not just the carry-a-tune kind of whistle, but the really loud kind of whistle. The child had practiced and practiced all week until mama said enough was enough. Daddy said it would be good to use in case they ever got separated in the woods, so it had to be pretty important. The child showed daddy how good they had become. Daddy said he was proud, but that they needed to keep it a bit quieter for now.

Off they went, the little hunter following daddy, and then finally moving a bit faster to keep up side by side with daddy. The little hunter would, over the years to come, learn to walk in step with daddy. He wasn’t a big man by any means, but he had a long stride and a quick step. As the child grew up, their step became one with daddies. The two of them walking together in the woods would sound like one, step for step.

Sometimes daddy would stop and just listen. He had taught the little hunter all the little sounds of the woods and fields. He taught them how to watch the top of the grasses for movement that wasn’t the wind. He taught them how to look for the rabbits under the edges of the brush. The little hunter soaked up everything daddy said like a little sponge. Years into the future, the little hunter would pass this same knowledge on to their own children.

About thirty minutes after dawn, the little hunter spotted a rabbit going towards a clump of brush. The little hunter stopped walking, and on instinct, daddy stopped as well. The child made a quiet motion and pointed the rabbit out to daddy. Daddy nodded, giving his permission for his little hunter to take the shot. Taking their time and being as quiet as possible, and with careful aim of the Stevens single shot .410 they had gotten for their 8th birthday last year, the little hunter took the shot. With great pride, they realized they had gotten the first rabbit of the day.
It was a nice, fat, buck cottontail, just perfect for frying. The little hunter picked up the prize and stuffed it into the back of their game vest. How proud the little hunter was! Daddy had a bit of pride himself. Off they walked to continue their hunt. By the time it was 7:30, daddy had two rabbits and the little hunter had two. Not a bad morning at all.

They went back to the car and began loading everything into the trunk. The guns were unloaded and checked, then put into their cases, but the little hunter knew that as soon as they had skinned and cleaned the rabbits and given them to mama for supper, the guns would be again be taken out of the case and cleaned. Daddy had taught the child that if you take care of your firearm, it will last a lifetime and always be there to take care of you. Daddy was right, as the little hunter would always have the Stevens shotgun, perhaps one day passing it on to one of their children or grandchildren. The little hunter would acquire several other firearms in their lifetime, but none would hold such a place in their heart as this very first one.

Once they arrived home and everything was unloaded, they went out back to clean the rabbits. Daddy taught the little hunter to never, ever kill anything that they didn’t intend to eat unless it was really necessary. Daddy had also taught the child how to properly dress any animal that they killed, from little rabbits to big deer. The little hunter was as handy with a skinning knife as daddy was, and just as careful and clean. Within a few minutes the rabbits were ready for the frying pan. Mama put them in a pan of water and set them in the refrigerator until time to start supper.

Daddy and the little hunter brought in the rest of their things and put them away in their proper places to be ready for their next hunt. They brought their shotguns into the living room and opened their cleaning kits. The little hunter had their very own. When the guns were properly cleaned, they went again into their cases and were put away. Both guns were stored in the closet of the owner. Yes, the little hunter was able to keep their firearm in their own room. There was no chance of a mishap or accident. Daddy had taught them that the shotgun, and any other firearm, was a tool with a special purpose, not a toy to be played with.

That evening during supper, mama said how good the rabbit was and how proud she was of the little hunter. Daddy had also taught humility, so of course, the little hunter acted like it was nothing, even though they were quite pleased and thankful for the compliments. These early morning hunts with daddy were always a source of joy and were looked forward to with eager anticipation. After all, there are not too many girls who get to go hunting with daddy.

Feminine?

Feminine - it brings to mind the color pink, flowers, lace, bows, and perfume. It brings to mind perfectly manicured nails, every hair in place, pouty lips and a slight sense of helplessness. Small figured woman with small bones that wear small dresses, small jewelry, and small shoes. It makes you think of the perfect little wife who bakes cookies and has dinner on the table for her husband and children every day promptly at six. Non-argumentative, a bit on the helpless side, unable to make decisions, and always needing a man to take care of her because she’s so delicate, so, um, so feminine. Yeah right. Not in my world.

I am about 5 feet, seven and a half inches tall. I am big boned and I’ve got some big meat wrapped around those big bones. I was the oldest, so I was daddy’s “boy”. While other little girls were having sleep-overs and playing dress up, I was going hunting and fishing with daddy. While the other girls were playing with their tea sets and Barbie dolls, I was playing full contact tackle football with the sons of my dad’s friends. When my mother took me shopping for my first bra, I was hysterical! I had the idea that with the sudden growth of the new bumps on my chest, I would no longer be able to go hunting because I wouldn’t be able to shoot. The new bumps would get in the way. Daddy had to tell me that they would be no problem. I was alright after that.

In my growing up, my mother did her very best to teach me all the things a young lady should know. At the time, I thought it was pretty boring, but I am thankful that I know which fork goes with which course and how to set a formal dinner table; I can attend a formal tea and not feel like an idiot. I know which stemware is for white wine and which one for red. She taught me how to speak, how to dress, sit, stand and walk like a young lady should. It just seemed funny at the time with my skinned elbows, ripped jeans and hair flying.

At age nineteen, I married and began a family. My choice of husband was all wrong. I wound up having to be the man in the family. He seemed to have a medical problem – he was allergic to working, so I was the breadwinner. I made the money and he spent it. I made all the major purchase decisions until he learned he could use my credit and get things in his name. Things like a motorcycle and a credit card. The card was maxed out in less than a month and he lost the motorcycle after our divorce. Luckily, I didn’t have to pay for either.

Jobs that I have over the years are varied, and not much is feminine about them. Ok, so maybe being a waitress is a feminine job, but a landscaper? Not so much. Neither is managing a pawn shop, which I loved. I had a bit of trouble when I first started at the pawn shop though. Seems the men folks just didn’t think a female had any sense or knowledge when it came to firearms and tools. Once they learned that indeed, I did know, they began to trust me, coming to me quite often for advice on their firearms, or asking which brand of tool was the best in my opinion. I was also a lead sawyer for wood mill. I ran a commercial gang saw and pulled, lifted, cut, loaded, and stacked lumber weighing more than I did, and had a ball. Definitely not a feminine job – splinters makes for some rough hands.

My husband now is so much different than my first one. He actually works! When he and I got together, I was working at a large chain bookstore. The managers were just kids and behaved as such. When the store closed at eleven pm, it was often two am before we got out of there. I had reached the age where two am is WAY past my bedtime, and I was quite dissatisfied. When I told my husband about it, his reply was to quit. I told him I planned on it as soon as I had something else lined up. He said no, just quit and stay home, so I did. For the first few weeks, I was lost. I had no idea what to do with my time as I had no routine to fall back on. It didn’t take me long to learn. I discovered it was nice to have the house clean, the laundry done and a meal on the table when he got home from work. It was nice to have the time to visit with my family and friends. I was married, but I had more freedom. I was a housewife for the first time in my life. It’s the most feminine job I have ever had.

As for feminine looks, I’ve never had the skin for make-up. It just makes me break out, so I wear it very seldom. My hair is long, which could be considered the only feminine trait I have other than in the boobs department. I don’t have long nails. I have large hands that are rough from working. Sure, I can dress the feminine part, do the whole heels and hose thing as I call it, but I’m more comfortable in jeans and a t-shirt. I only wear earrings when I think about it, a necklace very seldom, my wedding ring, a small sapphire ring I bought myself from the pawn shop, and a large turquoise ring that actually belongs to my son. Nope, there’s nothing feminine about my everyday looks.

I am a wife and a mother. I am a lover to my husband. I think I am a good daughter and a decent sister. I am argumentative when I feel it’s needed, and I am not helpless in any way. I don’t do lace and frills or waste time in front of the mirror doing my hair and make-up. I still go hunting and fishing and I drive a 4 wheel drive standard shift Jeep.

Ok, so I’m not a poster child for feminine. I am a no nonsense, 100% self sufficient, tough, able to handle anything and keep on going Woman. I wouldn’t change a thing. Being considered feminine? I think it’s overrated!

No Place Like Home

No Place like Home

A couple of years ago, I moved two thousand miles from my home in south east Georgia to south west Colorado. My new husband was raised in the mountains of the west and wished to return. I grew up with a military father and had moved often as a child, so I assumed that with a new marriage and with my children pretty much grown, that I would have no problem with the move. I rationalized that it would give me a change and may even be an adventure and a chance to see and do new things.

I was so very wrong. Everything was so different than what I knew. The climate was strange. The environment was strange, the birds, the wildlife, the smells, the available foods, even the people. I learned a lot about myself. I came to realize that I had always taken our southern hospitality and ways of living for granted. I learned very quickly that I was in the wrong place. Sure, there were some beautiful places and lots of things to see and do, but it all became old very, very quickly. After much pleading and praying, much thinking, lots of financial planning and a bit of luck, we finally made it back to Brunswick.

I learned that I am not from the mountains; I am a flatlander, born and bred. I am not from a place where the rain evaporates before it even hits the ground, where narrow, shallow creeks are called rivers, where the tallest trees are little more than shrubs, where the only colors you see are shades of brown, gray, and dull green and where flowers do not bloom in spring because of the cold. I am from a place where the rivers are wide and deep and flow down to kiss the ocean. I am from a lush, almost tropical area where the land meets the sea, where the trees are tall and the flowers bloom, sometimes all year. The marsh mud runs deep in my veins. The colors, the scents and the sounds of Coastal Georgia are all a part of what makes me who I am today.

The history of this area is part of me as well, as I have ancestors who settled the area when parts of Georgia were still considered to be frontier. I have ancestors who fought in both the Revolutionary War and the Civil War who were born, lived, died and are buried within an hour or two’s drive. These ancestors paved the way for those of us who came after. They planted, they fought, and they raised their families back in the very beginnings of the state. It became home to them, as it is home to me.

It is here that holds my fondest memories. This is where I began life as a “Navy Brat”, the child of a sailor and a sharecropper’s daughter. It’s where I started to school, learned to ride a bicycle, fed the birds at the old Hardee’s restaurant and ate M&M’s in a downtown park with my granddaddy. It’s where I learned to drive, spent my teenage wild years, and used to go to the feed store and play with the baby chicks when I was small. It‘s where I finished growing up, and where I started my own family. I have experienced new life here with the birth of my children, my niece, and several new cousins. I have also seen death here with the loss of my grandparents, an uncle and my father. So many memories, even the sad ones, which also makes it home to me .

The dawn breaks with the chirping of the birds. The sun is just rising and giving a warm orange glow to the early morning sky. In the distance I hear a dog bark and a log truck go by on the highway. The azaleas are blooming in splashes of pink and the wisteria vines have begun their show of lavender blooms as well. Spanish moss sways in the breeze, almost seeming to drip off of the giant, old live oak trees. The grass glistens with the morning dew.

The scents of early morning are quite mixed - a combination of pine forest, magnolia blooms, newly mown grass, freshly turned earth and salt air. Even though it is still quite early, it is already warm and the humidity is high letting you know you are on the southern Georgia coast. The temperatures have already hit the 70’s during the day and it is only the beginning of March. Everything around speaks of spring, yet you are teased with a hint of the long hot summer to come. Flowers and bedding plants are crowded into the local stores. Gardeners have already begun to plow and plant most of their garden vegetables.

I sit on my front porch, cup of coffee in hand, watching a huge red-headed woodpecker seek his fortune in the bark of the big pine tree in my front yard. I watch the doves on the ground under my bird feeder and hear the mockingbirds and jays call to each other. This evening, I’ll be able to watch the hummingbirds at the feeder and listen to the crickets and whippoorwills, or maybe even go down to the river and fish a while before dark catches me. After being away from this area for quite some time, I have come to realize how important it is to me it is to simply see, feel, hear and smell the familiar. I now know what “having roots” really means, how important family ties are and how important all the little things are that I will never again take for granted.

I can relate to the fictional Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz, as even though I may have had an adventure, seen new things and met new people, I have learned there truly is “no place like home, there’s no place like home”……