Fence posts...

     Change like time is a fact of life...just think how much things change. I can only imagine what my grandparents saw and experienced in their lifetimes and how much change occurred. I still hear from my parents about how different things are today compared to their youth. I'm not exactly what you'd call “long in the tooth”, but I've been around long enough to see my far share of change...satellite TV, internet, cell phones, technology run a muck and I'm still either too dense or stubborn to grasp on...

      Most of the time, change can be good. But, as things change, move forward and advance, we lose things. We lose parts of our past, we lose how things used to be, we lose our history, we forget...On a recent trip that I took from tip to tip of our State, I noticed something as I glanced out across the fields covered in soybeans and corn as the miles ticked by...no fence rows. It's the same here in our corner of Indiana. It's change...farming practices have changed and evolved to keep up with the times and the economy. More efficient methods of land use are the norm today and no one can blame the farmer as he eeks out his living and tries to get the most out of his soil...It's row to row and ditch to ditch and in doing so, the old fence rows are gone...A thing of the past. A memory, a dinosaur...

      Growing up as a budding hunter, I spent many an afternoon with pals trodding along overgrown fence rows hoping to scare out a rabbit for a waiting shotgun. If we were lucky, someone would have a willing beagle to work the rows, but most of the time, we chucked rocks, dirt clods or whatever else we could find into the brush. Occasionally, a covey of quail would bust from the cover and a hail of No. 6 shot would fill the air...I've spent hours tucked back in the vines and cedars that grew up between the rusted barbed wire along a well used deer trail. I'd wait in ambush in hopes for a shot at a deer, sometimes sitting on an old five gallon bucket, but most of the time sidled up against a weathered locust or hedge apple post sitting Indian style until my legs were numb. I can still remember the fence rows covered in blackberries and which ones seemed to ripen early and the best place to pick without ticks and chiggers and filling up sherbet containers or cool whip bowls with our prizes...

      One fence row in particular stands out...it was a hold out and managed to survive until a few years ago. I spent countless hours hidden there in the fall and a few deer fell to my slugs and arrows. It was choked with cedars and it's locust posts were worn gray and I've ripped more than several pairs of pants as I crossed its barbed wire strands on my trips to the woods...a cool, damp spring morning a few years ago, found my son and I stashed away along the fence row, almost invisible as we melted into our surroundings. Daylight broke and with it, turkeys gobbling on the roost up and down the valley behind us...A few minutes later, I had somehow managed to fool one of the birds with my calls and a tom sounded off directly behind us...my boy's eyes wide as my heart pounded and hair on the back of my neck raised on full alert. To our left, the fire engine red head of the tom as he poked out of the fence row and made a “B” line towards our decoy...The boy's 20 gauge barked and the big bird fell in his tracks as we leap to our feet and ran to his trophy. The smile across the nine year old's face said all that needed to be said...

      The old fence row has long since been bulldozed and all that remains is the heap of bleached white bones of the cedar trees and some tangled woven wire and broken strands of barbwire...but, each time I walk past the pile trees and fence posts, my mind races back to that morning years ago and I can still hear the turkeys thundering their calls, the blast of the shotgun and see the excitement of a young hunter and it brings a grin to my face and raises a lump in my throat. The fence row might have changed, but the memory hasn't...

Father's Day...

      It could've been any number of weekday summer mornings years ago...I couldn't have been much over 10 or 11 years old. Wide awake and ready to go. Rods in the boat, bait out of the freezer, now all I had to do was wait...About 8:30 he'd roll in, eyes bloodshot red and body tired after working the third shift, midnight 'til 8am, but most of the time 8pm to the next morning, never one to turn down overtime, blue collar to the core...Dad asks if I've got everything in the boat and ready to go? “Yep”, I'd reply as he sits his old plastic lunch box ,covered in Chiquita banana stickers on the counter. A few minutes later and we're dropping the old aluminum runabout into the water for a morning of catfishing on the river., a cloud of blue smoke puffing from the antique Evinrude...This scene played out more times than I can count and I can still remember watching the old fiberglass rods with the cork handles tap, tap, tap ever so slightly and then nearly be pulled overboard as a channel or flathead screamed line off the Zebco 33's...But more than the fish, I remember my dad and I sitting in the boat, anchored up in some deep hole spending time together. Sometimes the water fast, sometimes slack depending on what Markland was doing... Drinking Pepsi's and killing time and listening to a CB radio...Eventually, sleep deprivation would get the best of him and if the bite was slow, we'd reel in and call it a morning. Before heading home, we'd make a trip to the upper reaches of Grant's Creek to check a hidden minnow trap or make a pass out Arnold's Creek to seine more bait to replenish our supply. But the bait or the fish didn't mean that much to me then or now...it was the time spent.

      Years passed and the catfishing gave way to bass fishing in all the local ponds. We yanked a lot of fish, but most were released to swim another day. Rapalas and Jitterbugs tossed along the banks hoping to have a bucketmouth send the bait skyward. Dad was content to stand in one spot while I'd explore my way around the banks and hopefully catch more or bigger fish than the old man...The sun would finally beat us down or the darkness would set in and we knew it was time to head home and give it a rest. Certain catches and specific ponds still stick in my mind, but it was the memories made that meant more than the bass caught...

      Eventually, our fishing forays became fewer and farther between...high school, friends, girls, part-times jobs and college have a way of messing up time between fathers and sons. We'd still manage a few evenings here and there to wet a line, but the life of a young man gets in the way. Bass boats and an occasional tournament filled the void between us, but adulthood and responsibility has a way of chipping at time...work, family and kids came along and the boats were sold and the rods gathered dust, but the memories still last.

      My dad isn't an overly emotional or talkative type guy, never was...but he had his own way of encouraging my passion for the outdoors. At the drop of a hat, he was always willing to throw the poles in the back of the truck and walk across a chigger filled pasture to some cow pond to take his boy fishing. He isn't one to tell you how he feels, but I know...he showed it...whether we were building model trains, hitting fly balls and fielding grounders, or taking a pudgy, little kid with coke bottle thick glasses to a fishing hole...he showed it. I can only hope that I've shown my kids the same when our time is chipped a way.

Coming into His Own...

     Focus behind the shoulder, 10 ring...The recurve bow holding all of the energy he puts into it. His draw is smooth as he hits anchor, holds for a split second and the cedar arrow is released. It's flight fast, but still a graceful arch as the solid thump of arrow striking foam follows 20 yards distant...He turns and the grin he wears says it all. The older fellas in the group congratulate the boy on another great shot as we make our way to the target.

      We pull the arrows and call out the scores, his reads two 10's and the smile returns to his face as more back slapping and “good shots” and accolades are tossed his direction. The kid is meek, quiet, reserved...but with his recurve in hand and arrows launched, his 6 foot frame is a little straighter, his shoulders a little more broad. His whole demeanor changes and the quiet kid in the shadows stands out, even among the more experienced archers at the competition. He is developing a reputation among the ranks of traditionalists and his Dad's pride swells as the once little boy finds his own niche.

      His skills on the target range have far surpassed the old man's and his 20/20 vision bests his Dad's by far...What used to be a kid in awe of his pop has now turned into a game of peers. The boy launching arrows down range and hitting the 8's and 10's with regularity and his Dad trying to keep up and even the score. From pats on the head and encouragement after missed shots to joking and ribbing one another as the relationship matures and changes...I knew it was bound to happen, whether on range or the basketball court where he both beats his Dad...

     The time on the range passes quickly...Time to load up and head back home. The kid wolfs down a couple of burgers on the drive and then dozes off in the passenger seat, still revealing a fragment of childhood left in him. He looks peaceful at rest...As I drop him off at his mom's house and drive away, I think about how much he has grown. I think about how I used to drag him to the 3D shoots, a kid sized longbow and shortened arrows in his hands. I recall watching the tiny shafts bouncing off the targets and the smile that would come across his face when an arrow would actually stick in the side of the foam deer, elk or bear. How he would soak in the conversation from the other shooters and how he was always made to feel included by the guys at the range. I think about him now and how his shooting skills and manner has earned him the respect of that same group. I think about him being a young man and finding his own way...The time on the range has passed quickly...too quickly and I wonder where it has went and how to get it back...

     A friend of mine wrote that the growing up of children is like arrows...both are meant to fly.