Night Lights

Tales from a Hunting Journal

(Part XII)

  

     My nephew, my brother's son, does not visit much.  He is chained to the suburbs by parents unwilling to make the trip to visit Grandma and Grandpa.  My brother likes to forget about the outdoors and our family traditions.  His son only hears whispers of the stories of a young man afield.  But every once in awhile, on a rare occasion, I kidnap my nephew and allow him to explore a whole new world, free of mini-vans and soccer practice.  He gets to play freely amongst the trees.

     And so shortly after Christmas, my brother and his family visit a weekend or two after the holiday to celebrate.  I told my nephew I would drive him back to "civilization" so he could spend an extra night at Grandma's house.  Part of the deal, however, was that the night had to be spent coyote hunting.  This deal did not go over well with my daughters as they had not yet gone coyote hunting and desperately wanted to.  Grandpa jumped at the chance to hunt with his grandson and a sleepover quickly turned into an event.

     The night was cold and clear as we packed the side-by-side for the trip to our set-up.  Grandpa wanted to sit up in the two-man stand so Justyn wouldn't be so apprehensive (coyotes don't climb ladders, do they?).  We bumped along the woods trails, eerily looking like a dark-leaved tunnel in the UTV's headlights, not saying a word, Justyn shivering a little with cold and excitement.  We parked and trucked through the snow into the stand.  I hunkered down about 35 yards in front and off to the side with caller in hand.  Sitting in a lawn chair, back to a tree, as the caller wailed like a wounded rabbit, I tried to pierce the night's shroud with my stare.  A handful of times I thought I saw shadows move and I felt as if Justyn and Grandpa were using me for bait.  Several eternities passed in between scanning the field for glowing eyes.  The excitement and enjoyment were tangible, I couldn't tell if I were more excited because of the hunt or who was hunting.  The whole thing seemed so joyously surreal.

     Before the excitement wore off and turned into frigid boredom, Grandpa flipped on the spotlight and took a poke at an imaginary critter.  Justyn got to hold the spotlight, to hear a shot, to smell the gunpowder in the air.  We gathered our gear and walked out into the field.  Justyn led the way looking for the stealthy creature that was hiding amongst the pines, flitting in the shadows.  Not able to find a drop of blood or ounce of fur, we headed back to our rig and followed the drifting woodsmoke back home to a warm fire and hot chocolate.

     Forever turned out to be two hours of sitting and it was perfect.   

The Flights of Fall

Tales from a Hunting Journal

(Part XI)

     The third time wasn't a charm, it was magical.  Our party of four was only three, Chris Hubert, Dad, and I.  I had tried all the old boys but age or whatever held them at home, more the better looking back now.  I asked Big Chris Simpson, who declined because of layoffs and the recession and such.  But I had never mentioned money and never really cared too much about it.  The money had already been taken out of the bank and the hunt was already paid for.  The two Chris's, Dad, and I got packed for a day afield, a rainy day as usual.

     The rain came down and the wind howled along the highway as we drove the lonely road from NJ to Starlight.  Hubert and I talked in spurts more to keep us awake than to discuss anything.  Our early morning arrival saw a brush of snow that didn't linger and a warm couch that quietly welcomed our work-weary bodies.  Big Chris, not knowing how hunting works, was right on time, 7:15 on the dot.  Dad was ready for all of us with guns, vests, and everything but ammo laid out on the floor.  A quick ATV ride to the cabin to retrieve a couple of boxes of ammo in the crisp morning air woke me up and readied me for the day's adventure.

     The day was the normal rainy day with the extra bonus of gusting winds thrown in for good measure.  We waited a bit for the wind to die and rain to subside to a sporadic drizzle and the birds were deployed.  A short walk up the hill and we were hunting with our guide and his dog.  The briars pricked as we plodded through the fields.  The wind stung our faces with little needles of rain.  The shotguns bit our shoulders with strong recoil as feathers and laughter filled the air.

     Ten out of twelve we shot.  A good result for a foursome that hadn't hunted together before and had never practiced.  Dad blew through boxes of 12 gauge as fast as his 1100 could spit them out.  I enjoyed lingering a little longer on target with my faithful single shot, the stovepipe.  We all downed birds and we all missed the two that got away.  The morning blew by, filled with the ribbing, the ball-busting, the gruff jabs at the lack of accuracy, hearty laughter that cleanses the soul.  It truly felt like "hunting camp".

     We have planned to meet like this every year.  It would be good to have that magic to look forward to, to hold on to, to believe in again.  Hopefully the magic won't die.  I have no doubt that the magic is there.  This time of year always proves it.  The faces and fields may change but the magic always reappears.  I am thankful for that.

The Forgotten Day

The Forgotten Day

      It should be right behind the Fourth of July. It should be held in higher regard than all the rest. There is no reason for it to be forgotten. Parades and ceremonies and fireworks simply are not enough. This is a day to truly be thankful, a day that should be met with football and giant dinners and family gatherings. It is the one day that should never be taken for granted. Today is Veteran's Day.
      The company I work for, like most companies theses days, does not recognize today as a day worthy of remembrance. It is a normal Friday. The union, as willing to accept dues as they are to concede recognized holidays, does not consider today a day worth fighting for. I wear the American flag stitched upon my work clothes, but can not recognize the heroes of this country without a sick day. The men and women who have fought and sacrificed for my rights and freedoms are not worthy of a day of recognition according to many, my company, it's customers, Local 807, and most of the rest of country included. The beginning of Summer is more important. The "unofficial" end of Summer is more important. A fictitious fat man in a red suit is more important. Watching a giant ball descend a pole while partying with friends is much more important. The veterans of this country are not as important as these things. However, without them we would not celebrate such frivolous matters.
      For many years, I hunted with my father on Veteran's Day. We used to meet in the morning and drive to the Delaware Water Gap and walk the fields there in search of small game, pheasants and squirrels mostly. We never mentioned that it was a holiday. We just walked the woods together. Spending time together was enough, no hoopla. As my parents left New Jersey to reside in the slower pace of Pennsylvania, my father and I still made plans to meet on Veteran's Day to walk the same fields. Times have changed since those youthful hunts. The holiday calendar at work has grown lean on what is considered an important or allowable day off. I, at one time, resorted to sick days to keep the tradition of hunting with my dad on Veteran's Day going. Recently, I have used seniority and vacation to ensure that this day is spent with family.
      My father is a disabled veteran of the Vietnam Conflict. He carries many scars of all kinds with him. There were years when those scars took their toll not only on him. I lost some years to those scars, too. The loss was of time and chances to make memories and I refuse to allow that to ever happen again. My children take pride in the fact that their grandfather was a soldier and fought for this country. I will not allow them to lose the opportunity to make memories of time spent with their grandfather. They proudly celebrate this day knowing they are, in some small part, connected to it. It is his day and he should have it. He has surely earned it and continues to earn it, everyday.
      My story is only one of thousands, perhaps millions by now. My experiences of the effect of war and the cost of politics and freedom are merely a blade of grass in a meadow of such experiences. All of those stories deserve a place, a day of recognition, a moment to reflect and remember, and a small word of thanks. These stories are attached to lives, to families. They can not be allowed to fade from the memory of a nation. They have sacrificed for every American. They have earned their day.
Who wants to be the one that takes their day away? Who wants to be the one that allows their memories to fade? Who wants to be the one that keeps their stories from being told?

It will not be me. Mine is but a small inconvenience compared to their scarifices. It will not be me.

Another year has passed and the ranks of the forgotten have grown.  The VA hospital and its tale of woes shines brightly on my TV.  I will not be the one to forget and so I continue to present this work each year. 

Yawkey Way

     The street is small but all the stands and activity and banners make it seem even tighter. The intersection where we had parked led either down the shadowed tight street or along a sunlit walk dotted with statutes.  The anchor of that intersection was a ticket booth and entrance gate that stood tall yet oddly inviting, as if to keep the people, and anything else, in more than the crowd gathering outside out.  We were a part of that gathering crowd, lining up to buy a ticket to visit this historic structure, the oldest ballpark in the nation.
     Fenway Park sits on Yawkey Way in Boston, MA.  It's mailing address is 4 Yawkey Way and that street is filled with the park's "official" store, concession stands, and banners touting the home of the Boston Red Sox.  The store is the meeting place for tour-goers and baseball fans and history buffs to become acquainted with their tour guide for the day.  And ours was an old gentleman steeped in both Boston tradition and baseball history.  He was accompanied by two younger ushers that would keep us on our route.  Armed with a portable loudspeaker, he greeted our group with a smile and joke and small history lesson about this nationally-recorded landmark.  And then our journey began.
     Through the service gates we flowed.  Down into the bottom hallway dotted with concession stands and food carts and medical golf carts.  We were in the famous hallway that has been used in a whole slew of movies, most notably "The Town" and even a zombie B-movie.  Prominent among all of the signs and banners and menus was one frame filled with a Boston Red Sox jersey with the Boston area code 617 adorning it and a B Strong patch.  It is there as a reminder and memorial to the victims of the Marathon Bombing in 2013.  The tour silently passes the jersey and climbs a short staircase out a tunnel that leads to daylight and the interior of the ballpark.  Everywhere around us is green.  We are swallowed by it, blinded by it, thoroughly engulfed.  The seats are painted green.  The infrastructure is dark green.  The green padded walls fight to contain the perfectly manicured grass, which is the color of green, green grass only brighter, sparkling, almost to the point of hurting our eyes.  Our guide takes up a position at the front of the bleachers so that we may all sit and listen as he retells stories of days gone past when there was nothing but swamp and mud on the spot we now occupy.  There is the story of the walls burning down because of a forgotten cigar that lit a blaze.  Another story of the morse code hidden among the scoreboard commemorating the owners of the team.  The mysterious ladder hanging in the middle of the "Green Monsta" with no top nor bottom has a story.  Babe Ruth, Boston, New York, Ted Williams, announcers, and even fans (The Royal Rooters), all have myths and tales and legends and curses.  The ballpark (don't call it a stadium or an old gentleman from Boston will visit you with a baseball bat and a hard lesson about "real" baseball) is filled with all of these and more.
     Our heads swimming with tales of times long past, we climb to the top of the Green Monster, a harrowing green monolith in left field that dares hitters to try to sail a ball over it.  We are told that balls careen off the wall at over 90 mph and with the right angle a ball will sail clear out of the park if it gets over the Monster and down to the street and famous tavern below.  The view from up there is spectacular, the best of any ballpark, straight down the third base line to home plate.  The kids sit in the coveted seats and imagine a game taking place.
     We head away from the Monster and toward the press boxes.  Lining the walls are a collection of Sports Illustrated covers, every one that a Red Sox player has ever been on.  Then comes the Hall of Fame and plaques to commemorate every Red Sox milestone.  Finally, before reaching the booths of all the TV and radio announcers, we see old jerseys dating back to an original one from the turn of last century, over 100 years of baseball.  We visit the behind-the-scenes workings of the park and head toward an exit in right field.  On the way we pass the only red seat in the place, deep in the bleachers of right.  It was placed there, among the sea of green, to note the longest home run hit here, 502 feet.  It was hit by Ted Williams and the distance was measured accurately by the old man with the straw hat that dozed in that seat when the home run knocked him in the head.  To this day, the family of Mr. Boucher, the man with the straw hat, return every so often to visit that historic seat. 
     The final stop before leaving the park was the Royal Rooters Club.  It is a pub, a museum, a place of solace for any Red Sox fan.  It is a giant room filled with memorabilia, gloves, bats, jerseys, pictures, and old guides wearing multiple World Series rings now that the curse has been lifted.  The place is a summation of the ballpark, of the town.  Fenway Park is the history of America's sport.  It does more than house a baseball team, it holds the story of baseball itself.  Among the walls and concrete and wood, ghosts of glorious days gone by walk, stories litter the stands like peanut shells, myths hide in every nook of the place.  In some places you can smell the old leather and hear the faint roar of crowds lingering on the breeze.  This is what baseball was, is, and always should be, a landmark that refuses to expand to meet the salary demands of the spoiled children playing now but holds true to the history contained within it.  And Boston, a town that supports, with hard-headed determination, that sort of die-hard tradition.  This is a landmark that should be visited by any fan of any sport to see how legends are built, for a lifetime.

Boston Uncommon

     The road less traveled eventually led back to a major highway and a big city.  The jagged coast that caught the pilgrims so long ago gave way to the harbor and bustle of Boston.  Our journey through history that began in Gettysburg, led us to Valley Forge, wandered the streets of Williamsburg, paused in awe at the Liberty Bell, and even fired antique cannons from the cliffs of Fort Lee, now brought us to the beginning of it all, the site of the Boston Tea Party.
     There, sitting in the harbor, are two replicas of the ships that were raided on that fateful night in December as part of a new museum dedicated to this revolutionary history.  The experience is not an all together long one, easily visited in a short afternoon, but is well worth the visit.  As we approached the museum we were greeted by period-garbed Revolutionaries attracting a crowd with their indignant cries of improper taxation.  Once inside more re-enactors circulated feathers among the participants of the town hall meeting so that we may wear them as a disguise for when we raided the ships.  In the dark of the mid-afternoon we would assume the appearance of an Indian raiding party.  Along with our disguises we were given small cards depicting our true identities as New Englanders, Bostonians, soon-to-be Americans, and forgotten Revolutionaries.  And soon we come face to face with Sam Adams, patriot.
     Riled by the town meeting and the rhetoric of Sam Adams, we storm out of the town hall and out onto the deck of the ships in the harbor and proceed to toss crates of tea into Boston harbor.  We explore the small merchant ship and huzzah at our criminal mischief.  Disembarking from the ship we come to a plaque memorializing all the participants of the protest.  Looking to our ID cards, we are able to find our names on the plaque and read the history and background of that person.  The rest of the museum is back inside with cool holograms and talking paintings and a short movie chronicling the beginning of the war with England that would lead to our country's independence.  We retire upstairs to take tea in a colonial tea room along with a small pastry and reflect on our civil disobedience.
     With today's classrooms concentrating more and more on the basics of reading, writing, and arithmetic in order to meet quotas and deadlines and state-mandated test scores; with more detailed subjects like history, and the literary, artistic, and scientific milestones contained therein, being glossed over with only the broadest of strokes, I (perhaps in my older age) have become acutely aware of many gaps in my children's education, especially when it comes to how we as a country, as a society, as a government, as Americans have come to be in the 21st century.  I will not allow my family to go blindly into life to form opinions without a thought to the history that has made this country great and the hardened men and women that have laid the foundation for us all.  And so we pack up the truck and head further down the road into history, smiling with a feather in our cap.

The Pilgrim's Coast

     The warm winds of August fueled our journey for salty air and fresh seafood.  So we packed up the truck once again and headed north to find the succulent tails of lobster and rocky shores of New England.  The ride seemed to pass quickly as we added some roadside attractions to break the monotony of the highway.  A few welcome centers supplied fresh brochures that would create ideas and itineraries for future journeys.  Cabela's served as the halfway point, a place to refuel and visit the restroom and stretch the legs among the wildlife.  We reached the shores of New Hampshire before the sun had gone for the day.  The truck windows opened to the salty air.  We had found our destination.
     Portsmouth is an interesting port town on the border of New Hampshire and Maine.  It is one of the oldest sea towns in the United States.  The streets are narrow and lined with shops and cafes, street performers and sidewalk vendors, and a brewery.  It lends itself to wonderful strolls along the streets breathing deep of the sea air with the quiet roll of the ocean always in the background.  A short stroll across the drawbridge brings you into Maine with a view of the harbor and the lobster rolls to go with it.  We dined at the Portsmouth Brewery while we listened to the musicians play outside in the town square.  The sun set on us as we wandered among the antique shops.
     The sun rose on our northern starting point of Route 1A.  We would follow the old highway out of Portsmouth south along the coast passing beach after beach.  These are not the hot, sandy beaches equipped with boardwalks and roller coasters and game hawkers of New Jersey.  The shore was rocky with boulder fingers that jutted out into the ocean.  You could scamper across the rocks until they disappeared into the Atlantic, find a seat amongst the seaweed and snails and watch the waves pound against the shore.  The beaches are more solid here, tight sand, grey in color, that holds a footprint crisp and defined before it is erased by a wave.
      We crossed the bridge into Newburyport, Massachusetts and the beaches became harbors and the antique stores became farmers markets and craft bakeries and, as always, small breweries.  We arrived just in time for the Yankee Homecoming and a town parade led by Revolutionaries coming home from the war with England.  A perfect taste of true small town New England.  A little further south, we stopped at one of the roadside clam shacks for a couple of crab rolls and some fried fresh clams.  There is something utterly satisfying about seafood right from the boat prepared along a forgotten highway eaten outside on a picnic table situated among the marsh grass with the sand beneath your feet.
     With our bellies full of fresh caught sea fare, we followed the highway south and east to Gloucester.  A workman's town made up of blue-collar homes that look out beyond the harbor into the infinite horizon of the Atlantic.  Large commercial fishing ships were docked at the processing plants and smaller fishing vessels made their way under the drawbridge that stops traffic along the main street.  The kids followed the statues along the walkway that told the tale of fishermen's wives awaiting the return of their husbands and the memorial to all the fishermen lost at sea.  This is more a town of proud people steeped in tradition not unlike their cousin farmers that are the staple of small towns in the center of the country, providers of food for a nation, calloused and tough.
     With no more road or land to the east, we follow the southern coast back west again toward the big city.  Boston looms tall toward the western horizon and the whole country seems to roll away from there.  It is odd and amazing and humbling to stand on the eastern shores and look out following the sun's trek westward and the land that unfolds beyond the eye's sight.  A sight the Pilgrims, the Revolutionaries, the Industrialists, and now my family, have all seen.  A place where so many journeys have begun.

The City of Brotherly Love

     It was the weekend of Independence, a few extra days off wouldn't hurt.  I filled the car with family and bags and headed down the Turnpike.  All roads branch off this toll road and in Jersey it is only a matter of what exit you live off of.  Our exit would be the one closest to the Ben Franklin Bridge and America's First Zoo.  A relic hidden within the town limits of Philadelphia, the zoo is a quaint place, not as large and bustling as the one in the Bronx, but friendly.  It was a clean, quiet, entertaining walk between exhibits down shaded walking paths.  It's size lends itself to a shorter visit taking less than half a day.  It leaves plenty of time to venture through the rest of this historic town.
     We were able to stop by a few landmarks, plaques placed throughout the city.  The kids' favorite being the historic marker for the site of the first Girl Scout cookie booth.  Where, in the window of the old Philadelphia Gas and Electric Co., Girl Scouts baked and sold their cookies to raise funds for their endeavors.  Four years later the national headquarters for Girl Scouts of the U.S.A. adopted the annual cookie sale nationwide and a true tradition was established.  We cruised the cobblestone streets down towards Penn's Landing to cool off with old fashioned ice cream sundaes doled out at The Franklin Fountain.  A nostalgic place where soda jerks make honest-to-goodness egg creams and the toppings are house made.  The fans are still belt-driven affairs and the register only accepts cash.  The kids were filled with wonder and ice ream and sodas made from syrup and seltzer.  It was a refreshing stop in so many ways.
      Cool and relaxed, we were ready to gaze upon an ancient artifact, preserved within a glass building.  A metallic wonder forged over 250 years ago.  The security was tight around the grounds of the Liberty Bell and the lines were on the long side of a free attraction but I felt a visit to the Liberty Bell and the history surrounding it were especially important for the kids.  So much nowadays is read or even more so seen on the screen of TV's and computers and "smart" phones, that we as a society have forgotten that these things, places, artifacts, landmarks, really do exist in solid form.  We fought the throngs of tourists shuffling through the building and stood our ground to read all the history fixed upon the walls.  I see no point in pushing people out of the way to secure a poorly taken photo with a phone of a significant historical piece that holds no meaning to the photographer (I mean picture-taker for I feel photographer denotes caring about the subject matter).  The iconic piece was there looking out a glass wall toward Independence Hall.  I felt goose bumps run atop my skin as I tried to detail the importance of the Bell and the building behind it to my kids.  We were walking grounds that our country's forefathers stepped upon and railed against tyranny centuries ago.  We were surrounded by ghosts of greatness.
      We left the manicured grounds still discussing the history that had taken place here.  The Reading Terminal was our next stop and did not disappoint.  What more can be said about an old landmark filled with homemade offerings of every kind but "Oh my goodness".  We bought fresh butchered bacon and sausage for at home and sampled America's Oldest Ice Cream, Bassetts (oh, it was so creamy and rich and good).  The cooler in the back of the truck was now full with food stuffs for future grilling sessions back home and all we (I, really) needed was some beverages to wash it all down.  Our SMV rode through the neighborhoods of Philly picking up beer from several of the local breweries to bring back home.  And the tangle of streets eventually led to a dinner table with outside neighborhood flair.
       No visit to Philly would be complete without grabbing a table and a cheese steak at the intersection of Passyunk and Wharton.  Pat's King of Steaks and their across the street rival Geno's are landmarks and destinations and foodie goodness all rolled into one.  The intersection glows with neon lights and hums with hungry people and the laughter of kids playing in the park next door.  The grease rolls down your arms and the cheese covers your lips.  The kids devoured their first-ever originals with Cheez Whiz in minutes while slurping on a lemonade.  With bellies full, our trip to Philly was a good one.
       Before leaving the area, we followed more history through Valley Forge and visited Washington's headquarters.  We mapped our way back through time to Amish country and Bird-in-Hand.  The coolers would be near bursting before we returned home.  History would be all around us.  And my family would be looking forward to our next road trip.  But first there would need to be fireworks to celebrate our independence and my family will watch them with a better understanding of why the night sky is lit up red, white, and blue.