In a previous post, I discussed how I came to possess the nickname "Handgun Robert". That composition prompted me to recall that another of my nicknames was handgun related, too. My early life growing up, until about age ten or so, I was called "Luger" by everyone who knew me. A Luger is a type of 9mm pistol, commonly depicted in the hands of Nazis in World War II films. I was given the name by my family (it was actually coined by my brother) to maintain my parents tradition of providing my siblings and I with German nicknames and in response to an unfortunate (for my family) habit I had during diaper changes as an infant (I peed as soon as the diaper came off, drenching whichever caregiver was unlucky that day). These names share mere ironic coincidence and do not reveal some fundamental link between myself and firearms. Still, I find the connection curious.
Let me begin by saying that I am firearm friendly, having hunted for food with my rifles and attempted regular practice with my pistol so as to remain proficient in case of need. I have owned several different types of guns and rifles and currently own a 9mm pistol, a .30-06 caliber rifle, and a .22 caliber rifle. I desire a 12 gauge shotgun and a .357 cal. revolver, as well. I am comfortable with killing for food or for personal protection, and I feel I could even shoot and kill a person if it was necessary. Having said that, I do not relish death and believe all life is too precious to squander senselessly. Other than killing rabbits with my "twenty-two" and several deer with my "ought-six", I have only had to use a firearm twice to kill a living creature.
The first time was when my dog, Bodhi, was hit by a Jeep Cherokee in front of my house in Hartford, TN. He had a bad habit of chasing cars, of which I could not break him; and, one day, he caught one. It was gruesome to behold as the whole right side of his body was shattered. He was struggling to stand on crushed legs and screaming in pain. He was in increasingly severe respiratory distress and was obviously mortally wounded, but somehow still alive despite the extreme injuries. I carried him out of the road and held him, trying in vain to soothe his terrible misery. I shouted to a friend who was there to retrieve my pistol from my bedroom. He raced to comply and quickly returned.
It wasn't easy to shoot Bo in the head like that, but it would have been unthinkable to let him continue to die slowly and painfully. I cried, as did my friend, who politely stepped away while I dealt with my emotions. Later, when I called my estranged wife to disclose Bo's demise, the emotions welled up again, and also anger at her for her recriminations toward me over the incident.
The second thing I killed with this pistol was also a dog, another dog who trusted me (as much as he trusted anyone) but that had to be killed. For a time, I lived in a house high up on a beautiful mountain close to Newport, TN, but still remote. I lived at the apex of a "loop road" on a couple of acres of land. My nearest neighbor had a trailer about two hundred yards away and my next closest lived in a house about three hundred yards in the other direction. This next closest neighbor, Erwin, was kind of a friend and kind of a business associate. He moved in on the occasion of his parole from federal prison (due to drug and gun convictions) and worked for the owners of a car lot I did business management and repossession work for in my spare time from the rafting company. He was quite a character, a racist redneck with anger and self-control issues, with whom I had several adventures.
Erwin soon got a young Pit-Bull, which he chained up in his yard and began to try to make into a vicious guard dog. Part of his technique apparently involved forgetting to feed or water this dog and neglecting it in many other ways also. I couldn't abide this kind of malice, however; and fed the dog whenever I could and tried to spend a little time with him. Still the dog got skinnier and meaner by the day, until, one day, he was thin enough to slip the chain that bound him.
The dog had been driven crazy by the mistreatment he had suffered and wouldn't be caught by anyone. He raided the garbage cans of everyone in the neighborhood, creating hassle and mess for several weeks all along our little road. Worse still, the dog was scared of people yet aggressive toward them. He would try to silently attack from behind and bite anyone who came onto mine or Erwin's property, forcing me to escort my guests to and from the house by walking immediately behind them. The day came when he attacked my other neighbor's grandchild though, biting her and leaving a bloody and painful, if not serious, wound. This was too much and this neighbor came to me very angry and upset. I took the matter to Erwin who could see that this dog was likely to hurt someone badly if not dealt with. It was something I had discussed with him a few days previously, as well.
In that mountain community, things like animal control were generally dealt with privately although the city of Newport did have a Humane Society. Still, we didn't live in Newport and people generally solved their own problems, so Erwin asked if I had a gun. I retrieved it and walked out back, where the dog was racing around through the woods behind my house and barking shrilly at Erwin, whom it hated. He was a pretty quick little thing but I killed him with my first shot which got him right through his chest. I put another round in his brain to make sure he didn't suffer any more and then drank a beer with both my neighbors while we took turns digging the grave.
These violent yet merciful acts do not seem to me to indicate any predilection for gun play or any excessively sociopathic tendencies, but you may draw your own conclusions. Certainly my firearm related monikers cannot be attributed to them, but perhaps my analysis is flawed in this case.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Monday, July 25, 2011
Serpentine
I was raised in a very religious, Christian home. My family attended church several times each week, and my Dad was a deacon and sang in the choir. We prayed before meals and over any illness or problem that we faced. The Bible was among the first books from which I read (ironically, the first book I read, along with the Bible, was a late-elementary level science book about the solar system and dinosaurs, elements that don't comfortably fit in a typical Christian worldview).
I have only the vaguest memories of the first church I attended, in my birth town of Joplin, Missouri. There was a childcare worker there, perhaps named or nicknamed Sherry or Cheri, that used to make a big deal about me when I arrived in the nursery (I was, at most, two years old during my family's attendance) and always called me "Baby Luger". I seem to recall tidbits of some drama about a tornado that just missed the church one day while I was there, also, but, as was stated, I was very young and my memories from that church are unreliable at best.
The next church we habitually frequented was a Baptist church in Tampa. We were part of that church for four or five years and I have quite a few memories of the church and events related to it. I had my first baptism there in the ornate baptistry on the stage in the sanctuary. I, with that church, first visited Lake Platt which I liked because of its similarity to my familial last name. My parents and sister also grew close to many members of the congregation, so much so that when my parents left to go to a new church, several other families joined them.
My parents next matriculated in another church which then played a very significant role in my life and my spiritual development. I suppose it could be called "pentecostal" in the sense that it believed in the gift of the Holy Spirit given to the early church fifty days after Jesus's resurrection. Officially, it was Methodist in denomination, but shared much common ground with other "Spirit-filled" Protestants like the Assemblies of God and the Pentecostal churches. It certainly shared with them a militant view of the church's role in the world and each Christian's duty to proselytize. We also practiced speaking in tongues, the laying-on of hands for healing, and demonic exorcism as a regular part of services there. I have much to eventually say about that church and my life as part of it, but this story is not about that church. It is only contextual in this account.
My time at that church, too, came to an end, and, with it, my time at church in general. My spiritual journey led me away from the Christian faith and from the regular religious practice of any kind. I did still attend church when necessary, but principally to appease others (like my parents) or for events like the occasion of my wedding. I had pretty much decided that church had little left for me. However, a few years after my divorce, while I was living in the heart of Appalachia, I had occasion to attend a rather interesting church service.
There was a young woman with whom I had developed a mild flirtation. She was a server at a restaurant I frequented and we had developed a rapport that felt promising to me. One day, I screwed up the courage to ask her out.
"Hey, Katie. I was wondering if you would consider going out to a movie or dinner with me sometime."
"Robert, I would really like to, but I don't really date. If you want to spend time with me, maybe you'd consider coming to my church some Sunday."
Well, I did like the woman so I agreed. We set up the "date" for the next Sunday service. I didn't know much about the church, except where it was in the county and that often churches with names similar to hers were "Spirit-filled" or Pentecostal.
The church itself was fairly nondescript, a small concrete block building with typical trimmings. The members were all very nice, greeting me and welcoming me. Katie and I sat together near the front. I checked the crowd out and chatted with her while we waited for the service to begin. I noticed some strange features, cabinets and enclosures up on stage near the altar that were dissimilar to any other church I'd attended, and, being fairly astute, I realized what was going to happen. As I inspected more closely, I clearly saw these held serpents.
As I said, I was well accustomed to the theatrics of "Holy Ghost" spirituality and was not disappointed by the experience of this congregation's praise and worship. The service was fueled by the characteristic zeal of evangelicals and the preacher was fiery in his righteousness. The preaching ended with the usual altar call and the reprise of praise and worship. With this return, the preacher and the elders began to break out the main attractions: copperheads and rattlesnakes.
This was something new for me in a worship service. I had read about "snake-handling churches" and was, of course, familiar with the role of serpents in religious mysteries throughout history and myth. Such knowledge, though, paled in the face of this more visceral experience. Watching these kind, but fanatical, people dance to country/rock gospel music with multiple pit vipers draped over their arms and shoulders was fascinating and disconcerting. I was NOT inspired to participate, but was intrigued by the strength of these believers' convictions and shocked by the exceptional irrationality of their faith.
All in all, I had a nice time, due mostly to the uniqueness of the event. I didn't go back, though, nor did I try for another date with Katie, realizing that we were too far apart in our spiritual ideals to have any meaningful relationship.
Here is a video from a similar service at a different church, just to give you the idea:
The Biblical foundation for these particular beliefs is found here:
Since that time, I have had occasion to enter churches for events like musical performances and weddings, and, briefly, I was paid to operate the PA system for church services; but I have fortunately never been possessed by the desire to ever go to church again.
I have only the vaguest memories of the first church I attended, in my birth town of Joplin, Missouri. There was a childcare worker there, perhaps named or nicknamed Sherry or Cheri, that used to make a big deal about me when I arrived in the nursery (I was, at most, two years old during my family's attendance) and always called me "Baby Luger". I seem to recall tidbits of some drama about a tornado that just missed the church one day while I was there, also, but, as was stated, I was very young and my memories from that church are unreliable at best.
The next church we habitually frequented was a Baptist church in Tampa. We were part of that church for four or five years and I have quite a few memories of the church and events related to it. I had my first baptism there in the ornate baptistry on the stage in the sanctuary. I, with that church, first visited Lake Platt which I liked because of its similarity to my familial last name. My parents and sister also grew close to many members of the congregation, so much so that when my parents left to go to a new church, several other families joined them.
My parents next matriculated in another church which then played a very significant role in my life and my spiritual development. I suppose it could be called "pentecostal" in the sense that it believed in the gift of the Holy Spirit given to the early church fifty days after Jesus's resurrection. Officially, it was Methodist in denomination, but shared much common ground with other "Spirit-filled" Protestants like the Assemblies of God and the Pentecostal churches. It certainly shared with them a militant view of the church's role in the world and each Christian's duty to proselytize. We also practiced speaking in tongues, the laying-on of hands for healing, and demonic exorcism as a regular part of services there. I have much to eventually say about that church and my life as part of it, but this story is not about that church. It is only contextual in this account.
My time at that church, too, came to an end, and, with it, my time at church in general. My spiritual journey led me away from the Christian faith and from the regular religious practice of any kind. I did still attend church when necessary, but principally to appease others (like my parents) or for events like the occasion of my wedding. I had pretty much decided that church had little left for me. However, a few years after my divorce, while I was living in the heart of Appalachia, I had occasion to attend a rather interesting church service.
There was a young woman with whom I had developed a mild flirtation. She was a server at a restaurant I frequented and we had developed a rapport that felt promising to me. One day, I screwed up the courage to ask her out.
"Hey, Katie. I was wondering if you would consider going out to a movie or dinner with me sometime."
"Robert, I would really like to, but I don't really date. If you want to spend time with me, maybe you'd consider coming to my church some Sunday."
Well, I did like the woman so I agreed. We set up the "date" for the next Sunday service. I didn't know much about the church, except where it was in the county and that often churches with names similar to hers were "Spirit-filled" or Pentecostal.
The church itself was fairly nondescript, a small concrete block building with typical trimmings. The members were all very nice, greeting me and welcoming me. Katie and I sat together near the front. I checked the crowd out and chatted with her while we waited for the service to begin. I noticed some strange features, cabinets and enclosures up on stage near the altar that were dissimilar to any other church I'd attended, and, being fairly astute, I realized what was going to happen. As I inspected more closely, I clearly saw these held serpents.
As I said, I was well accustomed to the theatrics of "Holy Ghost" spirituality and was not disappointed by the experience of this congregation's praise and worship. The service was fueled by the characteristic zeal of evangelicals and the preacher was fiery in his righteousness. The preaching ended with the usual altar call and the reprise of praise and worship. With this return, the preacher and the elders began to break out the main attractions: copperheads and rattlesnakes.
This was something new for me in a worship service. I had read about "snake-handling churches" and was, of course, familiar with the role of serpents in religious mysteries throughout history and myth. Such knowledge, though, paled in the face of this more visceral experience. Watching these kind, but fanatical, people dance to country/rock gospel music with multiple pit vipers draped over their arms and shoulders was fascinating and disconcerting. I was NOT inspired to participate, but was intrigued by the strength of these believers' convictions and shocked by the exceptional irrationality of their faith.
All in all, I had a nice time, due mostly to the uniqueness of the event. I didn't go back, though, nor did I try for another date with Katie, realizing that we were too far apart in our spiritual ideals to have any meaningful relationship.
Here is a video from a similar service at a different church, just to give you the idea:
The Biblical foundation for these particular beliefs is found here:
Mark 16:17-18
King James Version (KJV)
17And these signs shall follow them that believe; In my name shall they cast out devils; they shall speak with new tongues;
18They shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover.
And, to a lesser extent, here:
Luke 10:19
King James Version (KJV)
19Behold, I give unto you power to tread on serpents and scorpions, and over all the power of the enemy: and nothing shall by any means hurt you.
Since that time, I have had occasion to enter churches for events like musical performances and weddings, and, briefly, I was paid to operate the PA system for church services; but I have fortunately never been possessed by the desire to ever go to church again.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Juniper Creek
I often write in this blog about my whitewater experiences. I am proud of my life as a guide and whitewater expert. I helped develop many young people's river skills and was integral to making the Pigeon River the attraction it has become. I frequently attest that my whitewater career began on the Chattooga River, and this is certainly true. However, that statement neglects to account for my formative experiences as an amateur boater and rafter during my childhood years.
My first real paddling experience came on a camping trip with my parents when I was a young boy. We spent a week camping at Juniper Springs in the Ocala National Forest, the only time I ever camped with my family. The forest and springs were quite enjoyable although the water was very cold from my perspective. I remember getting raided by raccoons and seeing deer, adventures I couldn't get in my hometown of Tampa, Florida. The highlight of the week, though, was the disastrous canoe trip my Dad took my Mom and I on.
We rented the canoe and set off from just downstream of the springs. Juniper Creek is a slow, quiet river, in some places quite narrow, that eventually spreads out into saw-grass and marshes before approaching the take-out. I was designated full-time passenger and assigned a seat in the middle of the boat. The early part of the trip was dominated by my parents, novice canoeists at best, developing their communication skills and a unique navigation system. The technique my Dad, who sat in the stern, preferred was vigorous paddling on his part while my Mom, who sat in the bow, steered us by "fending off", with her paddle, the banks and tree-limbs that we inevitably plowed into. This generally resulted in our canoe running into the various river hazards at significant speed and with the momentum our combined mass added to the equation. My Mother, of course, lacked the strength to significantly arrest our motion and usually had her paddle knocked from her hands or forced back into her person causing many bruises. A number of times, also, we overturned as a consequence, causing mayhem among our various unsecured possessions in the canoe and adding to the general chaos of our leisure activity. The character of the situation was further compounded by the occurrence, at regular intervals, of downed trees which crossed the river, barring our transit, and requiring poorly executed mid-stream (rather than on-bank) portages. These invariably involved some error that caused my Dad to fall in or get left behind, requiring a swim in the cold water.
My Dad began to be frustrated by our lack of success at maneuvering the craft, which was certainly the fault of his crew (my Mom) and her failure to adequately push us around the obstacles he was paddling us into. His principal motivation technique, haranguing loudly, seemed to be effecting little change on her performance, also. After a couple of hours like this, he finally had to face down a mutiny and accept the resignation of his mate. Fortunately, he had brought a spare paddler in the form of me so I was promoted to the bow and the task of deflecting our momentum away from whatever the boat rammed.
I have noticed in my many adventures on the water that the river gods often take it a little easy on novices (sometimes called turkeys in this blog). This may have been the case that day as well because, soon after I took the helm, the banks dissipated away into reeds and mud, and the river's channel opened up into the common marshy "river of grass", typical in much of Florida. Also, I believe my Father's exertions had worn him down and he eased off from paddling.
Finally, the take out appeared. We pulled off and climbed wearily from the canoe. The entire trip was an obvious ordeal for my parents and certainly was tiring for me, but I had really enjoyed a lot of it (not the shouting and the anger, but certainly the swimming and the flipping-over and the novelty of the experience). I loaded into the canoe company's smelly, old passenger van for the first of what would become many long shuttles after a day running the river.
My first real paddling experience came on a camping trip with my parents when I was a young boy. We spent a week camping at Juniper Springs in the Ocala National Forest, the only time I ever camped with my family. The forest and springs were quite enjoyable although the water was very cold from my perspective. I remember getting raided by raccoons and seeing deer, adventures I couldn't get in my hometown of Tampa, Florida. The highlight of the week, though, was the disastrous canoe trip my Dad took my Mom and I on.
We rented the canoe and set off from just downstream of the springs. Juniper Creek is a slow, quiet river, in some places quite narrow, that eventually spreads out into saw-grass and marshes before approaching the take-out. I was designated full-time passenger and assigned a seat in the middle of the boat. The early part of the trip was dominated by my parents, novice canoeists at best, developing their communication skills and a unique navigation system. The technique my Dad, who sat in the stern, preferred was vigorous paddling on his part while my Mom, who sat in the bow, steered us by "fending off", with her paddle, the banks and tree-limbs that we inevitably plowed into. This generally resulted in our canoe running into the various river hazards at significant speed and with the momentum our combined mass added to the equation. My Mother, of course, lacked the strength to significantly arrest our motion and usually had her paddle knocked from her hands or forced back into her person causing many bruises. A number of times, also, we overturned as a consequence, causing mayhem among our various unsecured possessions in the canoe and adding to the general chaos of our leisure activity. The character of the situation was further compounded by the occurrence, at regular intervals, of downed trees which crossed the river, barring our transit, and requiring poorly executed mid-stream (rather than on-bank) portages. These invariably involved some error that caused my Dad to fall in or get left behind, requiring a swim in the cold water.
My Dad began to be frustrated by our lack of success at maneuvering the craft, which was certainly the fault of his crew (my Mom) and her failure to adequately push us around the obstacles he was paddling us into. His principal motivation technique, haranguing loudly, seemed to be effecting little change on her performance, also. After a couple of hours like this, he finally had to face down a mutiny and accept the resignation of his mate. Fortunately, he had brought a spare paddler in the form of me so I was promoted to the bow and the task of deflecting our momentum away from whatever the boat rammed.
I have noticed in my many adventures on the water that the river gods often take it a little easy on novices (sometimes called turkeys in this blog). This may have been the case that day as well because, soon after I took the helm, the banks dissipated away into reeds and mud, and the river's channel opened up into the common marshy "river of grass", typical in much of Florida. Also, I believe my Father's exertions had worn him down and he eased off from paddling.
Finally, the take out appeared. We pulled off and climbed wearily from the canoe. The entire trip was an obvious ordeal for my parents and certainly was tiring for me, but I had really enjoyed a lot of it (not the shouting and the anger, but certainly the swimming and the flipping-over and the novelty of the experience). I loaded into the canoe company's smelly, old passenger van for the first of what would become many long shuttles after a day running the river.
Monday, July 18, 2011
I'm tired of these mf'n snakes in their mf'n heads.
Bull Sluice is the largest, most difficult rapid on Section III of the Chattooga River. It is located near the conclusion of the section about a quarter of a mile above the Highway 76 bridge, one of the few roads that crosses the river. This proximity to a road provides easy access and makes the rapid a popular swimming spot for locals and raft guides alike.
My friends and I would usually hike in on the Georgia side or west bank of the river, a longer hike than the eastern access which led to lower usage of the trail and riverbank there. I use the word riverbank, but at Bull Sluice the western bank is actually a mansion sized boulder named "Big Georgia". It is the perfect spot for sunning after swimming, and for watching the rafters and boaters run through the Class IV/V drops. This last is a popular past-time as the rapid is a frequent provider of flips and swims, having a difficult approach and severe consequences for being off-course. Fortunately, although unforgiving for poor navigation, there is a large pool below the rapid giving plenty of time for rafts and boaters to recover and retrieve their missing crew and the consequences of a swim are generally fairly benign.
One particular summer day, Rats and I decided to take some of our out-of-town guests down for a swim. Jo, Kris, and Anne were up from Tampa and we all wanted to cool off, to drink some beers, and to have some fun. It was a perfect idea and we had an excellent afternoon down by the water. As the day began to wear, we gathered up our things and headed up the trail to Rats's car.
As soon as we emerged into the parking lot, a strange man began walking toward our group and calling to us. The girls began climbing in to the car from the driver's side while my passenger side door remained locked. The man came right up to me.
"Are you going over across the river?" He asked.
"Yes." I replied.
"You can't go over there. They won't let ya."
Puzzled, I said, "Oh, they'll let me. You see, I live over there."
"No!" He shouted. "They got snakes in their heads!"
It was around this time that I became certain that our conversation had run its course and I began frantically pulling at the door handle in hopes Rats would let me in, which she promptly did. I jumped in and we sped out of the gravel parking lot, throwing dust on the man as he chased the car, shouting.
Later, I learned that this man also threw a rock at a car passing on the highway that afternoon , destroying its windshield and terrifying the driver. He had obvious mental problems and, after a fight with his brother and caregiver, had been wandering around for days. I'm certain the authorities provided him the best public mental health care South Carolina has to offer, but he, later that year, was shot and killed by his brother after a fight between them escalated.
My friends and I would usually hike in on the Georgia side or west bank of the river, a longer hike than the eastern access which led to lower usage of the trail and riverbank there. I use the word riverbank, but at Bull Sluice the western bank is actually a mansion sized boulder named "Big Georgia". It is the perfect spot for sunning after swimming, and for watching the rafters and boaters run through the Class IV/V drops. This last is a popular past-time as the rapid is a frequent provider of flips and swims, having a difficult approach and severe consequences for being off-course. Fortunately, although unforgiving for poor navigation, there is a large pool below the rapid giving plenty of time for rafts and boaters to recover and retrieve their missing crew and the consequences of a swim are generally fairly benign.
One particular summer day, Rats and I decided to take some of our out-of-town guests down for a swim. Jo, Kris, and Anne were up from Tampa and we all wanted to cool off, to drink some beers, and to have some fun. It was a perfect idea and we had an excellent afternoon down by the water. As the day began to wear, we gathered up our things and headed up the trail to Rats's car.
As soon as we emerged into the parking lot, a strange man began walking toward our group and calling to us. The girls began climbing in to the car from the driver's side while my passenger side door remained locked. The man came right up to me.
"Are you going over across the river?" He asked.
"Yes." I replied.
"You can't go over there. They won't let ya."
Puzzled, I said, "Oh, they'll let me. You see, I live over there."
"No!" He shouted. "They got snakes in their heads!"
It was around this time that I became certain that our conversation had run its course and I began frantically pulling at the door handle in hopes Rats would let me in, which she promptly did. I jumped in and we sped out of the gravel parking lot, throwing dust on the man as he chased the car, shouting.
Later, I learned that this man also threw a rock at a car passing on the highway that afternoon , destroying its windshield and terrifying the driver. He had obvious mental problems and, after a fight with his brother and caregiver, had been wandering around for days. I'm certain the authorities provided him the best public mental health care South Carolina has to offer, but he, later that year, was shot and killed by his brother after a fight between them escalated.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
