Chapter Three
When You Love Something, You Must Protect It
I suppose that if my grandfather were a philosophical man, then he would’ve had no problem sharing his words of wisdom with his somewhat eager, half listening/half rampaging grandchildren. But, no, Grandpa was a man of action. He would be more inclined to show us how to do something, rather than, just tell us how to do it. Now, I’m not saying that he wasn’t a talker; hell, he always had some ornery remark that was worthy of a chuckle. But, I consider him more of an action man. And, it was in these actions, that I learned the true value of protecting what you love.
So, besides his mischievous stories about his youthful days, like the time that he cleverly fixed the “broken” plane that was staked down in the front lawn of the old Byesville High School (and now, elementary school); or that his best friend used to drive a beer delivery truck, and how they would purposely damage some of the beer cases, so that they could drink all the free beer that they wanted. Yeah, besides stories like those ones, he mostly educated us in the ornery ways of life through the things that he did. For the keen, such as me (self-described), it was through these actions that I learned some of the most important lessons in life.
My grandfather kept a loaded pistol in his bedside drawer. It was an old Ruger semi-automatic .22lr strapped into a worn leather holster and wrapped up in a gun-oil-stained, white rag. I knew of it well. I had even shot it on occasion. But most of all, I knew what it was for; to protect what he loved.
Now, before all of you gun hating, anti-firearm experts get too sizzled and put this book down, realize that we were raised up to respect firearms. We were taught to handle them safely and responsibly, and to know the purpose of what they are intended for; and, specifically, in this case, for protection. But, it wasn’t the only gun in the house. He had several others locked up in a gun cabinet, which, I often visited after asking permission to take his .22 caliber rifle squirrel hunting in the woods that surround his plot, or if I felt adventurous enough, I’d even take his 12 gauge shotgun rabbit hunting through the thorn bushes down by the chicken coop. The point is this: we were all well versed on the responsibility of owning and using a firearm.
To the best of my knowledge, Grandpa never had to use his handgun for protection. But, I’ll never forget the way I felt, and what I learned, when I first discovered where Grandpa kept his pistol. I had opened the drawer to his nightstand (probably looking for some candy, or the remote control, both of which he bogarted on his side of the bed), and there, shoved in the back corner beside his Reader’s Digest, I saw a rag stained dark with gun oil. Curious and adventurous, I cautiously picked it up and pulled it out, feeling its shape and weight and instantly knowing what it was. I carefully unwrapped it, treating it as if it were loaded, just like I had been taught.
For a moment, it laid flat in my hand as I admired its beauty and form. Keeping it pointed in a safe direction, I removed the magazine, and inspected the chamber to make sure that it was empty, and it was.
I could feel the heft of this pistol in my hand, its cold steel and scratched wooden grips, as I evaluated everything that I had been taught about gun safety: to lock them up, to keep them unloaded and out of reach of children. And yet, here he was, breaking every rule that I’ve ever known, by keeping this one in his drawer, with the magazine inserted, tucked away among his reading glasses, books, and loose change. But, just like that, in a flash of wonder, it hit me… that no matter what evils might be lurking in the night, may it be monsters under my bed (or in the spare bedroom closet, where I’m almost certain that they were hiding), or kidnappers on the loose, or thieves hell bent on stealing everything that we had all worked so hard for… no matter what Hell came in the middle of the night, Grandpa was ready to defend us, to protect us, and to do whatever he had to, to keep us safe. Even if it meant that he had to squeeze that worn down, slick and shinning trigger.
Back in our younger days, my grandpa would often visit his old gun rack hanging on his bedroom wall. I’d eagerly watch as I struggled to fit into my older brother’s hand-me-down briar pants and hunting vest, overwhelmed with anticipation, as he reached up and pulled down his old 12 gauge pump and his .410/.22 over/under shotgun. I would wait, anxiously, for him to key open the trigger locks, check to make sure the .410 wasn’t loaded, and then hand it to me, making sure to remind me to point it in a safe direction.
Rabbit hunting the briar patches back behind the chicken coop was one of my favorite things to do growing up. Not only did I get to spend time tromping through the woods with Grandpa, letting him or my dad brave through the big ones, as I jumped on the smallest thorn bushes possible, all of us trying to kick up rabbits for Dad’s old beagle to run, but, I was, also, taught the true value and responsibility of firearm safety, and what it meant to take an animal’s life in order to sustain your own. At a young age, this was a difficult lesson to learn, but one that provided the foundation of my future hunting philosophies. We killed only what we would eat, we did not waste, we killed quickly and humanely, and although the thrill of the hunt was definitely there, we all still experienced a respected sadness in the taking of an animal’s life.
But, with the abundance of rabbits and squirrels, combined with the clucking and clamoring of Grandpa’s chickens, our little patch of woods was a hot ground for coyote, fox, and raccoons… all, dead set, on breaking into the chicken coop as often as they could, and picking off a hen or two in a wild mess of feathers and blood.
This, ultimately, led to the evolution of the fortress, I mean, the chicken coop, that still stands today. Although, it’s empty now, this chicken castle was, and still is, one of the most heavily guarded chicken coops of its time. The building is sturdy, built to last, added to, added on, repaired and updated often. It was a sanctuary for all of his beautiful upper class hens and bright collared roosters to find solace in confinement.
There was a strong wire fence that wrapped around and overtop of the two open yards where they would scratch at the dirt and mud, and peck at the leftover dinner scraps and corn thrown in every morning and night. This fence, itself, evolved right along with the growing structure. It was doubled up, repaired and reinforced with different sized chicken wire, scrap metals, zip ties, wire ties and various sizes of stakes, poles, and fence posts. In other words, this was a chicken palace, a stronghold for the best of the best. This was a chicken castle.
Outside of this nearly impenetrable wire was an electric fence. These two wires stretched around the majority of the coop, giving a shocking surprise to any lurking predators and any brazen or foolish boys who were dared to touch it with a stick (and yes, electricity will go through a stick, no matter what size it is, how dead or green it is, or even if you’re convinced by your older cousins and brother that the leaves will spread out the current and it won’t actually hurt, it’ll just tickle… no… no, it doesn’t just tickle.) Even though the low current wasn’t enough to do any real harm to foolish little boys like me (or at least I don’t think that it did any real harm), it was, still, very effective against foolish little coons and coyotes trying to get an easy meal.
Even if a smarter-than-average animal somehow made its way past the minefield, the watch towers, the booby-traps, the eye scanner, electric wire, and enclosed fence, they would find that their work was still not done, as the outside doors would be closed up tighter than the seal on Grandpa’s secret candy jar. But, if one was ever fortunate enough to make it inside, then they would find that there are two closed and secured rooms to this chicken coop. And, at times, if they chose poorly, then they would be disappointed with an empty room. Even so, there would be an occasional lucky bastard who would, somehow, penetrate these defenses.
There was a constant need to watch over and protect his flock. So, I would often be called upon, throughout the years, to lend a helping hand (and a helping bullet) whenever they had another predator problem. Grandpa would set out live traps for the raccoons. He would bait them in with leftover dinner scraps or dog food. This often worked quite well when it was the coons that were the problem. But, the problem was, it wasn’t always the raccoons that were getting to the chickens. It would sometimes be a sly fox or brave coyote that managed to tip-toe through the mine fields, blend in with the shadows of the night, disable all of the electronics with some sort of secret spy gear that they, probably acquired from one of my many tree forts, and cut right through the fences. This is where my firearms expertise, hunting experience, and magic sticks in my waistband would come into play. And, in the later years, it would, usually, go something like this….
**My phone rings.
Me, seeing that it’s Grandma or Grandpa, “Yellow.”
“Jake?” Grandpa asks.
“Yeah, Grandpa, it’s me,” smiling because he still calls my cell phone and questions whether it’s actually me or not.
“Okay,” he chuckles, probably because he realizes that he called my cell phone and that it would just be weird if it was anyone else other than me who answered it. Or, maybe because he actually forgot who he called? Or, maybe, it’s because me and my brothers sound slightly similar, and he was confused for just second? Either way, he chuckles at the fact that we just established that he dialed my number and I was actually the one to answer.
“Lost another hen,” he continues.
“Is that right?” I question, as if he’s going to say… nahh, just kidding, joke’s on you. I continue, “Like, lost it, lost it? Or did something get in and get it?” Sometimes you just have to clarify those sorts of things.
He chuckles, again. “No… something got in and got it.”
“You think it was a coon or coyote?” I don’t know why I really ask this, as if he was some expert animal crime scene investigator and he was going to give me the suspect’s size, weight, hair color, and whether or not they had a limp.
“Oh, probably a coyote. We’ve been hearing them at night.” By we, he means that Grandma heard them and had to tell him, and then point in the direction of where they were howling.
“Alright. Well, I’ll be over tonight and see what I can do,” I say, acting like it’s under control, but, knowing that there’s only been one time that I actually had the chance to shoot at one, anyway.
“Okay, thank ya. Here’s Grandma.” He always hands her the phone, even if Grandma and I just got done talking.
We say our “I love yous” and hang up.
*****
So, come late afternoon, over the woods and through the hills, off to Grandma’s house I’d go (or something like that, anyway.)
On those warm and sticky summer evenings, about an hour before the crickets and cicadas would start their evening symphony, I would find Grandma and Grandpa sitting up on the deck under the fan. Grandpa, wrapped up in his hammock watching Jerry Springer (and I’m still not sure how or why Jerry Springer was always on, but it was), and Grandma sitting in her deck chair reading the newspaper — would hear my music long before I would ever round the bend of their driveway and come to a soft, skidding stop in front of the porch. Of course, the excitement would rattle the dogs and I would be greeted by them raising hell at me, and Grandma raising hell at them. That is, until, I calmed everything down with hugs, kisses and ear scratches (FYI Grandma was more of a fan of the hugs and kisses than the ear scratches).
In the calm that followed, we would sit and catch up, talking about girlfriends, friends, and “just friends;” about school and sports, or about what’s going on with who in the family now. These were pleasant conversations, with the constant jabbing back and forth between both of them. Grandpa’s orneriness was at its best when he had an audience. They would argue over what someone actually said, or who they ran into at the baseball game, or even what time everyone was supposed to come over for the next family get together. And poor, little ole me would sit there in my camo pants and camo shirt, laughing along with them, as they lovingly bickered back and forth about what Aunt Patti, Penny, or Pam said on the phone, or what college some old babysitter’s daughter got accepted to.
I suppose, 50 years of marriage would make anyone find the excitement in determining what the final score to Jason’s summer league basketball game actually was. We would carry on like this, catching up and laughing at the orneriness, for several minutes. After all, it wasn’t just about coming over to hunt a predator, or to help out the grandparents, you see, it was simply another reason to come over, to stop by, and to spend a little time talking about what has happened in our lives, and what probably, actually, more-than-likely didn’t happen, but we think that maybe it really did.
After I was satisfied that the final score to the game was actually 52-45, not 42-55, then I would give them a hug and a handshake and head down to grab my gun and light from my Jeep. I would walk down the hill to the chicken coop, surveying the surrounding hills for movement, and find a nice big tree to sit under; to watch and wait. I didn’t move. I didn’t rustle around or fidget. Back then, I didn’t take out my phone and scroll through the news or Facebook. I just sat there and let the sounds of the night surround me: the barking dogs a few hills over, an owl somewhere up in the pines, the crickets, the mourning doves in the oak above me, and the distant sounds of the interstate a few miles away. If it wasn’t for the smell of the chickens near-by, it would be every bit romantic and enchanting.
Those numerous nights blend into one as I remember it, me, sitting there, watching the flicker of lightning bugs, thinking of what I would do if a pack of wild, rabid, and angry coyotes appeared out of nowhere in the moonlight, just a few feet away in the brush. I adjusted the large knife on my hip and made sure that I had easy access to the extra shotgun shells in my pocket. I imagined that I would have to take out the biggest and closest one first, because this would be the leader of the pack. But, they would probably be mad that I just shot their leader, so, they would all attack, anyway. I’d surely have to grab them by their throats, dodging sharp claws and jagged teeth; I’d have to throw a few of them off of me, in order to get to my knife. From there, it would be hand to hand combat, as I defend my life by slashing and stabbing one savage coyote at a time. (Yes, these are the things that I thought about as I sat there by myself in the dark, waiting for something to move in the woods).
Okay, so I had a bit of an imagination. But, with each rustling of the leaves or the snapping of twigs, I would shine my light into the woods and raise my shotgun, ready for whatever dangers that could be lurking there in the shadows. But, it was usually deer, or opossum, or something that I could only hear and not see, but, that I’m sure, was simply there to make me question my manhood and wonder what the hell I was doing sitting out in the dark all by myself, in the first place.
Of course, after an hour or two of questioning exactly what I was doing, or if I was man enough to be doing it, anyway; and after not seeing a coyote or fox, or even a sasquatch, I would get up from my oak-tree-backed and mossy-ground chair, and walk my grandparents’ property, gun in hand and head on a swivel, like an armed sentry walking his post. Perhaps, this was more out of boredom and the need for adventure than anything else. But, there I was, blood pumping ideas of rabid packs of coyotes lunging out at my throat from each shadow, from each thrashing in the leaves; walking softly, eyes firm and fierce, ready for whatever I could not see just beyond the trees.
You know, it was during these hunts, these walks, that I realized… that when you love something (such as, Grandpa’s fresh scrambled eggs with onions and mushrooms in the morning), then you have to do all you can to protect it. You have to safeguard it. You have to do whatever it takes to secure it, to keep it out of harm’s way.
Sometimes, it’s not easy. Hell, sometimes it’s downright frightening. But, to shield the things that you hold most dear to you, you must be prepared to fight. The struggles in this life are many, there’s no doubt about that. There will always be something or someone out there who wants to have what you have, who wants to take what you have already earned. And, the truth is, when it comes to survival… when it comes to providing for your family, for those in your care, you will need to find the courage and the strength in your unwavering love to stand firm and defend against the predators and the thieves that lurk in the darkness. And, just as I did, you will simply learn, that you must protect the things that you love.