Jul 7, 2023 5 min read

Today’s column begins with a quick game of word association. What do the names Ralph Bell, Jim Watson, Melvin Lemley, Dale Harshman, Dutch Kramer, Joe Palmer, mean?

To you, probably very little. To me, they are a treasure trove of knowledge regarding all things shooting, hunting, reloading, woodcraft, etc. Call them my pre-Google, geriatric encyclopedic library. All were old enough to be my dad and then some. All were willing to share what they knew. And all seemed to get a kick out of watching a young kid fumble about the fields or woods with a definite lack of knowledge but loads of enthusiasm and purpose.

From the time I was a kid, Ralph Bell tried to make a birder out of me.

I refused.

I was color blind, not interested in birds of a non-game variety. I was more interested in girls than birds, not that they were interested in me in the least. Around age 40, after years of working for Ralph on his Christmas tree farm, I found myself dialing his number and saying, “Ralph, I saw this bird with x, y, and z coloring and shape.” I’d attempt to make my impressions of said bird calls over the phone or better yet, I’d hang the phone out the window and let Ralph listen to the bird call. Soon after, Ralph would tell me what bird I had encountered, what its nest looked like, how it flew, its migration habits, what it ate for breakfast that morning and the names of the females he kept in his bird black book of love.

It was too little too late. Ralph celebrated his 99th birthday and departed this world too soon. So many questions left unanswered, too many conversations unfinished.

Dutch Kramer’s house was the place to sight in a rifle on Roger’s Hill when I was growing up. If you needed a scope mounted, had questions about the accuracy of the rifle, or just wanted to find an accurate load, Mr. Kramer was most willing to lend a hand.

When I picked up my first German Shorthair pup and finished reading Richard Wolter’s classic dog training manual, “Gun Dog,” I realized I knew next to nothing about dog training. Enter retired state trooper and bird dogger, Joe Palmer. He helped me unlearn all the bad habits I had instilled in my pup and got me straightened out before doing too much damage to my Gertrude. I would find out later in life that Joe and I stomped the same forests of Price County, Wisc., for grouse separated by 25 years. Wish I would have met him a few years earlier.

Where Joe left off, Dale Harshman picked up. Dale’s patience and easy manner made for a natural classroom environment. Dale would hold dog school a couple of nights a week in his small yard in Mather. After giving me my homework, I’d go it alone for a few nights and then back to Dale’s I’d go with 50 more questions. Dale was smart enough to know that God makes a bird dog. … We just have to let them do their thing and not get in their way, too much.

From the time I was his bat boy, back when my brothers played Little League baseball, Melvin Lemley always took an interest in my upbringing as a sportsman. Whenever I had a question about reloading or recipes, off to his basement we’d go and he always had the answer or the right set of dies or some tool that I’d never heard of, much less seen before. Every once in a while he’d show up at my doorstep to retrieve some long forgotten item, at least that I’d forgotten. He never forgets anything.

Jim Watson was my mom’s brother but was a lot more than just the chief of police and my Uncle Jim. Every Sunday afternoon, Jim and his family would come to our house to visit. We had a shooting range tucked back in an old stone quarry in the corner of our property. It was there that I cut my teeth trying every firearm I could get my hands on. Where else could a 10-year-old lay hands on a .357 magnum or an exotic 28 gauge side by side? No range session was complete without getting to fire a few rounds that Uncle Jim held back for me. How much more would he have enjoyed his range time without some kid tagging along, playing 20 questions?

All these men were kind. All were giving of what they had, be it knowledge or guns or time. The one virtue that most stands out as I remember these men was their demonstrated patience which they gave in abundance. I didn’t recognize it at the time but from my infancy as a sportsman, they were developing patience in me, first and foremost. Many have gone on to happier hunting grounds. Others still with us continue teaching their lessons. Funny thing is, I caught my reflection in a pane of glass the other day as I was shouldering my little 20 gauge Fox. There was an old guy staring back at me. He didn’t look too patient if you ask me.

This column is dedicated to Trooper Joe Palmer. Born: 4 June, 1943 – End of Watch, 4 June, 2023.