Memories, found everywhere, are like a freight train
By Dave Bates
For the Observer-Reporter
Fall is the time of year for making memories. Spring is the time for planning of said memories.
As I sit at my desk preparing to pound out another edition of “Make Ready” (the tactically cool name of my column if my column actually had a name) I am distracted by the dust that has accumulated on my buck mount over the winter. … Which harkens me back to an autumn sunrise in 2006 when my brother Glenn and I spent the morning before he filed his paperwork to run for magistrate. The short version is that we located the deer laying in an open strip mine meadow, arrow shaft sticking up like Mt. Suribachi. My yellow fletchings signaled the downed deer totally by accident from some 200 yards away, as we were concluding an otherwise fruitless quest. We searched for two hours before giving up because Glenn put his magisterial career ahead of locating a really nice rack. Some people are just selfish that way.
As I shake myself from the daydream I find myself smiling the most stupid-looking smile, no longer as ashamed of the pile of dust hanging above my fireplace. I am much too busy making memories to dust right this moment.
Memories are like a freight train. They are a collection of different cars, carrying different items, for different purposes, going different places. We oftentimes get run over by their sheer magnitude, but in the most positive of ways.
I reach for my letter opener, which happens to look a lot like my Dad’s old yellow Barlow penknife that was sharpened on a rock around the Mesozoic era. I think back to lessons learned from Dad prior to losing him short of my 13th birthday. Thirteen is a tough time for a kid to lose a father. Funny how those lessons still hang in the air, surrounding me, like campfire smoke, nearly 50 years later, making me the man I have become, for better or worse. I’d like to have Dad back for one more cup of coffee. I’d love the opportunity to explain the concepts of sick days and timeout to him.
As I lay Dad’s relic knife down in order to finish opening another unwanted bill, I stumble upon my other letter opener – a more tactically correct version. It is a thin blue line flag edition of a Templar switchblade that can be legally used for nothing except opening letters. It was a present from a student to celebrate my graduation from the police academy. I use it for every other letter, taking turns. As the blade snaps from the handle I smile and think of my protege and former student, Kylie, who returned from the SHOT Show in Las Vegas with a present that she could not bring to school. Mom and dad said I had to stop by the house to collect my gift. Each time I hear that positive click I think of her and all the amazing things she is doing in the shooting sports and in life. She represents well and I am proud of her and her accomplishments but I realize that her folks are the reason that she has turned out to be this incredible young woman. I pull myself from another daydream and return to my column writing.
As I knock my tablet from the desk to the floor, my attention is captivated by the photo of Mrs. Janelle Cooper, wife of Colonel Jeff Cooper of Gunsite fame. She is presenting me with a leatherbound edition of the Colonel’s famous treatise following a tour of Cooper’s study and gunning room at their home in Arizona. How in the world did some hucklebuck kid from Greene County ever swing an invitation to Jeff Cooper’s den? I’d like to think a fair amount of B.S., persistence and luck played a large role but I know better. I believe the word is grace. I know that I am the recipient of much more than I deserve and I did exactly nothing to “earn” it.
My eyes move over my desk and I am drawn to the photograph of my Fairy Godmother, Janet Brown, barely recognizable through all the clutter on my huge banker’s desk. The oversized desk is another story for another day. Janet introduced herself to me literally, as I was walking out the doors of the Waynesburg College cafeteria on Friday, Dec. 13, 1985. I was departing campus forever, having run out of money for my education. In a 30-second conversation she shook my hand and told me that God put her there for me and that I would have the rest of my education paid for via scholarships, work study and you guessed it, the grace of God. She did exactly as she promised and provided the remaining 2 1/2 years of my schooling at zero cost. I actually made a little bonus money with her assistance. She’s why I’m a teacher, writer and a police officer today.
I didn’t mean to write a sermon when I sat down, it just sort of happened. Much like my life … and boy is this hucklebuck kid from Greene County is grateful for every memory that he has been gifted.
We have a baseball game in a little while so I’ll have to close. I’m working on some more memories for down the road.
Dave Bates writes a weekly outdoors column for the Observer-Reporter. He can be reached at alphaomegashootingsolutions@gmail.com