A Wonderful Shoot!

This afternoon Chuck, Tristan, fat Leo the Labrador, and I converged on Buckeye Pheasant Farm west of Dayton for a memorable shoot. After a lane or two of very fast hunting in a new and exciting place, Leo settled into his customary rythem, and by the end of the day was hunting as well as I have ever seen him work. We bagged ten pheasants, which are now awaiting their destiny as stir fry in Tristan's freezer in Oxford. Those of you who follow this blog may remember that one of the questions surrounding this hunt was how much of the Marine Corps remains in my Son. The question was answered shortly after we arrived. Tristan uncased the Winchester model 12 pump gun and layed it next to the Stoeger side by side. He then quietly recased the double and loaded his grandfather's pump. Every time someone signaled that the dog was "on", Tristan assumed that assault stance that is so characteristic of so many of our young men today and shot like the professional he was and remains. Once a Marine, always a Marine! I suppose that this means he will never shoot with the grace of a Robert Churchill or the style of an Elmer Keith, but he does bag more than his share of birds with the quick shots of a veteran infantryman. Two years ago when he was home on leave after his first deployment to the high desert, I remember watching him in the field when we were following the terriers in search of vermin. As we crossed a fence or forded a stream, it broke my heart to see him assume the slouching range walk of one who expected to engage at any moment. Even in Fairfield County, he was back in "the Stan." After he came home as a wounded warrior, I remember watching him scan every parking lot for trip wires and every rooftop for snipers. But today my boy was back, and the joy of the hunt was in his eyes again. He did comment once that it was nice to be able to step wherever he wished and not have to worry about being blown up. Welcome home son, we love you more than words can express.

More Light

Last weekend, T and I went to Columbus where he experienced the basic degrees of the Ancient Accepted Scottish Rite of Freemasonry. He entered the gentle craft shortly after his graduation from high school, and before he left for the Marine Corps. While he was home on convalescence leave after the second tour to Afghanistan, he and Danny Meenach, an old friend of the family, were made Mark Masters and initiated into the mysteries of the Holy Royal Arch. And now he joins so many others as a Sublime Prince of the Royal Secret. Exquisite and self-important titles apart, the higher degrees of the Royal Craft are designed to transmit those lessons of responsible manhood which are so often not passed on in society in any age. Personal responsibility, dedication to God, high minded citizenship, commitment to your own beliefs and principles while tolerating and understanding those of other people, and the brotherhood of man, are all taught in the higher degrees. While the French degrees of the Scottish Rite tend to be a bit more emotive and radical than the stately experiences of the British degrees of Mark Master and Royal Arch, they are every bit as profound, and their Gallican flavour stirs the soul to great ideas and greater deeds. It is good to go with my son to a place where good men gather to learn more about being better. The feel of an all male lodge is different from other venues for the transmission of values I have known. It is more primal, and more visceral in some ways. I am glad to be able to pass on to my son what I received from my father. In spite of creaking knees and failing memory, growing older has its own set of blessings that I could never have known as a younger man. For such blessings I am eternally thankful.

Musings on Tomorrow's Shoot

The terriers are wrestling on the couch, and the night is late. Tomorrow begins early, and much of this evening has been spent in preparation for the day. It will be the third pheasant shoot of the season, and Tristan's first since his return from the war. Chuck will be by with Fat Leo the Labrador shortly after breakfast, and we will drive to Buckeye Pheasants, just west of Dayton, and Tristan will drive up from the university to meet us there. He has asked me to bring his grandfather's Model Twelve pump and the Uplander double, both in 16 gauge (his deceased grandfather's gauge of choice.) It will be interesting to see which gun he hunts with tomorrow. He handles a pump very well, but very agressively, like a Marine infantryman on patrol. The double by comparison is more of a gentleman's gun, slower and more deliberate. I often wonder how much the fleet stays with him, and his choice tomorrow might indicate where his heart truly resides. If he is anything like my dad, his grandfather, the fleet will never be far from his thoughts, even as the years make him more and more of a civilian. It is so very good to have him home at last.

Back In The Saddle Again

It seems like years since I've posted anything. Amidst my complete disinterest in technology, I forgot how to access my blogspot account. But now I am back again. Any time I am faced with technology, I seem to hear far off in the distance, a faint voice chanting "One ring to rule them all! One ring to rule them all! One ring to rule them all!"
Not that much has changed since I last posted, but my attitudes seem to be changing a bit. Beating cancer on a couple of occasions has a way of helping one to see how unimportant and insignificant most things we worry about really are. Tristan's wounds in Afghanistan (from which he is completely recovered) remind me that most of the other problems in my life were just minor background noise. And the knowledge that my particular positions in the Episcopal Church's late unpleasantness have been determined to be the loser, even though I continue to hold them vigorously, has been extremely liberating. Perhaps like that old Jacobite clansman who happened to be abroad on business during the '45, and who therefore survived the Hanoverian ascendancy, I am now free to be a bit odd but not much of a threat to anyone. I can toast who and what I like, and be a bit quirky (but not too quirky) without fear of imprisonment or exile. Such powerlessness is not necessarily a bad thing.
Perhaps it is from such a position that true holiness is to be found. Once we realize that we exercise no control, we are free to acknowledge with our hearts, as well as with our heads, that God is in control. I am free to pray the old prayers with the old rubrics to my heart's content, in the knowledge that living for Christ is all that remains. And that is not a bad feeling. I daresay it might be a good thing to wish it for all of my friends.
In any event, I am back, and I hope that these disorganized ramblings might be of some hope or encouragement to some fellow traveler somewhere in the blogosphere. May God bless us all with peace as we wind our ways to heaven.
In Christ,
Bill+