My New Dog!

 

Today I traveled the three hours to Columbia Station to meet Jim Karlovec and his dogs at Flushing Star Gundogs http://www.flushingstar.com/.  After spending some time with them, I put a deposit on a two week old black English Field Bred Cocker Spaniel.  If he lives up to his bloodline, and after seeing his parents and the other dogs Jim has there is no reason to think he will not, I should have a great hunting partner for the next nine or ten years.  That should just about see me through my days in the field.  I will bring the pup home sometime between St. Patrick's Day and Easter, and he will go back to Flushing Star at the end of July for basic gun dog training.  If he looks anything like his parents, he should look a lot like the dogs pictured here. 

 

English Cockers and Springers are from the same stock, and until the mid twentieth century, they were often born in the same litters, with dogs and bitches under 25 pounds designated as cockers and larger dogs called springers.  Today's Cockers generally weigh in at between 26 and 35 pounds.

They are very biddable and are versatile, retrieving on land and in water and able to flush and retrieve rabbits and waterfowl in addition to upland birds.

We are looking forward to the arrival of this newest member of our family.  I daresay even the terriers will learn to like him!

Hail The Conquering Hero

Faithful Pat The White Hound

When I arrived home this afternoon, both terriers were barking at the south end of the barn.  I assumed they were bothering my chickens, who were on pasture for the day.  But as I passed the sawdust bin, I saw the body of a red fox draped across a stack of concrete bags.  Closer inspection revealed that it was still warm and limp.  Neither terrier was bloodied, so I placed the carcass where they couldn't get it, checked my birds, and returned to the house to change and do chores.  Faithful Pat, the white hound, was waiting for me at the back door of the house.  He was seriously bloodied and had a deep gash across the top of his head, revealing his bare skull.  He didn't seem to be in pain, and so I slipped a lead on him, walked him to the Jeep, and drove him to the vet, who assures me that with a few stitches he will be as good as new.  I pick him up tomorrow morning. 

For some ten years, Pat has been my primary line of defense against deer, racoons, fox, coyotes, and other mid to large sized animals who left to themselves would decimate my gardens, kill my birds, and generally wreak havoc on the farm.  While I have lost a few chickens, lettuce, and cabbage from time to time, and more than my fair share of quail and pheasants on one or two occasions, Pat's presence has been a consistant and generally non lethal deterrent to maurading creatures in the neighborhood.

But today, the game was obviously more serious.  Herr Todd had designs on my laying flock, and a thirteen year old dog, retired and well past his prime, did exactly what he was bred and kept to do, at no small cost to himself.  I salute his courage  and look forward to his triumphant homecoming tomorrow morning.  He will have a place of honour by the fire, and I might even cook him steak and eggs for supper tomorrow night.

It is said that the High Kings of ancient Ireland kept special packs of white hounds which were valued for their courage, faithfulness, and sporting ability.  I don't know if my Pat carries their bloodline, but he certainly exhibits their characteristics.  Thank you Pat for a job well done.  Might we all be as true to our calling as you have been today.

As for Mr. Fox, I will take him to the taxidermist tomorrow morning.  His beauty will entrance children and visitors for years to come. 

Icons of Christ: the Same Yesterday, Today, and Forever

I've been reminded over the past few days of how easily institutions can fail to meet our expectations.  In the midst of those musings, I was reminded of him who is the same yesterday, today, and forever.  In the idleness of my mind, I began to cast around for some tangible object which could be for me an icon of him who will never leave me or forsake me.  I sought some common and yet constant reminder which models if you will consistancy and unchanging functional goodness so completely that it might become for me a picture of something much greater than itself.  I imagined some Platonic "shadow" which might point me to the true form of all that is constant and true: Jesus Christ, our Lord and Saviour; and my Master.

Barbour's Beaufort Jacket

As I pondered these things, I decided to retire to the TV Lounge and wax my old Barbour shooting jacket.  When Rebecca surprized me with it a few years back, it was right out of a fashonplate, glistening dark green with a brown courdoury collar, brass zippers, the trademark tartan lining, and a quilted removable liner which could double as a vest underneath a tweed or herringbone jacket.  Now, it is well worn.  With its broken game pocket zipper and the odd tear or hole here or there, it is a veteran of many hunts.  Rebecca says it stinks and tells me that I ought not to wear it, save to the barn or afield.  I prefer to think of it as a bit "birdy," and take some rather unseemly pride in the fact that it marks me apart from those shooters, hunters, and horsey types that only roll out for the opening day of the season or for the odd horse or dog show.

And so I sat down with my old friend and a very overpriced can of "Barbour Original Formula Wax  Thornproof Dressing."  It took two full episodes of Inspector Barnaby and DS Scott in "Midsomer Murders" to repair last year's tears and to wax the jacket, with special attention to the seams.  But now it glistens with the soft gleam of fresh wax and hangs at the base of the stairs with my faded old Orvis Crusher Fedora, ready for yet another season.  It will keep me absolutely dry without the stifling odor of manmade fibers or the collected heat of a plastic or rubber shell.  Like all Barbour coats, it is cut for the specific sport for which it was designed, and I can swing right to left on a high pass  pheasant as if I were wearing only a light shirt.  My Barbour Beaufort shooting jacket has all of the function and style it had the day we bought it at Mad River Outfitters in Columbus.  It is just about as consant and true as any physical thing I own, even after these years of hard use on the farm and in the field. 

Now, when I look around me and see so many of the things I love passing into history, I look down at my barn coat and smile, because some things- the truly important things- never change.  It may seem strange to some of my gentle readers to think of a shooting coat as an icon of the Christ.  But there are many things in this great world which he can and does use to remind us of his faithfulness and changelessness.  I will never willingly give up the beautiful hand written Icon of Christ that cousin Helen brought back for me from Kiev.  And I doubt that my good friends at Holy Cross Carpathian Orthodox Church will be hanging up a Barbour jacket on the iconostasis anytime soon.  But when I don my faithful old friend on a cold and rainy winter's day, I will always think of Jesus, who saved me, and keeps me, and who will come again to receive me as his own.

Jesus Christ, by Heinrich Hoffman
My Constant in the Midst of Change

  

Why I Love Being A Priest

The Most Beautiful Bird In America?
 

That time of year is upon us again. Friday morning, Chuck and I embarked with Fat Leo the Labrador on our first shoot of the season at Federal Valley Pheasant Farm, outside Amesville, Ohio.  We went five for five, and unfortunately, there was no one there to witness the feat.  Since everyone would naturally assume that Chuck and I would lie for each other in all things sporting, the wonderful claim falls into the same category as a golfing hole in one scored when one is playing alone.  But it was a good day, and Leo settled in pretty fast and gave yoeman's service on the lanes.

Todd Frazier's Rally Starting Home Run

On Thursday, I traveled to the Queen City to see the Reds close their last home stand of the year against the Brewers.  With two down in the bottom of the ninth, the Reds rallied to tie and then win the game.  The game had all the excitement of one of those devotional movie closings when the good guys come from behind to win, and it was great to be there in the flesh with my friends from St. John's to experience the jubilatioin of seeing the team I followed in my youth carry the day.

But the weekend was not all play.  I married a young couple from our parish and felt the joy of their decision to begin their life with each other in Christ.  I gave last rites to a dear friend, really more a sister, who is a longtime member of our parish.  I was priviledged to baptize a little boy whose father has just returned from an active duty deployment with the Ohio Army National Guard.  I had the opportunity to preach twice on our responsibilities as a parish to the children and the new Christians in our midst, and to lead a discussion on the difficult passages of the Bible and how sometimes it is hard to understand how God's character and person is revealed in those passages.  Later in the afternoon I was priviledged to bless a basset, three westies, a springer, a yorkie, a rat terrier, and a beagle at our annual animal blessing.  Along the way I had the opportunity to help a couple of folks with very real physical needs and to lend a listening ear to a handful more.  Oh yes, I also renewed a couple of old friendships and welcomed two families who spend half of the year somewhere else back to St. John's for County Fair week. 

Our Little Girls

But of all the happy and inspiring times of the weekend, the one which perhaps moved me the most was being able to spend time with my grand-daughters.  We laughed and played and fed the chickens and read books and just loved each other.  It is good to have them back in Ohio again.

Surely, life is a mixture of the wonderful and the difficult, of the inspiring and the discouraging, but I am so very thankful that God has immersed me in it as a Priest of His Church.  Someone asked me recently what I would be doing if I was not the priest at St. John's.  I really couldn't give them an answer, because I couldn't imagine doing anything else.  God has blessed me so richly in this place, and for that I am grateful.

Country Living Update: From the Lighter side

Quincy and Rawley: The Terriers

This morning, while I was engaged pulling the cockleburrs out of Squirt the pony's mane, the terriers went absolutely crazy at the other end of the barn.  It didn't take long to discover the source of the ruckus.  The unmistakable odor of Mephitis mephitis (the striped skunk) wafted through the barn and made it impossible to stay with the job at hand.  North American Wildlife explains it thus: "When provoked, the Striped Skunk arches its back, raises its tail, stamps its front feet, and shuffles backward.  If the warning is not heeded, the animal ejects a fine spray of acrid, blinding fluid from its anal glands.  As a result, few animals other than large owls prey on skunks..."  No kidding!

Many years ago, while hunting squirrel (Sciurus carolinensis) in Wisconsin I came up over a rise with my dogs (Beau and Wulfy back then), was confronted by a relative of today's entertainment, and witnessed the entire dance.  Fortunately, the dogs were distracted by a flushing ruffed grouse (Bonasa umbellus for my readers who may be familiar with other types in the UK), and we were spared the "fine spray of acrid, blinding fluid" on that day.  The boys didn't come off so well this morning.  While they managed to avoid the direct blast, it is fair to say that they will not be allowed into the house until they are cleaned up and descented.  Opinions vary on the best way to accomplish that little job, and this afternoon I will probably try at least two or three of the proposed folk remedies.

But to finish the story, by the time I got the horses out of their stalls and into the front pasture, and checked to make sure the chickens were ok, I saw the raised white tail of my offended neighbor going over the hill and under the fence into the woods.  Even if my shotgun had been handy, I didn't have a safe angle for the shot.  And so he lives to spray again.  The terriers have taken it all in stride, and are quite proud of their accomplishment.  It is as if someone has given them both a shot of adrenelin.  Faithful Pat, the retired white rabbit hound, witnessed the entire thing and seemed quite bemused by it all.  But after a life spent in the woods and hedgerows, he was more than willing to leave the whole thing to the terriers.

An elusive neighbor to avoid!

Mid-winter Musings

Fairfield County is now firmly in the grips of winter.  The truck thermometer read 22 degrees Fahrenheit when I did my chores this morning at the barn.  A light dusting of snow covers the ground, and the horses are very glad to be out of their stalls now that the ground is frozen (they tear up too much pasture when things are muddy and therefore have to stay in the barn until the ground is frozen.)  Just last weekend, Tristan, Chuck, Leo the fat Labrador and I were shooting pheasants in fifty degree weather at Federal Valley.  We bagged six birds, missed two embarrassingly easy shots, and watched one beautiful cock bird glide into the treeline when Leo got excited and galumphed out of range.  It was a good day with lunch at the local ma and pop restaurant, Cardhu, and Dominicanas.  The slower pace of mid-winter life in the countryside always calls me to consider those things that are truly important, and this year is no departure from that rule.

Monday night, Kathy Heim (our organist) conspired with me to offer evensong at the church.  It is a fitting service for the countryside in mid-winter.  After the sentences and confession, we proceeded directly to Phos hilaron by Robert Bridges and Louis Bourgeois, The lessons from the Feast of the Circumcision were answered by Crotch's Mag and Whitneys's paraphrase of the Nunc set to Orlando Gibbons' Song 1.  There was enough plainsong, simplified Anglican chant, and incense for even me, but the most amazing thing about this lovely service was its spontaneity.  I was in the throes of laryngitis, and so was unable to sing or read my accustomed parts.  Kathy chanted, Ivan led the canticles, Frankie and Ann read the lessons, Ivan and Kathy offered thoughts on the lessons, Paul led the state and church prayers,  Ivan offered those prayers requested by members of our congregation, and I merely received the gift of worship from my friends.  I was helpless in a sense, but through my friends, I met God.  The liturgy was truly the work of the people here at Saint John's, and the experience got me thinking about what might be.

Imagine a place where the Holy Communion was the basis of our life together.  What would it be like for the ancient devotional societies of the church to cooperate in prayer with the more functional modern mission agencies which labour in our parish?  Could it be possible that evangelical commitment to study God's Word might be blended with the devotional practices of the church catholic such as confession and stations?  Could the personal devotional practices of the modern west be coupled with fasting and the disciplines of another age and another part of the world?  And could God, would God, work through such a mix to send his people out in the power of the Holy Spirit to 'preach good tidings unto the meek, bind up the brokenhearted, proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to them that are bound; to proclaim the acceptable year of the Lord, and the day of vengeance of our God; to comfort all that mourn; to appoint unto them that mourn in Zion, to give unto them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness; that they might be called trees of righteousness, the planting of the Lord, that he might be glorified.' (Isaiah lxi. I)? 

These are the sorts of things I think about in mid-winter.  Perhaps in the days to come, God will unite our hearts to see such a miraculous fulfillment of the prophesies of Isaiah.

Occasionally, I love technology

Today was a banner day for me and the US mail. I received the latest edition of Alexander Warrack's "Concise Scots Dialect Dictionary," which means I can start on my resolution to read the complete poems of brother Robert Burns. I also received the latest National Geographic map of the United Kingdom and Ireland, which allows me to trace Drs. Johnson and Boswell on their "Journey through the Western Isles" of 1792 or so. Since I was ordering things on Amazon, I also received Morwood's "Dictionary of Latin Words and Phrases," which I have meant to buy for years, but just never got around to it. But the most wonderful thing that came in today's mail was a reloading die and package of sabots for the .30 caliber rifle from SabotReloadingPro.com in Provo, Utah.

Tristan and I have long lamented that the country around here is too flat to shoot our rifles of choice in cals. 30-06 and 30-30. There is just too much chance for richochet. This has effectively kept us from hunting the coyote, which is perhaps the greatest threat to game in our part of the world (that is with the exception of modern farming and development practices- which we can't do anything about, feral house cats- which we don't shoot because they might be someone's pets, and red-tail and cooper's hawks- which are protected.) That is about to change, thanks to today's technological innovation. The sabots will allow us to shoot .224 caliber bullets at a whopping 4200 feet per second (almost twice the regular .30 caliber speed) and to use smaller specialty bullets which are designed to explode rather than richochet when they meet with any resistance. While we will still pay close attention to field of fire and backdrop to our targets (because no shooting sport is entirely without risk of mis-use by thoughtless idiots.), we now have the opportunity to provide a valuable service of coyote removal and spend time together afield- all thanks to the marvels of technology.

Those of you who know me well have a general idea about how much it pains me to say anything good about things modern, but credit must be given where credit is due. Bravo to the boys in Provo for adapting a technology that has been around the military for some time to civilian use. Hopefully it will mean more birds and rabbits in our future here in Fairfield County Ohio!

Wisdom from Margaret

When I logged on this morning, I found the most wonderful message from daughter Ashley. The subject line read simply "Wisdom from Margaret" (our beautiful three year old grand-daughter in "the California.") The message read, "I love Jesus because Jesus loves me." What a wonderful way it was to start the day. Life gets so very complicated some days, and as the Scriptures say, "Out of the mouths of babes thou has perfected praise!"

Good news came to us yesterday afternoon. Bishop Salmon, retired of South Carolina and currently Dean of the Seminary at Nashotah House, will be able to attend son-in-law Matthew's ordination in Advent in "the California." He is a godly man, filled with the wisdom and good humor or our Lord, and has had such an important role in the formation of Matthew for holy orders.

Tuesday afternoon, I had occasion to stop by Ohio Christian University in search of an organist for our parish. Things there went quicker than I had anticipated, and on my way to Columbus to the University Medical Center, I determined that it would be a shame to complete such a beautiful day without some small sporting diversion. So I swung by the boat ramps at A.W. Marion State Park and cast a leadwing coachman into the edge of a weedbed bordering a hole where I had done pretty well in years past. While I was working on my roll cast, I noticed a hiker coming down the trail. He looked familiar, and as he came closer, I realized it was Sergeant Major Osbourne, with whom i had served some years back. We laughed and talked about the old days, our kids, and life out of uniform. He was in the woods plotting hardwood locations for a study about the impact of exurbanization on reforestation patterns. It seems that the breakup of the large farms into smaller holdings over the past forty or fifty years has led to substantially fewer field and woodlot fires, with the unintended consequence that softwoods are replacing hardwoods in many parts of the region- something to do with faster regeneration rates among the lesser desirable woods and insufficient light for the early hardwood growth (I think.) It is much more complex than that, but I suppose that is a layman's misunderstood generalization of the type that makes up most political ads. In any event, I think I learned something, and it was great to catch up with an old friend who did much throughout his career in the Army and in the Fire Service to care for his soldiers and firefighters and their families. May God bless the SGM for his godliness, his decency, his concern for the environment, and his love of the people among whom he has worked.

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.