Finding Time to Climb a Mountain  January 30 2010

Not too long ago, I wrote about my old friend Bob Craft passing away. I titled the story Bob's Bucket List. Last week, Cherie and I were in Arizona driving across the desert when she brought up the subject of my bucket list. She asked what I'd like to do that I haven't done yet. I, by nature, am a practical man. I have no aspirations to great fame as a writer; nor do I have some need to prove my worth by shooting an elephant. Honestly, I've enjoyed my life up to this point so much that, if I didn't breathe another breath, I'd not feel cheated at all.

But, as we drove across the desert, I recalled a conversation with my Uncle, Jake Proctor, when I was about 12 years old. I was riding with Jake and Annie Mae and some of my cousins up to the mountains of Virginia in Jakes old blue Plymouth. As we proceeded up Highway 8, I saw a single "mountain" rising out of a cow pasture. The hill was probably about a hundred feet high and would have been relatively easy to just walk up. I envisioned walking up that mountain and standing at the summit, looking out across the landscape.

I suggested we just pull over on the shoulder, cross the barbed wire fence and climb that mountain. I suspect I was the only person in the car with an inclination to climb a mountain that day and Jake was diplomatic in talking me out of that idea. He suggested that I'd have plenty of time in my life for climbing mountains and maybe I should do it on a day when we didn't have other things to do. I'm sure I was a little disappointed but I probably settled with spending the next few moments dreaming about all the mountains I'd climb in my upcoming life. I had no idea how hard it was going to be to find a day when I didn't have other things to do.

Our four hour drive across the desert turned into a 7 hour drive due to weather. It turned out the plans we made for Arizona just didn't pan out. There was a huge storm happening as we drove out to Mayer to hunt Mearns quail. There was disastrous flooding in the area around Prescott and Mayer. Flagstaff got between four and six feet of snow, depending on who you believed, cutting us off from the Grand Canyon visit we planned. We wound up with extra time and nothing to do with it.

Any trip is a pleasure when you enjoy the company you're with and this one was no exception. We spent a night in Seligman, Arizona, ate breakfast at the famous Road Kill Café, and began to wander back to the airport in Las Vegas for our trip home. I began to think about how, in all my years, I'd never taken the time to step out just for the purpose of climbing a mountain.

It wasn't that I've never made it to the top of a mountain. It was just that the experience was always part of some other event or trip. Cherie and I had discussed just pulling onto the side of the road and wandering off in the desert to explore on other trips. We'd even discussed climbing one of the hills to enjoy the view. As we drove historic Route 66 West, we resolved to do just that.

In Kingman, we stopped and bought sandwiches and drinks and watched for the right location. We found it about 20 miles from Boulder Dam on Highway 93. On the westbound lane, there's a stone sign that designates the Lake Mead Recreational Area. A mile or two across the desert floor, there are two hills with a saddle-back between them. We crossed the barb wire fence the same way I envisioned crossing that barb wire fence almost 50 years ago riding in Uncle Jake's Plymouth.

We hiked to the base, climbed the saddleback between the two hills and stopped when we reached the top of the swag. There was a spot where a coyote had sat and watched the desert floor, no doubt taking advantage that he could see for miles in either direction. I imagined that coyote sitting there, looking out of it's squinting eyes while the desert wind ruffled his fur. I imagined all the travelers who'd used this ancient vantage point over millions of years.

The wind was out of the North and we moved along the South face of the almost vertical rock that formed the top of the little mountain to the South. We found a pocket on the side of the hill with overhanging rock over our heads. The floor was level for an area about six by ten feet. We hung our feet over the edge and enjoyed our lunch. In the distance, the rental car was visible as a tiny white speck on the side of the narrow pencil line of Highway 93.

I know we're all wired differently but I swear I believe that if all of us would just sit and contemplate the creation we live in for a few minutes every day, the world would be a much better place to live and we'd live longer and happier. The sound of the wind obliterated all civilized sounds. The winter sun baked the rocks around us and, with the North wind blocked by the side of the hill, we sat in total comfort.

We found two niches in the rock above our heads almost the exact size of the bottle caps from our drinks and I embedded them there. We resolved to visit this place again and maybe even spend the night so we could see what the stars would look like over that desert plain. As Robert Earl Keene said in Gringo Honeymoon, "I was wishin' that the world would stop."

We eventually moved out of our sheltered spot and found a break in the rock on the back where we could safely scale the hill to the summit. The shadow of the crest was hundreds of yards away on the desert floor as the sun got lower and we waved our arms to see if we could see the movement; it was just too far. We climbed down and as we were walking back to the car, the sun set over the mountains to our South. We decided this simple diversion was the best part of the whole trip.  

The pleasure of doing a simple thing is so often lost on us. I think we've all spent so much time wrapped up in the complicated pleasures of life, we've forgotten the simple ones. Cherie and I were all wrapped up in trying to get in a quail hunt, a horseback ride, and another trip to see the Grand Canyon. When the weather tripped us up, it did us a favor. It gave us a chance to do something simple and take a little time to really relax.

Dick and Cherie Jones are outdoor writers living in High Point. To check out their website go to offtheporchmedia.com

Check out our spot. If you're going to Vegas, the mountain is about an hour from the city on Highway 93 coming from Vegas. Once you've crossed Boulder Dam you'll come to the Lake Mead Willow Beach exit, you're almost there. You'll have to drive on to Temple Bar Road to turn around. Get out at the Lake Mead Recreational Area sign and walk out to the mountain. Go to the crest of the saddleback and turn right. You'll have to climb a few feet to get to the rock shelf. Change out the bottle caps with your own so we'll know you've been there.

Bob's Bucket List

I lost a good friend this week. If you read my column regularly, you may remember the name of Bob Craft. Bob and I have known each other for years but we've been close friends since he called me after his wife, Joyce, died a few years ago. The phone message went, "I'm going crazy in this house alone, I know you're fishing or hunting something. Call me and let's do something." Bob used to tell folks, "He took me fishing and I've followed him around ever since." Bob loved it when I mentioned him in my column and I want to share a little more about him.

I had the pleasure of taking Bob on his first surf fishing trip. We took my truck down to Hatteras for a few days and smoked cigars. We went to Pop's Raw Bar for oysters, and we even caught a few fish. Bob loved to tell folks about how we went to catch big drum and stripers but decided to catch a few blues for supper. He made it sound as though I could just decide to catch blues and suddenly they'd be in the water. I cooked the few small blues on the little stove in my camper, we ate them on the beach, and Bob proclaimed they were the best fish he'd ever eaten.

Fact is, if I had a dollar for every time Bob said something was the best he'd ever had, I could probably afford to replace my rusty, green truck. I especially remember a $13.00 cheese burger Bob had for lunch in Acapulco that was the best burger he'd ever eaten. I think that burger was so good because it cost so much. There were dozens of cups of coffee that received best ever status and many of the meals Cherie or I cooked for him were the best he'd ever had. He was a complimentary guy, but I also know he genuinely meant it.

Even though Bob was 79 and had trouble walking, he loved to try something new and his desire to do things sometimes exceeded his body's ability to handle the stress. That's a good thing the way I see it. What's the value of life if you're afraid to do the things you want to do? This is not to say he didn't have a lot to bring to the table. Early in our friendship, Bob spent 91 days in the hospital. During the early part of his stay, he decided he wanted a 101 Winchester shotgun. I found one on the web, the gun came and I picked it up. Bob got a really bad MERSA infection and I didn't think he'd pull through, but he did. When he got out of the hospital, he tried his new gun. He broke eight clay targets with eight shots before he was too tired and had me put the gun up. A couple of weeks later, he finished that box of shells, shooting the rest of the box without missing a shot.

Within the four years of our friendship, I took him fishing for catfish at night on the Yadkin river, shad and striper fishing on the Roanoke, duck hunting at a game preserve and on a farm pond, dove hunting, goose hunting, he did numerous pheasant tower shoots with me, he took his concealed carry class with me, tried his hand at riding a four wheeler, and we went to Acapulco for him to catch the "last sailfish of his life."

On the sailfish trip, he did catch an eight and a half foot sail, but took a couple of years off my life in the process. There's no dockage at the harbor in Acapulco. There's only a sea wall with small catwalks that allow you to board the fishing boats. The swells in the harbor amount to about two feet and I was terrified that Bob wouldn't be able to make the jump from the catwalk to the boat. An old Navy man, Bob was nonplussed. I advised the captain that, if we dropped Bob, there would be no tip. It took two guys on the catwalk and two on the boat but we safely got him boarded. We put a life vest on him, when the boat came up to the level of the catwalk we shoved his considerable bulk into the hands of the guys on the boat and, as the boat went down, they helped him into the cockpit. Once we were on the boat, I spent a queasy day and Bob had a ball. He carried the photo of Cherie, him, and me with that sailfish for months and showed it to everyone.

Bob understood something a lot of us forget when we get older, life is for living. He understood he wasn't going to live forever. Often, he told me, "I'm ready to go, I know where I'm going, every day's a blessing, but I miss Joyce."

When we took my 14 year old lab, Ernie, on a duck hunt, Bob was concerned about Ernie swimming out to get a duck at his advanced age. I explained that, if Ernie died on that retrieve, he would die doing what he loved. I remember Bob nodding quietly and later stroking Ernie lovingly while I took some photos. A few months later, Bob cried like a baby when I told him Ernie had died.

On Thanksgiving Day, we found Bob in his home. He'd died suddenly, without the protracted exit I feared because of his numerous health problems. He spent this Thanksgiving this year in the protection of our Lord with his beloved Joyce. In a conversation with the emergency providers I stated that dying suddenly at 79 isn't such a bad way to go. The EMT said, "I'd like to go like the guys in the movie, Bucket List." I remembered how that was one of Bob's favorite movies.

I smiled and told the EMT, "We've been doing Bob's Bucket List for the last few years now. I'm just glad I could be a part." So long old friend, I'll see you on the other side.

October 26 2009

Well my trip to Hatteras to cover the Tournament is over. You can see results on the NCBBA site, ncbbaonline.com. Lots of fish caught.

We caught a lot of fish, too. I caught 3 drum, Cherie caught 1, Suzi caught 1. Lots of blues on metal on Saturday. The blues bit when the drum should have and vice/versa. Fish are not always predictable. Read the story on Locations, I Told You So.

We had the best beach house I've had in 20 years at Hatteras. Quiet area, boat dock, 4 master rooms, one with twin beds. Caught bait in the canal at the house. Summer Wind with Surf and Sound Realty. This was the first time we used them and it really worked out well.

October 20 2009

Frank and Fran's Drum tournament is coming up, Oct 22-24. With a South wind predicted, it may be a little tough to find a big drum on the North beaches. My bet is on Greg Griffin, Greg has placed in almost every Drum Tournament since I've been covering them. Watch for a report on the event in the Sunday High Point Enterprise.

Oct 15 2009

Wounded Warriors Appreciation Event At Beaver Pond

Most of us take the freedoms we have for granted but it's impossible to imagine how different our daily lives would be without the sacrifices of our military. Often these men and women suffer horrendous events that change their lives forever and come home to quietly resume their lives.

Created by wounded warriors for other wounded warriors, the Wounded Warriors Alumni offers a range of programs and events designed for individuals' needs beyond their hospital stay. Many other WWP programs exist to help service members and their families immediately following injury and during their convalescence and rehabilitation. However, WWP Alumni offers the long-term support that extends beyond hospitalization. The organization offers assistance, communication, and camaraderie for wounded warriors as they continue life beyond injury.

The programs participants must have been injured (physical or psychological, stateside or deployed) on or after October 7, 2001(OEF) or injured before but participated in Operation Enduring Freedom. Individuals may also be eligible for the program as the spouse or family member joining on behalf of a warrior.

Please consider joining us in supporting these brave men and women with an outdoor event to be held on a date to be announced at Beaver Pond Sporting Club. Wounded Warriors will shoot clays or fish, have lunch and dinner and participate in a Pheasant Tower shoot. We hope to host repeat events to show those who gave so much for us that we appreciate their sacrifice.

Lead ban proposed in National Parks

Where do your representatives stand?

A letter signed by members of the U.S. House of Representatives' Second Amendment Task Force raising important questions about the National Park Service's intent to ban the use of traditional ammunition in parks that allow hunting has been sent to Department of Interior Secretary Ken Salazar. The letter, which follows a similar message sent to Salazar by U.S. senators last week, was applauded by the National Shooting Sports Foundation, trade association for the firearms, ammunition, hunting and shooting sports industry. Last week in a letter to Salazar, 13 United States senators detailed their concerns about the impact a ban on traditional ammunition would have on hunters, the economy and wildlife populations.

The House Second Amendment Task Force's letter, signed by co-chairmen Paul C. Broun, M.D (R-Ga.) and Dan Boren (D-Okla.) and nine other U.S. representatives, encouraged Salazar to "work closely with groups that represent hunters and anglers to develop a transparent scientific process to examine the impact of lead hunting and fishing products." Needless to say, more lawmakers need to make a stand to prevent junk science from adding more restrictions on the use of historically public lands.

The National Park Service continues to pursue a ban on traditional ammunition that it announced earlier in the year would apply to park personnel involved with culling sick and wounded animals, and indicated it would consider widening the ban to all hunters. Proposals have been made to ban the use of lead sinkers for fishing as well. It's the opinion of this writer that this is a back door attempt to restrict hunting since there is no vetted science to support such action.  


www.nssf.org.

Just Call me a Locavore

It was September and I have no idea which year. Jack Leonard and I shot doves over Kermit Eller's tobacco field and we got a limit each if I remember right. We drove Jack's white '63 Falcon back to the house and cleaned the birds. Jack took the birds in the house and breaded them, fried them, and made gravy. His wife and my mother-in-law, Bonnie Leonard, made mashed potatoes and biscuits while Jack and I cleaned guns, put up our stuff, and talked. 

When Bonnie called us to supper, we were the only ones at the table. Everyone else had already eaten when we came in and we ate across the bar from each other in their little kitchen. I ate a lot of good meals in Bonnie's kitchen; she could cook fried chicken so good that the chickens would stand in line to be next. Her bird pie was to die for and she taught me to appreciate baked beans. This meal, however was as good as any I ever ate there. I've paid upwards of what I paid for the shotgun I used that day for meals and they were nowhere near as good as those doves and gravy.

The doves were tender and peppery from the black pepper Jack put in the breading; the gravy was thick and had none of the pasty taste that gravy has when the cook doesn't know to burn the gluten out of the flour. If the doves hadn't been so good, I could have made a meal out of that gravy pooled up in a pond made in Bonnie's mashed potatoes. The biscuits were the big, squared off, shoulder to shoulder, cat head biscuits found on the table when farm families were getting up hay or cutting wood at Thanksgiving. Bonnie, if you read this, thank you for those biscuits.

I am not known for being up to the latest trends. I've been wearing the same style of shirts for about 15 years. I can't find real shorts in the store that I'll wear because I'm not willing to wear shorts that come below my knees. When is see one of my friends wearing the shorts they make now; the ones that hang half way to their ankles, I ask where they bought them and if they sell men's clothes there. I drive old cars and trucks, shoot old shotguns, and my wife cuts my hair. Not exactly up with the latest.

I found out this week that the 2007 word of the year for the Oxford American Dictionary was "Locavore". According to Wikipedia the go-to dictionary on the misinformation superhighway, a locavore is someone who eats food grown or produced locally or within a certain radius such as 50, 100, or 150 miles. The word is only 3 years old but describes a trendy movement started in San Francisco by a group of urbanites with whom I likely have little in common.

It proves, however, that I am up with the latest in some areas. In fact, I've preferred locavorism all my life. (I may have just invented a new word, "locavorism"). The best food I ever ate came from within 10 miles of where I live and, while I've never been 100% locavore, I spent my early years at around 80% or so. Many of the meals I ate until I was a teenager were 100% within ½ mile of my house. I drank milk from our cow, Bessie, until she got old and then, we ate her. We then got our milk from Uncle Jim's cow, 3/8 of a mile away. The butter, cottage cheese and buttermilk I consumed, I helped Aunt Mildred make. By the way, if all your buttermilk came from a carton, you've never really had buttermilk. All the vegetables came from the garden and the meat came from our pigs and cows. Eggs came from Stanton Bodenhiemer on the other side of Abbots Creek. 

I'm still locavore. Today, for lunch, I had pheasant pie from pheasants raised in Ellerbe and shot in Harmony. (Ellerbe and Harmony, sounds like a song, huh?) My freezer is filled with this spring's run of striped bass from the Roanoke River and catfish from the Yadkin chain. While the blues and drum of last fall are long gone, there are still some quail, chukar, ducks, and pheasants. I'll be restocking with doves next week, unless my shotgunning skills have completely dwindled during the summer.

It's really funny that the least up to date guys in the country, hunters and fishermen, are further along with this Locavore trend than almost of the folks that watch Entertainment Tonight religiously. We've been locavores for years and haven't even known it. This week, I went to see Mountmor Farm, a project right here in North Carolina that's to be a sustainable community with a farm in the center of the homes. The project will even have a special community kitchen that will allow the people living there to can what they raise on the farm. Apparently, someone has figured out the value of eating what comes from around you.

Soon, Cherie and I will be doing cooking segments for the Austin Outdoors webpage on WXII12.com. I'm really looking forward to showing folks how to make a pheasant pie or my famous striped bass coronary casserole (So named because nothing in it is healthy). The recipes we cover will almost all be locavore friendly. We'll even use local products like Texas Pete and House' Autry Seafood Breader while we're at it. It's going to be fun and, if we do a recipe a week, I'm going to run out of ideas without your help. Send me your favorite recipes using local food, especially game, and give us a hand. We may even get Bonnie Leonard to come over and show us how to make those biscuits. 

It's a Fish, for Crying Out Loud

There's a website called North Carolina Waterman. On the site, there's a bulletin board of fishing reports and, during the spring striper run, I monitored it constantly. One day, I was heartened to read that an 82 year old angler fishing with George Beckwith had caught a 48 pound striper. George posted a photo of the angler with another angler about the same age holding  up the biggest fish of his life.

About 2 responses down the page a sanctimonious "catch and release only" fisherman berated George for allowing his client to keep the fish. The catch and release angler berated George saying that the fish probably held about 2 million or so eggs and that all those fry wouldn't be in the river next year because of the selfishness of the old man who wanted to keep his fish. I fired off a response and asked the catch and release guy if he would deprive an 82 year old man the pleasure of taking the biggest fish of his life home to feed family and friends . (A 48 pound striper is about 15 years old) He said it didn't make any difference, all fish that size should be released.

I agree that a lot of hunters and fishermen could do a lot to clean up the image we have but I honestly believe that sanctimonious snob hunters and elitist fishermen do us as much damage as the idiots who drive around shooting stop signs and spotlighting deer. Some of us have developed a sense of reverence about the fish we catch that's downright bizarre. I know guys wouldn't  think of eating a fish they catch but order fish in a restaurant as if it comes out of a fish meat machine and not out of the ocean.

In today's world, in spite of the traditional outdoor sports being politically incorrect, hunting and fishing are alive and well. There are more people in the US who fish than there are golfers and tennis players combined. While hunting recruitment has been down for the last few years, there are predictions that hunting will be on the rise this year due to costs of food and the number of people on short time and unemployment. Whether it makes good economic sense or not, there just may be more people hunting this year.

I'm glad to hear that more people are thinking of putting food on the table as a result of the traditional outdoor sports. With more of the popular culture advocating eating local food, I can't think of anything that should please a locavore (someone who eats only local food) more than a venison chop, a mess of fried catfish, or some country style doves. Those who participated in hunting and fishing a generation ago appreciated what they harvested and completed the cycle intended by our maker by eating what they took.

The concept of catch and release fishing is a relatively new concept that has only recently developed a cult following. A few years ago, when it was legal to keep a big drum, I saw a man who'd just caught the biggest fish of his life being booed as he put the fish in the cooler. I recognize that the fish was quite old and valuable since drum grow very slowly, but the angler had done everything right and caught a the fish of his life. It was his fish to use as he pleased according to the laws of North Carolina at that time and no one had a right to try to humiliate him.

Please don't take this wrong and think I advocate shooting and catching everything and putting it in the pan. Catch and Release fishing is a wonderful way to preserve our heritage and share the resource with others. Bag limits do the same thing. I really don't mind only getting to shoot 2 wood ducks a day in October. Hunting isn't just about the shooting and fishing isn't just about what you can put in the freezer. Choosing to release the fish you catch is a personal decision and one I often take but it's not something to try to force on someone else with different convictions. That's what creel and bag limits are for. Taking an elitist attitude about keeping fish is the same mindset the anti hunting and fishing crowd has and I don't think we need more of that.

Those same guys who feel anyone who eats the fish he catches is a cretin generally see guys like Zane Grey and Ernest Hemingway as role models. I guess they never read much of what Grey and Hem wrote. When Papa Hemingway or Zane Grey caught a marlin, they tied it up on the dock and had a photo taken with it hanging there. The flesh was then sold at the market to offset the cost of gas. There's nothing wrong with dry flies but Hemingway sneered at stuffy fishermen and fished with worms and grasshoppers. If you don't believe me, read The Big Two Hearted River or A Way You'll Never Be. Hemingway also raved about the way trout tasted and I don't remember a single account of him releasing a fish.

I guess it's just human nature to try to out "outdoorsman" the next guy. The problem with it is that someone just getting started in fishing or hunting generally gets talked down to by the snob angler or hunter. We need to consider ourselves as Outdoor Evangelists (No, I'm not saying you need to stand on a rock in the river and preach a sermon, though a lot of us could use one) and make the traditional outdoor sports more attractive to those who'd like to try them. We need to recruit more anglers and hunters to keep our sports alive in a "Green" world where rock climbing and mountain biking are the outdoor sports that are in vogue.

I saw George on the River a few days after the 82 year old man's big striper showed up on the web and caused me to post a rebuttal to the catch and release snob. George told me he appreciated me coming to his defense, but the guy who made the post had done a lot for fishing and conservation. I appreciated the fact that George noticed the good things the guy had done but I thought of how much more effective he would have been without the giant ego.

If keeping a fish is not your thing, fine. I can assure you that telling everyone you know it's not what real sportsmen do and is only done by Neanderthals won't help the sport and it probably won't make people think you're a modern day Hemingway, either.

July 8 2009

The Value of Time

My Uncle Evander was the busiest man I’ve ever known but, since he always had time to talk, most folks thought he did nothing. He had a job of sorts, he would get a phone call, talk to the person on the other line about switches, cylinders, and valves, and the next thing I knew he would be gone somewhere for a week. When he came back he would be talking about fishing for salmon in Lake Michigan or going crabbing with someone in the Puget Sound.

His daily routine consisted of fixing things around his place, meeting someone for lunch, and then working in his shop with a myriad of strange looking machines mixed in with boat accessories, shotshell loaders, fishing gear, and whatever hunting or fishing project he was working on. He made his own boat blind that worked like a store bought blind. He refitted his boat to have components that could be removed and replaced and allowed him to use the same boat for fresh and salt water and as a recreational boat and a hunting boat with the aforementioned duck hunting blind.

He would talk to a friend he ran into at a restaurant as if he had nothing else to do and then rush off to the next project like his tail was afire. He tried to teach every kid he ran into to fish and shoot, took a lot of them on trips, and was constantly doing something for his gun club, or church, or some other group.

I knew he enjoyed being idle. When we went on a fishing trip, he would sit for hours on the beach watching a surf rod, smoking a cigar, and talking about anything I wanted to talk about. We’d kill 3 or 4 days doing practically nothing and, when he got home, he got busy again just as he’d been the week before we left. As a young man, I just didn’t understand what drove him so to do all the different things that kept him so busy.

“Why do you have so many things to do?” I asked one day when I was at his shop while he was working on a disc harrow that belonged to a neighbor.

“There’s a lot of things that need to get done,” he replied absently, knocking the slag off a still smoking weld.

“But that’s not your disc, it’s Bo’s disc. Why don’t you let Bo fix it? Bo can weld can’t he?”

He stopped, took off the welding helmet, found his cigar on the work bench, and relit it. “Bo can’t weld as well as I can. If he fixes it, it’ll just break again. He plows your aunt’s garden and it’s the least I could do. What kind of a neighbor would I be if I didn’t help out my friends?”

I quit bugging him and went back outside to pet the dogs and remembered an earlier conversation. We’d been driving and he always got philosophical when we went on long trips. “Some folks say a man comes into the world with nothing and leaves it with nothing. They don’t know what they’re talking about,” he said. I knew that for the next 50 or so miles, I was going to get an education.

“When we come into the world, we have one thing, time. Time is all we have to trade for our food and shelter. When you take a job or plant a crop, you trade your time for money and you use that money to buy comfort. Some folks store up money thinking that money will keep them from ever having to do without comfort. Sometimes that works. Some folks just don’t like to work and give up the comfort so they don’t have to.” He tossed a short section of cigar out the window and rolled it up.

He said, “I see my time as a gift, I don’t know how much I’ve got here and I want to spend it like you do when you get a dollar to spend at the fair.”  I thought of how carefully I’d budgeted myself at the fair to get maximum use out of the money Daddy had given me. “I trade some of my time for money, I spend some on you, I spend some on friends, and I use some of it to do things for other people. Some folks say you leave this world with nothing but that’s not true, you leave this world with the knowledge that you meant something to the people you left. I know where I’m going when I leave here and I just want the people around me to miss me when I leave.”

“I don’t want to waste my time here on something that means nothing to anybody so I do things I don’t have to do. I could waste my time doing stuff that wouldn’t amount to a hill of beans but what kind of man would I be if I spent all my spare time watching television. I’d be like Charlie Starke.”

Charlie Starke was a man who never quite grew up. He was interested only in what was of benefit to him and would only do something for someone else if it was profitable to him. As a result, Evander had explained, Charlie wasn’t very happy because it’s hard to be happy when you only care about yourself. Evander’s theory was that happiness comes from doing things for someone else, not yourself. Charlie was always complaining about how people never did anything for him, though quite often, they had. He just couldn’t see someone’s kindness for what it was. Evander had told me about Charlie and the pigs and apples when I was a few years younger.

It seems that Charlie had a grove of apple trees on his farm. The grove of trees was along the road and Evander happened to be driving by one day and saw Charlie standing under a tree holding a pig up. He pulled into the little tractor road that ran just off the end of the apple orchard and walked out to where Charlie was standing, holding a pig up while it ate an apple.

“What in the devil are you doing, Charlie?” Evander was amazed.

“Apples ain’t bringing enough this year to bother picking them so I’m letting the pigs have them.” Charlie grunted.

“Why don’t you call the church and let the church kids pick the apples, they could sell them and use the money for a trip or something. They’d have a ball picking and you’d have done something nice.” Evander was always thinking up schemes like that.

“Naw,” he growled. “One of ‘em would probably fall out of a tree and they’d sue me. I’m just going to let the pigs eat ‘em.”

“Well,” Evander said, “if you’re going to let the pigs eat the apples, why don’t you just shake the tree and let the pigs eat the apples off the ground? It would save a lot of time.”

Charlie looked at Evander as if he was an idiot. “What’s time to a pig?” he said.

Evander shook his head and started back for the truck, “Yeah, I guess you’re right, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

July 1 2009

Concealed Carry License Continues to Draw Attention

A year ago, I wrote a story in the Times about the success of the North Carolina Concealed Carry Law. Cherie then went through the class and obtained her permit. I've had a concealed carry permit since the passing of the law in 1995. I believed the law was a good one when it passed and I'm even more convinced now. North Carolina was one of the earlier states to pass a concealed carry law though, since that time, many more states have passed the law and 31 states have reciprocity agreements with North Carolina, meaning our permits work there and theirs work here.

We've had the concealed carry law now for more than a dozen years and it's been a complete success with about 70,000 CCH permits currently in effect. Not only have the numbers of violent crimes like murder, rape, and assault dropped in every state where the law has gone into effect, but none of the wild west scenarios that opponents of the bill feared would happen have materialized. Recent interest has spiked with so many people getting carry permits in the last 8 months that people are sometimes having to wait for months to get into a class. The staff at the book store at the NC Justice Academy told me they limit the number of CCH workbooks to 25 per instructor per purchase because they can't keep them on the shelves.

While the law has been a success in reducing crime, it has other benefits for gun owners and sportsmen. The first advantage is that CCH license holders are not required to submit a pistol permit to purchase a pistol. Since the background check is so thorough, it works like a permanent permit to purchase. The other advantage is that in North Carolina, CCH holders don't have to wait for dealers to complete the instant check required for purchase of all other firearms since their backgrounds have been thoroughly vetted in order for them to obtain the permit.

What you might not know is that CCH holders are held to a higher level of responsibility than those who don't have the license. In the 8 hour minimum class the main focus is on the legal requirements concerning use of force, where a permit holder may carry his firearm, and what the penalties are for non compliance. The knowledge of the law is worth taking the class whether you wish to ultimately get the permit or not.

Cherie took the class and got her permit before interest spiked. Seeing all the recent interest in CCH permits, she and I recently went through the training at the North Carolina Justice Academy in Salemburg to teach the course. Cherie felt that she would be especially qualified to teach women based on her experiences learning how to shoot finding that it's just easier for a woman to teach another woman to shoot. The fastest growing segment of the population currently getting CCH licenses are women.

I'm often asked if getting a CCH Permit is a good idea. This is a hard question to answer because we all have different needs. I really think that you need to take the class to make an informed decision. Once you've taken the class, you'll know enough about the laws to decide if it's to your advantage to apply for the license. If you're reading this and wonder how often civilians get into trouble by using a firearm in a defensive application, consider that the percentage of wrongful shootings for civilians is lower than it is for police. In other words, educated civilians make better decisions than police about whether they are within the limits of the law in using deadly force.

The class covers legal issues, handgun safety, maintenance, and selection, as well as marksmanship principals. Most classes are groups of 8 to 12 students and are informal in nature. Since it's important that you get all your questions asked, be wary of classes with really high numbers of participants. The most imformative part of the class is the part about use of deadly force laws in North Carolina. I was amazed at the number of misconceptions I and other students came to the class with and I took the class 14 years ago.

Whether a concealed carry license is right for you or not, the fact is that the law has been a success in reducing crime and saving lives. The theory is that, since a criminal doesn't know who might be armed, it makes him less likely to aggressively commit crimes, one armed concealed carry permit holder present would certainly put an end to many crimes. While no one is advocating citizens pulling out guns and blazing away, it's believed the possibility of random people being armed is a deterrent to crime and the crime rates in CCW states bear this out. While a concealed carry permit is not for everyone, no one can argue that the reduction in crime benefits everyone.

North Carolina Concealed Carry requirements

Step 1: Locate and take a concealed carry course. The course is a minimum of 8 hours including range time. You'll need to have proof of completion of a concealed carry course in the state of North Carolina in order to apply for a permit. You can go to our website or the Piedmont Handgunners Association websites to get information on classes. The NC Justice Academy also lists classes. The shooting requirements are not like police accuracy training but more about safe gun handling and your ability to operate that gun safely.

Step 2: Apply in person at the Sheriff's office. Applications for concealed carry permits and pistol purchase permits are available at your county's Sheriff's permit office. You will go through a thorough background check to make sure you have nothing in your past that would make you ineligible. Bring your concealed carry class certificate and NC driver's license to the permit office. The nonrefundable fee is $90.00. At the time of application you're required to swear under oath in the presence of witnesses that the information provided on your application is accurate. You also have to sign a medical records waver and allow your fingerprints to be taken.

Step 3: Return to the Sheriff's permit office to pick up your concealed carry permit. The permit office has 90 days to review your application. We hear of few problems in our area, but the Sheriff has a lot of power in this process. You'll receive a phone call when your application is accepted. If your application is turned down, you'll receive a written explanation by mail. The permit is renewable every five years.