Even so, you will need to bring a form of eye protection and a hat. Other personal items vary as function of conditions. But for a comprehensive list, visit this site’s Sporting Calendar page where you’ll also find the protocol with respect to inclement weather and personal safety.
The American Dream is actually more of a nightmare (See the footnote.). [Footnote] When governments subsidize the housing market, it invariably distorts supply and demand and therefore pricing such that, today, there’s too much square footage for our productivity to support, hence the reason we indenture ourselves more and more by borrowing against our future productivity to maintain our over-consumption. That’s what debt is: indentured servitude. Personally, I want nothing to do with it.
Not that you won’t find an odd stream in Yankeeland being called a ‘creek.’ However, those few exceptions are all located at the western edge of New England – from northern Vermont down to Litchfield County, Connecticut. What happened is that these watercourses either drained into the Hudson River, which flows wholly within the Dutch colony of New Amsterdam, or into Lake Champlain, which the Dutch contested (and, of course, the French up there in Ville Marie, Canada took exception). Consequently, it was the Dutch who first gave them European names.
By rights, my mother should have died on Sunday, 15 December, 2019. With the family gathered around her bed, her pulse was practically nil and her body temperature was dropping, she was all but gone. Now, I was positioned by her head to the right. And it was when her pastor began the Ministration at the Time of Death, that I noticed tears starting to puddle in her eye sockets. Her eyelids the began to flutter, lift, and stop much like an automobile engine on verge of firing but unable to sustain the part.
Either way, the pas de deux between a ‘handsome’ and a ‘lovely,’ male and female, is an easy thing when all is fresh and new and life itself smiles upon a winsome couple. However, it’s when the novelty has worn off and life plays rough and yet the hunter keeps pursuing his lady despite it all that separates the men from the boys. Now, those two newlyweds in the feature photo were so happy at that moment in time, 31 July 1965. For this reason, it’s tempting to end the narrative here, on a joyous high note. Yet, if I did, then I would miss the opportunity to convey what I believe was my father’s absolute greatest achievement and what more than anything validates my Uncle Everett’s esteeming him a man.
Within a short span time, starting in early 1970 and ending October 1971, my parents lost a number of family members and friends, most of them to cancer. What made it worse was that it appeared that mom would be counted among them. For while she was in the last-stage of pregnancy with my sister, she was diagnosed with kidney cancer. Treatment, of course, had to be postponed until after she gave birth, which greatly amplified the psychological strain she was under. She got through it, though, but it left her emotionally exhausted and thus less resilient. Unfortunate, because shortly thereafter, her sister-in-law, Mary (my Uncle Calvin’s wife) with whom she was close, was diagnosed with breast cancer and died on later that year on Christmas Day, 1970.
Mom was now teetering on the edge. Then misfortune struck again on 31 May, 1971 when I lost most of my right foot as a consequence of a lawnmower accident followed by being mistriaged as a general patient instead of being medevaced to a trauma unit. In a weakened state with nothing left in reserve and after one or two more of her friends were diagnosed and died of cancer, she had a mental breakdown and slipped into clinical depression, a state lasting for 4-years from which she finally emerged in 1975.
My mother was a shattered woman. And pictures are worth a thousand words, I direct your attention to the family portraits below. The first was taken a day or two after I had returned home from the hospital. You can’t see it because it’s out of the frame, but my right foot is heavily bandaged. Now mom and dad were not in the mood. It’s just that the appointment had been made prior to the accident
The upper respiratory track damage that drove me out of chemistry also entailed me experiencing 4.5-years – from 2012 to 2016 – of hardcore insomnia. I had trouble breathing and consequently I also had trouble sleeping. The way it worked over that interval was that I would go three or four nights, sometimes five, without ever closing my eyes. I then would crash, but never hard. The most I was ever out was four hours tops. I also, of course, was a wreck, and to the degree that I periodically would have to stop driving for a time.
Photographs from that era don’t lie either – dark rings about my eyes, face puffy, hair unkept, generally listless, etc. Call me vain, but I actually hate looking at them. The worst effect of the years of hardcore insomnia, though, was losing my edge cognitively. I’m not the same man that I was before. For there’s not a single intellectual skill-set the hardcore insomnia left untouched; wherein I avoided taking a mighty step downward. And who’s to say that it can’t happen again? Because, in the final analysis, time eventually gets the best of any human being.
The main reason Christmas is so truncated in the Anglosphere, especially in the United States, is the influence of Calvinism in general and the fact that the Puritans banned manifold Christmas traditions after winning the English Civil War (1642 – 1651), which established a pattern that has been hard to break. Interestingly, the British purportedly played The World Turned Upside Down, a ballad composed in the mid-1640s to protest the measure, as they surrendered at Yorktown (1781) by which the Crown lost the War of Independence. Though the account above may be apocryphal, it just goes to show how those dammed proto-yankees not only corrupted American driving culture (Refer to the 17 November, 2025 dispatch: An Honest Bush Truck.), they even deprecated Christmas! I definitely would’ve been a Royalist had I lived in 1640s England and, for that matter, a recusant Catholic a 100-years earlier.
Working eight out of seven days, ten to fifteen hours a shot, during Summer – running so hard that, by mid-August, all I want is just one morning to sleep-in – helps me cope with the rest of the year. The problem, however, is that it creates a moral dilemma. For I believe it’s imperative to observe all of the Commandments, including this one: Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy.
So, I go to my priest and lay it out. “At all times and all places,” I pronounce, “idolatory, murder, extra-marital sexual relations, covetousness – they’re always wrong. But what do you do when keeping the Sabbath according to the plain understanding of the text isn’t restful?” I then add, “Between the end of May and mid-September, having one day in seven to sleep-in coupled with a morning giving God His due would be nice. Yet, I have to think in terms of the year, not a week, and the off-season is just around the corner. What am I to do when rest is stress?”
My mother literally prayed to God requesting that I always would get caught if I did anything wrong. Now, I was a mischievous youngster. My little sister, Lynette, in contrast, was both very responsible and was a camera eye, which put me in a bind. For mom would instruct her to watch me like a hawk and report my misdeeds whenever the two of us were at home unsupervised. I obviously was unaware of the arrangement at the time. In retrospect, though, it’s fair to say that God not only granted my mother her request, but that He also had an ally.
It’s 1989, both my sister Lynette and I are in our collegiate years, and we’ve returned home for Spring Break during which we’ve joined dad and mom to visit our paternal grandmother. Now, my parents tended to keep Grandma-O in the dark about things because she was the type who’d make you pay for your shortcomings whether real or perceived. Anyhow, for whatever reason, Grandma-O expressed an unsolicited opinion. “The O—-s are good people,” she declared. “None of the men play sports, but neither do they get into fights nor do they get in trouble with the law nor do they flunk school.”
Funny how she focused on the men. And funny how she listed those four things and those alone. But at that, Lynette immediately leaned over to mom and, in a not so quiet whisper, parenthetically added, “Except for Steve.”
The men in my father’s side of the family steered clear of athletics – their loss, not mine. That, however, wasn’t the part Lynette was driving at. Rather, it was the other three. And so, yes,I often fought – but only because I liked pulling practical jokes and some guys didn’t take them well. And yes, at 13-ans, I got into trouble with the law when my custom of sneaking out of the house after curfew for night-time mischief finally caught up to me. Although in regard to flunking school, Lynette stretched it a bit. It’s true that every March, from 3rd- to 8th-grade, my parents received a Your son, Stephen, is in danger of failing letter after which they’d threaten to send me to Frederick Christian Academy (basically a Protestant version of parochial school) if I didn’t shape-up. Yet, that’s what always happened. I never once flunked-out. The idea of doing time at Frederick Christian Academy scared the hell out of me.
The underlying problem, if you want to call it that, was never what we label today as ADHD. Attention-deficit doesn’t fit. Rather, it was always restlessness, which seeks to attain that which is substantial. When life is one dry well, a good practical joke and the suspense of nighttime D.I.Y. commando training are just what the doctor ordered. The former demands imagination, an eye for detail, and the capacity for follow-through. The latter requires planning and discipline. However, school…I concede that one’s harder to account for. General rambunctious had a lot to do with my lagging early on. Yet, around 5th-grade, it was compounded with a second factor.
Memorial Day, May 31st, 1971, I lost most of my right foot due to a lawnmower accident. It was very disorienting – so much that, once I reached high school, it even caused me to take myself out of circulation (if you get my drift). But as a young boy, though I couldn’t articulate it, what I wanted was a military career. I reckon I simply didn’t see the point of school and was never cut-out to do things ‘just because.’
Moreover, the sportsmen who these beasts actually desire that they prosper and have a long history of backing it up with action. Theodore Roosevelt (1858 – 1919), the father of American conservation and the author of the underlying ethos of Voyageurs Fieldsport, manifests the mentality described above as good or better than anyone. Dangerous game was so valuable to T.R., and remains as such to sportsmen cut from the same cloth, that to either kill every last one or destroy the habit they depend upon is anathema; a crime. Instead, they take steps to ensure lions, tigers, and leopards, etc. exist in perpetuity, which may surprise the average person living in the First World.
Humans nowadays have generally adopted a benevolent posture towards dangerous species even to the point of romanticizing them, which is problematic. Take wolves, humanity’s sworn enemy, for example. Historically, they’ve always posed a danger. In India, some years they even kill more people than tigers do.1,2
I always liked National Geographic. If you’ve read Most Interesting Men, then you know that my parents used Frederick Christian Academy as leverage. In truth, they sent me there 1st and 2nd grades in reaction to my performance in kindergarten. And it laid down the law, which was good for me. But I was in the principle’s office multiple times a week from start to finish, enough that my mother conferred with Mr. Chewning, wondering how I was going to make it through school in the years to come. “What does Stephen do in his free time?” he asked. “Does he build things? Does he read?” My mother answered both questions affirmatively, and so Mr. Chewning continued querying. “What does he read?”
“The encyclopedia and things like National Geographic,” she said.
Upon hearing that, Mr. Chewning smiled and said, “Stephen will be fine.”
Funny, but when my sister proclaimed about 2-years ago that I was cognitively and emotionally a late-bloomer, I first protested on account of disliking the idea of being a left-winger…On the developmental bell curve, that is. I mean I’ve never been misanthropic. But the thing is she was right. I would have been a late-bloomer in the best of circumstances, which put me at a disadvantage in school. Now, general rambunctious also had a lot to do with my lagging early on. Yet, around 5th-grade, all of it was compounded by an additional factor: the realization that, for me, the 11-Bravo life was impossible. I surmise I simply didn’t see the point of school and was never cut-out to do things ‘just because.’
Yet, well before that, the injury was much the reason why I was such a poor student during my formative years. Now, general rambunctious also had a lot to do with my lagging early on. Yet, around 5th-grade, all of it was compounded by an additional factor: the realization that, for me, the 11-Bravo life was impossible. I surmise I simply didn’t see the point of school and was never cut-out to do things ‘just because.’
Yet, giving the wrong impression is easy – something I discovered on Monday, August 24th, upon returning to Cambridge, New York from Washington, D.C. where I attended the Freedom 250 Grand Prix. I brought my dog Ivey with me, boarding her in a kennel down there.
Now, it’s roughly an 8-hour drive between points, and so Ivey was quite eager to be let out of the back of my Subaru Forester as soon as we reached home. And even to the degree that, when I opened the hatch and began positioning her crate for her exit, she started to whine and whimper. Naturally, dogs have feelings, too, and so I responded by saying, “Awe, sweetheart!” Then after making kissing sounds, I continued, “You poor, poor creature.” But just as soon as I finished doting upon Ivey, I heard steps and, turning around, discovered a woman I’d never seen before walking past. She was roughly the same age as me. Yet additionally, she appeared to be a little surprised.
Upon reading Run Amok, if you suspected that I was only trying to be funny when I stated that I would give just about anything for a line of work that places me at risk of developing a light case of PTSD, then banish the thought. I was sincere. And in truth, my general dissatisfaction with ordinary life actually precedes witnessing the S.W.A.T. team post-action. Moreover, it is especially strong by early March each year. Winter is my favorite meteorological season. Yet, I have too much free time, as I am on furlough as a fly-fishing guide whether I like it or not. the reality is that I have too much free time once it also overlaps with the second half of a personal, non-axial calendrical division, that I term the off-season: the segment of the year during which I am on furlough as a fly-fishing guide whether I like it or not.
The truth is that my restlessness and general dissatisfaction with ordinary life, described in Run Amok, precedes witnessing the S.W.A.T. team post-action late May. The sentiment, in fact, is especially strong by March every year. While Winter is my favorite season, it also overlaps with the second half of a personal, non-axial calendrical division, that I term the off-season: the segment of the year during which I am on furlough as a fly-fishing guide whether I like it or not.
Most people are understandably reluctant to wade icy-cold streams in pursuit of trout from November to March, and I don’t blame them. There are better things to do during the interval. Of course, I fill the time as best I can throughout the length of it by increasing my boxing quotient, and by hours spent afield upland bird hunting and deerstalking from October to early January. Yet, by the second week of March, I’m nearly beside myself and ready to bolt the gate.
Therefore, if you’ve read Run Amok and suspected I was only trying to be funny when I stated that I would give just about anything for a line of work that places me at risk of developing a light case of PTSD, then banish the thought. I was sincere. In fact, I’m so beside myself by mid-March that I even consider things like running-off to Africa to join a tactical anti-poaching brigade. Of course, in addition to being 58-ans, my ancient injury prevents that from happening just as it always has blocked me from the things that I would pursue by nature and by rights.
Why did I have to bring that up? I’ll now be ruminating over it until bedtime. Well, superficially, I adapted in the wake of losing most of my right foot as a consequence of the Memorial Day 1971 lawnmower accident referenced in Most Interesting Men. Retrospectively, though, it was extremely disorienting – so much that, once I reached high school, it even caused me to take myself out of circulation if you get my drift. But I don’t want to give the wrong impression. I find ways to keep my powder.
Life is troublesome, and so Fr. Brisbane’s hypothetical warning demonstrates that it is proper to evaluate the present case regarding occasion of sin in the interest of determining if I’ve already morally lapsed. Very well, hunting tigers in Cambodia under the guise of being a short-term missionary would be a voluntary act in the same manner as Capt. Willard’s (Martin Sheen) mission in Apocalypse Now is purely elective for him. So far, I’m not looking so good. Yet, living in Cambridge, New York, Les États Unis, means Cambodia is categorically remote and there’s nothing about me suggesting that, like Colonel Kurtz (Marlon Brando), I’ll go native once I set foot in the jungle. Therefore, since I hit only one of the two, it appears my little scheme avoids being a sin in and of itself even if it leads to my downfall in the end.
Of course, by shifting the object of the term ‘remote,’ I am guilty of wordplay, which changes things. Then again, I’ve license to do so since Apocalypse Now is fiction and I’m only having fun here just as I did while writing Most Interesting Men. Nah, regarding the latter, that’s not quite true. Damn vegan fly-anglers: There’s no fun or even fiction in my depiction of them.
You know, by every measure, it seemed I was falling behind in school. And if you’ve read Most Interesting Men, then you’re aware that my parents used Frederick Christian Academy as leverage. In truth, they had sent me there 1st and 2nd grades in reaction to my performance in kindergarten (no kidding). And Frederick Christian Academy laid down the law, which was good for me. Yet, from start to finish, I was in the principal’s office multiple times a week and often multiple times a day. And this was in the milieu when punishment was corporeal.
My mother finally conferred with Mr. Chewning, the principal, wondering if I was going to make it through school in the years to come. “Does Stephen like to read?” My mother answered affirmatively, and so Mr. Chewning continued his line of inquiry. “What does he read?”
“The encyclopedia and things like National Geographic,” she said.
Upon hearing that, Mr. Chewning smiled and said, “Stephen will be fine.”
What’s interesting, though, is that my parents moved me back to public school starting 3rd grade in response to what they considered to be silly rules. The main dealbreaker was when Frederick Christian Academy dismissed a teacher because she attended a Lutheran church that used wine in the Eucharist instead of grape juice. Now, my parents rarely kept alcohol in the house, mainly because my father disliked strong drink of any type, even coffee. In fact, lemonade probably was the stiffest liquid he consumed. Mom, however, enjoyed an Old-Fashioned, and often would have one when the two of them went out for dinner. Therefore, I suspect that moving me back to public school after this teacher was dismissed was her idea, of which dad approved simply because it saved money. Either way, I never wanted to return to Frederick’s Protestant version of parochial school. And look at me now. Here I am, a subversive Jesuit (See Jesuits and Me).
I mean there is this fictional account, based on hearsay, of a 9-year old boy who’s at the public library reading National Geographic, discovering what a fascinating place the World is, when a prominent woman in the church his family attends walks in. Of course, it’s the severe lady rather than one of her more easy-going peers. Yet spying him, she walks over, probably just to admonish that he memorize a Bible verse but instead defaults to sternly quoting something to the effect of, Be careful little eyes what you see. Now, perhaps you’ve just shouted, “Busted!” But now you’re making it seem as if it was a Playboy. Besides, he’s 9-ans, well before the age of accountability, and so back-off!
I mean there is this fictional account, based on hearsay, of a 10-year old boy whose paternal grandmother viewed as a ‘Dennis the Menace.’ Accordingly, whenever his family visited her, he adapted by spending much of the time in her basement reading back issues of National Geographic, discovering what a fascinating place the World is. At some point, though, he left a trail, and his grandmother put two and two together then phoned this 10-year old boy’s parents about it. Yeah, perhaps you’ve just shouted, “Busted!” But now you’re making it seem as if it was Playboy. Besides, he’s 10-ans, well before the age of accountability, and so back-off!
As an aside, I frequently ask Catholics what they find endearing about evangelical Protestants and invariably they report two things. The first is that they appreciate the latter’s energy. In USAF terms, according to them, if Catholics and Evangelicals are both flying F-22s, then while the former are more proficient, the latter are more inclined to hit the afterburner. But the second characteristic they appreciate is the tradition of congregational hymn-singing, and I think they’re onto something. I’ve de facto aligned with Rome for a while now (Refer to Jesuits and Me.). Even so, I firmly believe the evangelical tradition of congregational hymn-singing flies acrobatic rings around its Catholic counterpart.
Yes, those were the instructions that I had to follow – that is if I wanted to go on an African hunting safari at 30-percent discount, redeemable within the next 5-years. Now, my attitude would’ve been entirely upbeat had the imperative been to purchase a Walther PPK. I’m certainly for that even if I am a Sig-Sauer man, but a tailored dinner jacket?
Such is the nature of a quid pro quo. Moreover, I reckon a tailored dinner jacket was a reasonable stipulation since I am the face of Voyageurs Fieldsport or something and I was to speak before the public. Still, I balked a little. “You know that James Bond draws from an MI6 expense account,” I said. The liaison replied that was neither here nor there, as the organization had no choice but to manage expectations in light of the Voyageur Fieldsport website’s homepage banner photo of me gazing upon Glen Etive to the effect of 007 in Skyfall. The reality was the public now had this preconceived idea that couldn’t be ignored. “It was just a snapshot,” I retorted and then added, “You know I wear a Timex watch, not a Rolex, don’t you? That’s the kind of guy I am.” The liaison, however, only corrected me, stating that Bond sports Omega watches starting with Goldeneye (1995). “Same idea,” I growled.