‘HEAVEN… ONE GREAT BIG FAMILY REUNION’

           

            This very moment, my wife’s grandmother is laying in the hospital, a very sick lady. A good, God-fearin’ woman, she’s lived a long and happy life, and says she’s ready to go when the Good Lord decides to call her home. We hope that she’ll recover from this illness, but there are no guarantees. Like I said, she’s a very sick lady. All we can do is pray and trust in Him.

            Her being ‘ready to go’, though, has brought up a lot of mixed emotions in our family… especially for me, as I lost my own grandmother not two years past. A loved one’s passing is an emotional one. There’s sadness, grief, and a deep feelin’ of loss, but as I get older, I’ve come to realize that it can be a joyous time, too.

My Mamaw & Papaw Jennings

           Like most Southerners, I come from a deeply religious family. We all grew up in church, and were raised to believe that once washed in the blood of the Lamb that one of these days we’ll get to walk through Heaven’s pearly gates and stand accountable before the Lord.

            Now, I kinda look at things a li’l different than most, especially when it comes to Heaven. I’ve heard preachers tell that Heaven’s gonna be one way, and then another sky pilot comes along and says it’s gonna be a different way. The only thing they all seem to agree on is that Heaven’s gonna be a place of unbelievable happiness and rejoicin’; and that’s good enough for me.

Mamaw Vassie & Papaw Carl Pittman

            With that said, don’t you just know that Heaven’s gotta be one heck of a place? I’ll betcha they ain’t no place prettier… not even in parts of South Alabama or rural Mississippi. Ha! I’m also a thinkin’ there’ll be nothin’ but blue skies and perfect temps there; everybody there’ll be happy and friendly and a smilin’ all the time. No grief, no strife, no troubles whatsoever; just unbelievable happiness. Man, my heart swells just thinkin’ ‘bout it!

            Now, me… I figure there ain’t much of anything that could make a body happier than bein’ amongst family and gettin’ to see all your loved ones once again. I like to imagine that the day I finally set foot there, that my Uncle Ruffin will be a waitin’ at the gates for me, a big ol’ grin showin’ through his gray beard, with a big hearty back-slappin’ hug for me.

My Mamaw & Papaw Pittman

             I figure to find my Papaw Pittman in the Good Lord’s vegetable gardens, tellin’ the angels how best to tend to this or that; and from somewheres off down one of them streets of gold, I suspect I’ll hear the sound of a smoke alarm goin’ off, lettin’ me know that my Mamaw Pittman’s burnt the bread, again.

My great-grandfather Paw Jennings

                 And, ohhh, I so look forward to seein’ my sweet, soft-spoken Mamaw Jennings and my wonderful Aunt Ann, once again. I have missed them so. I can’t wait to sit on the porch at Paw Jennings’ feet, watchin’ him weave white oak splits into baskets as he tells his tall tales, and then later gettin’ to go quail huntin’ with my Uncle Harvey, who I have no doubt will have already traded the archangels out of their very best bird dogs. But, best of all… I’ll finally get to fish with and get to know my Papaw Jennings, who passed away when I was but just a baby. Mamaw always told me that out of all the grandkids, I was the most like him.

My daddy-in-law 'Bud' Bradley

            And, you know… for it to truly be Heaven, there’s gonna have to be a big ol’ kitchen table up there for all the kinfolk and friends to gather ‘round and visit with one another. And, that’s where I’ll find my daddy-in-law Bud, sittin’ there sippin’ a cup of coffee he just reheated in the microwave, as he listens to Amanda’s Aunt ‘Non’ catch us all up on the goin’-on’s around Heaven. Polly will be there, as will R.V. and Amanda’s Papaw Austin. Boy, there’s gonna be some interestin’ tales told ‘round that table.

My Papaw Clay

Of course, there’ll also be a collection of web-bottomed foldin’ lawn chairs sittin’ outside under the shade of some trees, where all my Crane Hill kinfolk will congregate. My Uncle James’ll be a tellin’ jokes, makin’ Uncle K.L. horse-laugh, while Papaw Clay chuckles and whittles on a piece of stick. Papaw Carl Pittman’ll be quietly sittin’ over to one side, grinnin’ ear-to-ear, as he and Uncle Paul Speakman listen to the rest of ‘em carry on. Off to one side, my Mamaw Clay and Mamaw Vassie will be a settin’, listenin’ as Aunt Judy cracks funnies of her own. And the first person that jumps to her feet to hug my neck and kiss my cheek when I show up’ll be my dear Aunt Dwynelle.

My Aunt Dwynelle

And then there’s all the others that I’ll get to meet, as well. Folks that I’ve heard tell of, but have never met; folks such as my grandparents’ grandparents, their aunts, uncles, and a whole passel of cousins.

There’ll be food aplenty, and lots of singin’, ‘cause you know when the Jennings’ get together they’s always a bunch of hymn-singin’. And, lawd, at the story-tellin’. Kinfolk’ll be a comin’ and a goin’, stoppin’ to visit and socialize. It’s gonna be a good time! Matter of fact… it wouldn’t surprise me one bit if’n the Father himself even showed up. If for nothin’ else but for a piece of my Mamaw Jennings’ homemade pound cake or Aunt Ann’s chocolate pie.

            Heaven… it sure is gonna be one heck of a family reunion!

 







‘FLASKS! A LI’L NIP HERE, A TINY DRINK THERE...'

“Whiskey in a flask is my all-season, all-terrain vice.” - Unknown

                  

          Ahhhh... the timeless stainless whiskey flask; while some perceive it to be a drunkard's accessory, that ain't hardly fair... to the container or the carrier. Most flasks don't hold enough liquor to get really drunk on; just enough for a toast amogst a few friends or for just a li'l discreet sippin'. A fishin' buddy of mine carries his in his tackle box, sandwiched between a couple of freezer packs to keep it cool. He says a sip here and there helps him unwind durin' a day on the river; plus, he adds... you can't never tell when you might need a li'l nip.

That reminds me of the fella what ran out of worms one day while Bass fishin’ down on the other side of Atlanta. About that time, he spotted him a Cottonmouth snake closeby, with a frog in its mouth. Now, that frog was just the kind of bait that feller was a needin’ to keep on fishin’, so… knowin’ the snake couldn't bite him with the frog in its mouth, he grabbed that ol’ snake right behind the head, took the frog out of it’s mouth, and tossed it in his bait bucket.

Now, though, he had him a dilemma; how was he gonna let loose of that snake without getting’ bit? Well, it didn’t take him just a second a’fore he had that ‘un figured out. That feller pulled out the whiskey flask he kept in his tackle box, unscrewed it’s top, and poured a swig of JACK DANIELS whiskey down in its mouth. Well now, that ol’ snake’s eyes rolled back in his head, and the damn thing went plumb limp. The fella then slid the snake back into the lake with no problem, and went right back to fishin’, usin’ that frog for bait.
It t’weren’t but just a little while later, though, the fella felt him a nudge on his foot. Can you believe it? That fella looked down to find that damn snake back… with two more frogs.

Seriously, though, totin’ a whiskey flask has been a tradition among outdoorsmen for more than a century, making flasks great commemorative items for your huntin’ and fishin’ and campin’ buddies; one they’ll apprectiate and actually use for years to come.

Back years ago, I presented a life-long huntin’ and fishin’ buddy of mine with his very own stainless steel flask as a wedding gift. I’d had his name engraved on it and filled it with 12-year-old Scotch, which, along with another’s flask full of straight moonshine, sure come in handy the day of his wedding, when a sudden cold snap put a chilly twist on their mountain-top, outdoor spring nuptials. To say he was pleased with his gift is an understatement. And I’ve since shared a sip out of it while standin’ waist-deep in the Hiwassee River on a freezin’ December day, as snow swirled all around and ice clogged our fishin’ rod guides.

Now, just to set the record straight, what a fella puts in his flask is a matter of personal taste and choice. There ain’t no right or wrong liquor to use. Heck… it you prefer sweet tea, then I reckon that’d be just as acceptable (Just please don’t put lemon in it if’n you’re gonna offer this ol’ boy a snort). Take ‘Doc’, for instance, one of my huntin’ and fishin’ buddies. He keeps 20+-year-old GENTLEMAN JACK in his, where another friend of ours won’t tote nothin’ but Canadian whisky in his. And then there’s a third crony of ours, who we’ve shared camps with for years. He swears by his WILD TURKEY 101.

Also, most flasks end up personalized in one way or another. I’ve seen ‘em stamped, engraved, marked up in all kinds of ways; with pictures around the sides and even with leather ‘skins’ or coverings over the lower half of ‘em. As a matter of fact, I recently saw a firefighter friend’s flask that he’d adorned with his department’s patch embossed on the side. Regardless of what it looks like or what you carry in it, though, it’s all about makin’ it yours.

I myself have an old flask; a plain-jane model with a finish that’s kind of dulled with age. It sports a couple of small dents that I have no recollection of exactly how they got there. I’ve had the thing for a long time; many, many years. It generally stays in the side pocket of my ol’ backpack, always close to-hand, and always filled with GEORGE DICKEL White Label. It goes most everywhere with me. To me, there’s nothin’ finer or smoother than Tennessee sippin’ whiskey for warmin’ a man’s innards on a cold day on the water or afield or for celebratin’ an outdoor accomplishment, such as the catch of an exceptional fish.

Plus, once back in-camp of an evenin’, while sittin’ around a toasty warm fire, enjoyin’ good company, with a full moon overhead; out comes that ol’ flask of mine to be passed around for a final salute to a great day.

‘WHEN IT COMES TO THE OUTDOORS... SIMPLER CAN BE BETTER'

       Over the years, a lot of things have changed for those of us who enjoy the outdoors. We still hunt and fish and camp; only, for some of us our focus has changed drastically. No longer do the majority of fishermen enjoy the simpler pleasures of fishin’ small rivers, creeks, and ponds; they prefer instead to race over huge impoundments in high-dollar bass boats, competin’ against dozens of others in bass fishin’ tournaments  Where squirrel, rabbit, and bobwhite quail used to be the preferred game animals of hunters, now it’s trophy deer and turkey. It don’t hardly seem like anybody much appreciates a good bowl of quail and dumplin’s or a paper plate full of pan-fried Bluegill anymore… and that’s a shame.

          Gone too are the rustic, bare-bones huntin’ and fishin’ camps of old. Nowadays, the typical huntin’ camp is full of big fancy RVs, noisy electric generators, and a variety of four-wheelers and all-terrain vehicles for haulin’ hunters and downed game to and from the field. As for fishin’ camps, it’s pretty much the same, only in place of ATVs are pontoons and bass boats, and the camp is usually confined to one or two sites in a lakeside commercial campground.

          Give me a well-trained bird dog backin' another that’s on point; the explosion of wings and adrenaline as a covey of quail burst from cover just underfoot, shockin' novice and expert alike into not even gettin’ a shot off at their quarry. Or standin' around in a thicket with family and friends on a good ol' January rabbit hunt; pickin' at and teasin' one another about missed shots and such, as we wait on a mouthy pack of Beagles to circle a long-eared Cottontail back around to us.

          I know nothing more fun than pullin’ in hand-sized Bluegills and river-wise Spots on ultralight tackle, while wading a cool, clear stream; and then later cleanin’ a mess of those same fish at stream-side before grilling or pan-fryin’ ‘em up for supper. And as much as I love my STARCRAFT camper, stayin’ in some crowded campground ain't no where near as peaceful and relaxin' as campin’ on a secluded, sandy riverbank somewheres back up in the boonies; a cool breeze wafting through an open tent flap, a hint of campfire smoke in the air, with just the light of the moon and stars to illuminate the night.

          Life gets complicated enough on its own. Who needs the added pressure of tryin’ to bag a wall-hanger buck or the heaviest limit of bass durin’ your off time? Not this ol' man, that's for sure. If I sound like a romantic, it’s true. I am one. To me, huntin’ and fishin’ and campin’ is all about the basics; about spending time in the great outdoors, enjoyin' every day afield, and about gettin’ away from all the stress and boredom of every day life.

          So, I reckon me and mine’ll keep floatin’ the creeks in canoes, pot-shottin’ squirrels durin’ the ‘cuttin’ season’, and sittin’ by a campfire way back in the woods, listenin’ to the crickets and the frogs and the night birds, late of a night... which beats the heck out of the incessant hum of a HONDA generator, anytime.

‘THE FINEST PEOPLE YOU’LL EVER MEET’

'Granite Mountain Hotshots'

Yesterday, nineteen of the elite 20-member Prescott, Arizona’s ‘Granite Mountain Hotshots’ firefighting crew were killed in an Arizona wildfire. Known for battling the region’s worst fires, they had recently spent weeks fighting fires in New Mexico and Prescott.

So, as a heat wave across the Southwest sent temperatures into the triple digits, they hiked into the smoky wilderness over the weekend with chainsaws and backpacks stuffed with heavy gear to remove brush and trees as they fought the lightning-sparked fire, that encompassed more than 8,000-acres, destroyed at least 50-structures, and threatened 500-people in the small town of Yarnell.

'Granite Mountain Hotshots' demonstration

It was the most firefighters killed battling a wildfire in the United States since 1933. The average age of the men in the crew was only 22-years-old.

          Of the firefighters who all were part of his city’s fire department, an emotional Fire Chief Dan Fraijo said it plainly, “We just lost 19 of the finest people you'll ever meet."

My heart goes out to the Prescott Fire Department and its families. The have suffered a devastating loss. One that I hope our own community never has to experience.

Whether it’s a structure, a vehicle, or woodlands, fighting fires is dangerous work, and the risk is well-known to the brave men and women who don their gear daily, 24/7, and battle the flames. And I, for one, am very proud of the men and women that protect us here locally.

The next time you see a fire truck headed down the road, lights flashing and siren wailing… say a simple prayer for these wonderful men and women. For each and everyone is truly a hero; highly-skilled professionals who selflessly put themselves in harm's way to protect the lives and property of their neighbors and fellow citizens, many of which they have never so much as met. These guys and gals are MY heroes, for sure, and without a doubt... some of the finest people you'll ever meet.

"When a tragedy like this strikes, all we can do is offer our eternal gratitude to the fallen, and prayers for the families and friends left behind. God bless them all." - Arizona Governor Jan Brewer