Living in the south we weren't privileged to the modern luxuries that seemed bestowed on the upper class. by lamp light we read and under the stars we laid, pondering the past and wondering of the future. the heat of the summer broke when the cool rains fell, the fields were rich with crops with greens and browns from the wheat and corn. the choking dust off the roads was held down from the deluge, making afternoon walks all the more welcome. with some nickles in our pockets we walked to the general store at a crossroads near town. there we'd get a bottle of coke and enjoy the cool evening. in europe a war was raging, yet life seemed just right in davis county. of course we were young, unknowing of the change so soon to be forced upon us in 1917.
ted darcy never cared for larger cities. he loved the natural history museums and gun stores but after a few days in the asphalt jungle he was ready to bolt back to the hills. on his last day in the bustling metropolis he found a good quiet diner where he could sit back and read his new copy of “studies of the african lion.” a history written by one of his friends who spent 15 years in the dark continent studying these magnificent creatures. over thick sliced ham and eggs he poured over the pages. then the waitress came over to warm his coffee. “reading a book are you?” “yes ma’am.” “i like to read too, but don’t do it while walking through a cross walk! that is a bad idea.” “i would think so.” “well sir i did it pretty near became part of the road too, car didn’t pay attention and almost flattened me. but i had the right of way. people are supposed to stop at a cross walk. yes sir i had the right of way.” ted chuckled when he heard her say it the second time. “right of way.” there was one time when ted thought he had the right of way and was proven wrong, terribly wrong. let’s see, that was almost 20 years ago. yep he was a ranch hand out wyoming way. while the waitress gabbed, ted became lost in the past, to a time when he was a lot stronger and a lot more careless. well he had decided he’d try and take one of the bighorn sheep that took up living in the high mountains, armed with his .35 remington model 8 he took to climbing, taking in the crisp morning air and admiring the beauty that is wyoming in the morning time. higher and higher he went just waiting to see a ram prancing around the rocky ledges. in that country it didn’t take long before he saw a promising prospect meandering on the hills above him, he decided he needed to maneuver himself to a better spot on the other side of the ram. knowing this country pretty well, he knew about a narrow shelf that would take him just where he wanted to go. so with an attitude most folks would call careless he took off down the small shelf of rock and began a circus like route to the other side of the mountain. he kept going not realizing he was sharing the path with a fellow a little bigger than
The year was 1946 and jack had just been discharged from the army. his ship rolled past lady liberty in new york harbor and as soon as his foot hit the ground he bought a used indian motorcycle and pointed the headlight in the direction of home. he had just crossed over into georgia and stopped in a small town to fill the tank of the old scout. it was july 4th and the town was decked out in banners of red, white and blue. it was beautiful, the year after that bloody war ended and it seemed americans hadn't seen a happier independence day since 1776. as the filling station attendant pumped gas, jack popped the top of an ice cold coca cola and rubbed the dust out of his hair. leaning against the ice chest he looked out over the beautifully american town square. it reminded him of the ones on the cover of the saturday evening post, ole' norm sure could paint it right. the town was quiet but folks hustled around putting the finishing touches on the stands, decorations and various grills cooking enough food to feed jack's old unit. there was a look of happiness on everyones face, a face of pride but not boastful pride. when he paid for the fuel he put on his leather gloves, flipped down his sunglasses and sparked the indian to life. the boy brought back his change and said. "noticed your jacket, you a pilot?" "yep." ""you fly the mustang?" "nope, a thunderbolt." "wow, i was too young to enlist. sure wish i could've been there." jack thought back to lifting his dead buddies from their cockpits or seeing the spiraling plume of smoke that lead down to their fiery graves. "no you don't. nobody should have been there, but we had to. thank the lord we came out on top. don't think about what you could've done, think toward the future with what you're going to do. today's celebration is a celebration of the past because we have a future. never forget that." "yes sir." he handed the change to jack. "keep it." jack winked and rode away. leaving the town in the rearview, he rode into more just like it. he smiled and thanked the lord for all his blessings on his home, our home, america. #happyindependenceday#theclassicoutdoorsman
Stewart granger with an elephant taken in east africa on an 8 week safari. over his shoulder is his westley richards "white hunter model" in .577. granger owned two, he bought this one after completing, "king solomon's mines." upon returning he was asked by reporters if it was true that the elephant pictured nearly killed him, to which he replied. "sure, i almost became a "vital statistic" three times during the expedition. the time the elephant knocked me down-- i kept hitting him, but he kept coming on. he finally dropped after i whammed a bullet into his eye. i'm a fool----a complete fool for this stuff. yes, my safari days are over --- for a year, maybe. but i'll go back there. there's something about those flop-eared african elephants." -
1946 was a new start. the memories of the past 4 years had made the 21 year old grow tired. he had graduated from high school the day before he signed up for the army air corps. a kid from a small town with no future, the war changed that. it did for alot of folks, only all didn't make it back. on that dreary afternoon he sat in his nice, cozy bungalow in town watching the rain fall. he hoped it would clear up for tomorrow's trap shoot at the gun club. all his college buddies would be there, all were veterans. the day long events at the club seemed to rekindle the flame of camaraderie they had lost when uncle sam discharged them. they could all talk, let loose some of the burning memories that others couldn't understand, others who hadn't been there. not only that but it kept him in good practice for the quail hunting he loved so much. the desert quail, best bird hunting he knew, minus the zeros and d3a's. he had a bigger gun then, an f4f hellcat. things had changed that was for sure, but for the better. the logs in the fireplace crackled and the smell of mesquite mixed with the aroma of hoppes' number 9 as he wiped the receiver of the trusty old winchester model 12. a gift from his father for graduation, he'd use it for the first time tomorrow...4 years later.
Writing is an obsession. the only way to free the mind. the crafting of a proper told story is a tedious process of research and rewriting the same lines until they are clean, crisp and natural. to write about things that are real and true in the simplest and most common aspects of life is what i want. things anyone can understand. but to bring these truths one must draw lines, and as the creator of these worlds, times and people i have the liberty to do so. my heroes are good and decent people. not the anti heroes that ride the line of good and evil so close one is confused about who they really are. so when asked why i don't include v****r language or s*x in my stories, my answer is always the same. i write things that i wouldn't be ashamed if my mother or grandparents read. in my opinion all of the filth can be used as an excuse for lack of talent and bad writing. i don't consider myself a good writer, but never the less i'm one devoted to becoming a better one. it isn't an easy journey, but it's a darn fun one.
If any of you folks are looking for fun, quick reads here are some options. i've always been fascinated with the adventure stories of the 1910s through to the early 1950s. during these years young adult publushing companies were still very much preaching col. theodore roosevelt's "strenuous life" doctrine. these stories were full of vim, vigor and of course adventure. the heroes we're strong, tough, honest and fearless young men who always stood up for what was right and never backed down from a fight. of course these stories would never be considered "appropriate" for today's soft audiences but i encourage all of you to read them and if you have young men you're raising, buy them some of these. they are absolutely wonderful stories. #thehardyboys#tomswift#xbarxboys#oldschool#oldwest#adventure#mystery#action#aominaction#cowboy#detective#thebullmoose#thestrenuouslife#theclassicoutdoorsman
On this day in 1858, an american hero was born. a man who was great at anything he set his sights on, a textbook example of what being a man meant. he was the ideal hunter, conservationist and american. he has been an inspiration to millions of people and to this day continues to be one of my most revered heroes and role models. happy birthday colonel. #theodoreroosevelt#thebullmoose#oldschool#presidents#american#theclassicoutdoorsman
As the sun drifted behind the jagged catalina mountains a blanket of darkness fell over tucson. the bright neon sign at hank's diner flashed with an eerie glow rising from the blue letters. the east side of town was quiet that night, only one patron sipped coffee at the counter. an elderly man tended the cash register and waited on customers. a middle aged mexican flipped pancakes on the griddle back in the kitchen. louis armstrong played on a the small white philco radio behind the counter, turned down low where you could only hear the clarinet and trumpet. a man walked in, he had an overcoat on and a fedora tipped low. there was a steely coldness in his eyes, they seemed dark and lifeless as he mounted a stool.
"coffee." he said
"coming up." replied the old man.
the stranger stared at the other lone customer, who was buried in the newspapers sports section. "any word on the boxing match?" asked the stranger. "yeah, lefty won." the stranger nodded in approval and sipped his coffee.
the cook called for the old man, something about a messed up toaster. then it was just the two diners. alone.
"your name's ed sanders."
the sports lover looked up from the paper, surprised.
"yes sir. do i know you?"
"nope, but you know my boss."
ed's face turned pale and scared at the mention of that name. he gulped and looked down at his coffee.
"he sent ya, huh?"
the stranger nodded.
"i guess there's nothing i can say is there?"
"well let's get it over with, just not in here." the two got up and walked out into the night. the old man came back from the kitchen and saw they had both left, he scratched his head, wondering why they'd left in such a hurry. suddenly three gunshots rang out into the night. then all was silent again... #shortstory#oldschool#thekillers#writersofig#boredom#typewriter#theclassicoutdoorsman