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	<title>Byers&#039; Remorse</title>
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	<description>Well, it&#039;s not remorse, really.  I mean, I didn&#039;t do it, but there it is, and....</description>
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		<title>Google Wave Demo</title>
		<link>http://www.ibiblio.org/byers/wp/?p=632</link>
		<comments>http://www.ibiblio.org/byers/wp/?p=632#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Sun, 22 Nov 2009 16:24:24 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>MT</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[General]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Current Events]]></category>

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		<title>The day my dog saw an alligator</title>
		<link>http://www.ibiblio.org/byers/wp/?p=607</link>
		<comments>http://www.ibiblio.org/byers/wp/?p=607#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Sun, 25 Oct 2009 18:40:45 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>MT</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Memoirs]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Life Events]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.ibiblio.org/byers/wp/?p=607</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[Freddy was not my dog; I mean, I didn&#8217;t own him.  We had not arrived at any such contractual arrangement.  I can&#8217;t imagine that I could have made the terms attractive enough for him, and I don&#8217;t think the nature of our relationship would have benefitted in any case.  Rather, he sort of came with [...]]]></description>
			<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>Freddy was not my dog; I mean, I didn&#8217;t own him.  We had not arrived at any such contractual arrangement.  I can&#8217;t imagine that I could have made the terms attractive enough for him, and I don&#8217;t think the nature of our relationship would have benefitted in any case.  Rather, he sort of came with a house I lived in for a while.  He advised me, within the first day or two of my arrival, that I would be providing him meals from time to time when he was not able to procure them for himself.  He would be providing cultured company and alerts, should they be needed, upon the arrival of visitors to our midst.</p>
<p>Judging by his tail and ears, Freddy must have been a distant offshoot of the <a id="npeq" title="terrier" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Terrier_Group">terrier</a> clan.  Not big, not small, his curly tail rather circulated than wagged.  Mostly white with a few black and tan spots, he was trim and struck a fine figure with and intelligent gaze and bearing.  In addition to his fine appearance, he proved to be an accomplished <a id="me9q" title="diplomat" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Diplomat">diplomat</a>, always finding a way around conflict with his fellow canines.  He was equally at ease with people, self-sufficient and, unlike so many other dogs, never needy.</p>
<p>Everyone seems to think they have the <a id="txkj" title="smartest" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Intelligence_quotient">smartest</a> dog ever minted, even when that clearly is not the case.  I wonder if dogs are more realistic when assessing the intellect of their <a id="lmgq" title="human" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Human">human</a> companions.  I believe Freddy may have downplayed intellect as one of my redeeming characteristics when discussing me with his friends.  If so, it is only because I may have disappointed him from time to time.  For example, when he got excited about something, he often came to me to get my view and perspective.  Just as often, he left frustrated having been unable even to begin the discussion, myself, being as I am, so dim.  Yet he must have found a few redeeming qualities because he stayed and stayed.</p>
<p><img title="Sneaky!" src="http://www.ibiblio.org/byers/wp-img/memoir/alligator.jpg" alt="" width="350" height="270" align="right" />Once, on a trip to the <a id="gigq" title="Everglades" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Everglades">Everglades</a> and the <a id="ashn" title="Florida Keys" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Florida_Keys">Florida Keys</a>, he found occasion to see that I might be of some small use after all.  We had stopped at a little park on one of the minor keys (sorry for that one).  We walked back into some undergrowth until we found a little pond, less than 30 yards across with fairly steep banks all around.  Freddy was not native to those climes and had never seen an <a id="s0_o" title="alligator" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alligator">alligator</a>, but there was one in the middle of the pond that most certainly had seen little dogs before and had grown quite fond of them.</p>
<p><span id="more-607"></span></p>
<p>As Freddy trotted down to the water&#8217;s edge, this five-foot specimen gave one leisurely wave of his tail and began floating effortlessly toward him.  The alligator was some five yards away from the bank&#8211;and Freddy&#8211;when I called him to sit beside me some 15 feet up the bank.  He sat there, quite close to me and followed my gesture as I pointed to the &#8220;log&#8221; floating in the water.</p>
<p>Immediately, his brow furrowed deeply, and he began to tremble.  As he looked from me to the alligator and back, his regard took on an aspect of genuine, heartfelt gratitude.  I believe at that time he adjudged that he indeed &#8220;owed me one,&#8221; and came to think this might not have been the  totally one-sided relationship he had taken it for after all.</p>
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		<title>The day of the epic dog fight</title>
		<link>http://www.ibiblio.org/byers/wp/?p=610</link>
		<comments>http://www.ibiblio.org/byers/wp/?p=610#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Sat, 17 Oct 2009 18:41:11 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>MT</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Memoirs]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Life Events]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.ibiblio.org/byers/wp/?p=610</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[I was living on a dairy farm near Chapel Hill, NC, when the animal protection folks came by and asked if I would mind keeping one of their dogs for a while&#8211;y&#8217;know, to keep it from being killed and all.  Under the circumstances they laid out, I couldn&#8217;t think of a reason why I couldn&#8217;t.  [...]]]></description>
			<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>I was living on a <a id="az:l" title="dairy farm" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dairy_farming">dairy farm</a> near <a id="qurf" title="Chapel Hill, NC" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chapel_Hill,_North_Carolina">Chapel Hill, NC</a>, when the animal protection folks came by and asked if I would mind keeping one of their dogs for a while&#8211;y&#8217;know, to keep it from being killed and all.  Under the circumstances they laid out, I couldn&#8217;t think of a reason why I couldn&#8217;t.  I took in the dog without knowing what an episode in my life was getting ready to unfold.</p>
<p><img title="Ill call this one Tiny" src="http://www.ibiblio.org/byers/wp-img/memoir/pit-bull.jpg" alt="" width="275" height="243" align="right" />The dog turned out to be quite a specimen&#8211;affable but quite imposing.  He was definitely part <a id="cc5u" title="American Pit Bull Terrier" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pit_bull">American Pit Bull Terrier</a>, something the nice lady had left artfully unstated.  The ears, the jaw line&#8211;it couldn&#8217;t have been anything else.  Instead of being a moderately sized dog of about 40 pounds, though, this one was a cross with something maybe in the <a id="i_n2" title="Labrador Retriever" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Labrador_Retriever">Labrador Retriever</a> line, something substantial that put some heft and size behind those jaws.  He was 80 pounds, easy, and it was 80 pounds of rippling muscle, too.</p>
<p>With all that, he was the nicest dog ever.  Loyal, grateful, and kind of dim like most Labs I have known.  He didn&#8217;t get a lot of his own ideas, but he was glad to get involved with anything I had in mind.  He was just smart enough to know he didn&#8217;t want to go back where he had come from and figured charm was his best insurance against that.</p>
<p><span id="more-610"></span></p>
<p>We were getting settled in nicely when my parents called.  They had an <a id="j:ow" title="Airedale" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Airedale_Terrier">Airedale</a> that had grown neurotic and begun behaving egregiously of late.  It seems that every time anyone moved a muscle in the neighborhood, this dog would run over and grab the person by the ankle and hold on until my father told him it was all right to let go.  People actually coped with this quite nicely for a while, but predictably, they grew tired of the situation when it was clear it was going to continue into the future for some period known only to the Airedale.</p>
<p><img title="One big terrier!" src="http://www.ibiblio.org/byers/wp-img/memoir/airdale.jpg" alt="" width="250" height="384" align="right" />My parents made quite a case for the dog, saying that all he needed was some stress-free country living and he&#8217;d be right as rain in no time.  I would only have to keep him for a couple of weeks, and it would be a great and much appreciated favor if I would.  I took the dog in, but this dog&#8217;s personality was quite different from the newly acquired &#8220;Big Dog&#8217;s.&#8221;  It wasn&#8217;t that he was any smarter&#8211;he wasn&#8217;t&#8211;but he did have plenty of his own ideas, misguided ones mostly.</p>
<p>Being <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Neurotic">neurotic</a>, he had no concept of himself other than the one he thought he saw in other people&#8217;s eyes.  He was constantly &#8220;on,&#8221; trying to get everyone&#8217;s attention, and completely oblivious to the quality of that regard.  It didn&#8217;t matter to him if you were beating him with a rolled-up newspaper as long as you were focusing on him to the exclusion of all else.  Any entity, especially those of a canine aspect, that would threaten to absorb any measure of human attention whatsoever, was deemed a dire enemy.  He made every effort he could to drive off said interloper, even if said interloper had been there first and was much better regarded by all and sundry.</p>
<p>This particular Airedale was no pipsqueak either.  He was trim and fit and large for the breed&#8211;70 pounds or so.  Terriers were bred to dig up badgers, for example, and to dispatch all manner of feisty vermin, and their persistence is legendary.  This particular Airedale would grab a stick in his jaws, and even if you swung him around and around for minutes on end, he would never let go.  You would tire first, or he would chew through the stick, but he would not let go, guaranteed.</p>
<p>The skirmishes between the two dogs started immediately and continued intermittently, almost daily, adding drama to almost every waking moment.  The worst fights occurred when I came home after a day away at work or school.  The dogs would hear my car coming up the gravel drive and come running out to meet me.  As they ran, they&#8217;d become aware of each other, and the Airedale would become incensed that another dog was giving thought to the possibility of perhaps soaking up some of the attention that so rightly belonged solely to him.  He&#8217;d attack savagely at these times, and the fight would be on.</p>
<p>For all his size and obvious prowess, the Pit Bull fought mainly defensive battles.  It was as if he couldn&#8217;t take the Airedale seriously, which incensed the Airedale even more.  He&#8217;d go into a canine version of the <a id="anmk" title="rope-a-dope" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rope-a-dope">rope-a-dope</a>, never committing to a direct confrontation, but never allowing the Airedale to hurt him in any way.  The battles were loud, but &#8220;Biggie&#8221; rarely even squared off on the Airedale.</p>
<p>That changed one full-moon winter&#8217;s night.  The dogs had been fighting daily for a couple of weeks, and nothing was getting any better&#8211;the Airedale wouldn&#8217;t allow it&#8211;and the big dog was getting tired.  As I drove up that night, parked, and got out, I saw the dogs running my way in the bright moonlight.  As usual, the Airedale turned on the Pit Bull and burrowed in, trying to get his jaws locked on some part of the other dog.  This night, though, the Pit Bull finally squared off on him, and in one lightning gesture, he had the 70-pound Airedale in his jaws, across the shoulders.  He lifted him over his head and slammed him into the ground three times&#8211;left&#8230;right&#8230;left.  He let go of the shoulders and grabbed some throat and pushed the dog across the ground for several feet.  He never made a sound.  He was the image of efficiency.</p>
<p>The Airedale finally had his fill.  He ran off into the woods, and we didn&#8217;t see him back for a few hours.  It was the first peace the big dog and I had felt for two weeks, and I invited him inside to celebrate by the fire.</p>
<p>That didn&#8217;t end things, though.  The Airedale came back and took a day to mend, walking around stiffly and avoiding eye contact with anyone.  Then he went right back to his old ways.  He never quit trying to win the war, even though the battles continued to go badly for him.</p>
<p>I called my parents the next day and told them the situation.  I took the dog back to them the next weekend and was glad for the end to the hostilities.  A few months later, the Airedale died of a heart attack, so peace came to my parents&#8217; house as well.  I think the neighbors adopted a philosophical attitude when they heard of his demise.</p>
<p>The time came for Biggie to move on.  It had always been a temporary arrangement, and the lady from animal protection came back to inform me that she had found a permanent home for him.  She let slip, now that the immediate crisis had passed, that the dog had come to animal protection because he had washed out of some sort of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dog_fighting">dog fighting</a> concern or other.  This was not a big surprise.</p>
<p>I missed that big dog immensely.  I missed his heart.  I missed his goodness.  He was one of the best guys I have ever known, but he was going to a better place, a permanent home somewhere, and I hoped he would be happy there.</p>
<p>The thing is, after seeing him in action, I knew he hadn&#8217;t &#8220;washed out&#8221; of the dog fighting scene.  He just had such a slow fuse, such a tolerant attitude, such a true dominance, that the other dogs couldn&#8217;t really get to him.  I had seen what happened when a dog got to him, and I had no question what would happen to any real opponent he was ever likely to encounter.  I was glad he was out of that world, though.  So glad.</p>
<p>Here&#8217;s to you Biggie.  You were all too rare&#8211;whether dog or human.  All too rare.</p>
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		<title>The day the mason threw up and kept on working</title>
		<link>http://www.ibiblio.org/byers/wp/?p=550</link>
		<comments>http://www.ibiblio.org/byers/wp/?p=550#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Sat, 10 Oct 2009 14:39:02 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>MT</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Memoirs]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Life Events]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.ibiblio.org/byers/wp/?p=550</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[One summer late in high school, I worked with a brick mason as his &#8220;tender.&#8221;  Being this particular mason&#8217;s tender was sort of like assisting a surgeon, except I was constantly filthy and had to mix bags and bags of mortar in addition to moving and stacking a ton of bricks in an average day.  [...]]]></description>
			<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>One summer late in high school, I worked with a <a id="m1n3" title="brick mason" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brick_mason">brick mason</a> as his &#8220;tender.&#8221;  Being this particular mason&#8217;s tender was sort of like assisting a <a id="yshr" title="surgeon" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Surgeon">surgeon</a>, except I was constantly filthy and had to mix bags and bags of mortar in addition to moving and stacking a ton of bricks in an average day.  That&#8217;s a skill you rarely find a use for in the typical <a id="cfj3" title="operating theater" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Operating_theatre">operating theater</a>, but the job was similar in that I had to anticipate what he would need and have it ready for him when he asked for it.  He had a surgeon&#8217;s temperament, too, and those first two weeks were kind of rough as I learned his patterns and preferences.</p>
<p><img title="Simple tools, so you know it takes skill" src="http://www.ibiblio.org/byers/wp-img/memoir/mason-tools.jpg" alt="" width="250" height="185" align="right" />The &#8220;surgical assistant&#8221; analogy would not have applied with almost any other brick mason, but this guy was a noted <em>artiste</em>.  When other masons turned down a job as impossible, or tried to change the customer&#8217;s mind about what could be done, this guy would fix them with a clear, blue eye and say, &#8220;Well, I reckon I can do that.  Gonna cost you, though.&#8221;</p>
<p>This was the late 1960s, and this guy had been around for most of the century already.  He was only a little older than I am now, but to a high school kid, anything over 40 is too close to death for comfort.  When he worked on a low section of wall, you could tell it hurt him.  He&#8217;d have to kneel in the dirt, supporting some of his weight with his toes.  When he stood from from time to time to shake out the kinks, his heavy boots would maintain the shape they had taken while he&#8217;d been kneeling.  At these times he sometimes said, &#8220;Well, I reckon those toes will turn up for the last time here pretty soon.&#8221;</p>
<p><span id="more-550"></span></p>
<p>We worked most of the summer on a single job.  We built a two-story ornamental brick wall on an addition to a house, and then another, less ornate wall around the entire perimeter of the lot.  It was a shady lot, luckily for us, near <a id="qlat" title="Peachtree Creek" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peachtree_Creek">Peachtree Creek</a> in <a id="dckc" title="Atlanta" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Atlanta">Atlanta</a>.  This area had been the site of the <a id="j8v7" title="Battle of Peachtree Creek" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_peachtree_creek">Battle of Peachtree Creek</a> during the <a id="zpdt" title="Civil War" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_Civil_War">Civil War</a>, one of the larger battles of the <a id="ae2w" title="Battle of Atlanta" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Atlanta">Battle of Atlanta</a>.  You could walk around the area and find foxholes and earthworks dug by soldiers a hundred years earlier.  People with <a id="iopu" title="metal detectors" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Metal_detector">metal detectors</a> found <a id="ilq1" title="minie balls" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Minie_ball">minie balls</a> here all the time.</p>
<p>One day well into the summer, the work was going slowly&#8211;so slowly, in fact, that I started wondering what was up.  I got my answer about mid-morning when the old guy turned his head and threw up in the mud.    I was thinking, &#8220;Well, looks like that&#8217;s it for today.&#8221;  I asked if he was OK and started looking around for our tools so I could put everything away for the day.  He said, &#8220;Let&#8217;s see if that makes me feel better.  Will you run to the store and get me a grape <a id="tcj2" title="Nehi" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nehi">Nehi</a>?&#8221;</p>
<p>I got him his drink, and by lunch he was feeling better&#8211;almost chipper.  We finished out the day, cleaned up and loaded everything into his truck.  Climbing into the driver&#8217;s seat, his comment on the day was, &#8220;It&#8217;s hard, but it&#8217;s fair.&#8221;</p>
<p>Everybody has those days that don&#8217;t seem to be working out that well, and it&#8217;s easy to feel like quitting.  Everyone has those days, but not everyone has the advantage of having known a person who could teach valuable lessons, not with his words but with his simple actions.  That day has stayed with me all these years and has sustained me many times when things were not going well, even when things were hard and not particularly fair.</p>
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		<title>The day I broke down on the floor of the dressing room after the state championship game</title>
		<link>http://www.ibiblio.org/byers/wp/?p=561</link>
		<comments>http://www.ibiblio.org/byers/wp/?p=561#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Sat, 03 Oct 2009 14:04:59 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>MT</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Memoirs]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Life Events]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.ibiblio.org/byers/wp/?p=561</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[In Atlanta in the late 1960s, soccer was not exactly popular.  Neither were the people who played it.
I take that back.  The soccer players at North Springs, my old high school, did all right socially, but not solely because we played a particular sport as happened with the football and basketball players.  We labored in [...]]]></description>
			<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>In Atlanta in the late 1960s, <a id="hqoz" title="the beautiful game" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Soccer">soccer</a> was not exactly popular.  Neither were the people who played it.</p>
<p>I take that back.  The soccer players at <a id="mm4a" title="North Springs" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/North_Springs_High_School">North Springs</a>, my old high school, did all right socially, but not solely because we played a particular sport as happened with the <a id="h3q9" title="football" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_football">football</a> and <a id="q0rh" title="basketball" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Basketball">basketball</a> players.  We labored in anonymity as far as our sport was concerned, playing in empty stadiums through the winter when we wouldn&#8217;t compete for space and players with the football team.  We surely would not have competed for <a id="q8t4" title="fans" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fan_%28person%29">fans</a> in any case.</p>
<p><img title="Neat trick.  Can you do that?" src="http://www.ibiblio.org/byers/wp-img/memoir/bicicleta.jpg" alt="" width="286" height="300" align="right" />But soccer was trying to make its entrance into America in general and to Atlanta in particular, and I loved it.  The <a id="uva9" title="North American Soccer League" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/North_American_Soccer_League">North American Soccer League</a> started a professional league in 1967, and the <a id="zw_8" title="Atlanta Chiefs" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Atlanta_Chiefs">Atlanta Chiefs</a> had imported marquee players from all over the world.  <a id="dgz6" title="Pelé" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pele">Pelé</a> had come to conduct a national tour with his <a id="b-q0" title="Brazilian" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brazil">Brazilian</a> team  <a id="wxk5" title="Santos" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Santos_Futebol_Clube">Santos</a>, and a lot of momentum seemed to be forming behind the growth of soccer at the time.</p>
<p>My high school started a soccer team during 1965-66, my freshman year.  We were first public high school in <a id="azlx" title="Georgia" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Georgia_%28U.S._state%29">Georgia</a> to do so.  Before that, soccer had been the province of the private schools, the <a id="ylqo" title="Westminsters" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Westminster_Schools">Westminsters</a> and <a id="k0j2" title="Lovetts" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lovett_school">Lovetts</a> of the blessed Atlanta upper classes.  They beat us badly in our early days.  Within a year or two, however, we were started beating them on a regular basis.  More public schools were starting teams, so the <a id="ihu4" title="Georgia High School Association" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Georgia_High_School_Association">Georgia High School Association</a> began holding state championships in soccer.</p>
<p><span id="more-561"></span></p>
<p>Our team was fortunate to have some fine coaching.  One of the school&#8217;s teachers was the head coach, but a man from the community volunteered to help out.  He had played semi-professionally as a <a id="w4tt" title="goalkeeper" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Goalkeeper">goalkeeper</a> in New Jersey&#8217;s ethnic leagues.  He owned a carpet company in the area, so he had the time to devote to us.  He had a magnetic personality and a vast knowledge of the game and of human nature in general.  His most valuable attribute, one I have tried to emulate myself, is that he knew what <em>not</em> to worry about.  This saved us valuable time and kept us focused on what was really going to help us.</p>
<p>His presence caused conflict, though.  The actual head coach of the team resented that this volunteer had so much control over the team.  We listened to the head coach; we did what he said; but he could tell that we listened to the other man in a different, almost reverent way.  The other teams in the region had a problem with our &#8220;assistant coach,&#8221; too.  They actually were able to pass a rule against &#8220;unaffiliated&#8221; coaches sitting on the bench during games.  They couldn&#8217;t keep him from sitting in the stands right behind the bench, though, and that&#8217;s where he was for every game.</p>
<p>With all of this as context, our team was able to win the Georgia State Championship my junior and senior year.  The second one was probably the most memorable for many reasons.  For one thing, we didn&#8217;t actually win it outright; we were awarded a co-championship after the game went into the eight overtime periods, and the hosting school refused to turn on the lights when it got too dark to play.  To make the situation worse, the opponent had scored on a gift from the referee, an unearned <a id="q2ww" title="penalty kick" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Penalty_kick">penalty kick</a> late in regulation.</p>
<p>The game was especially traumatic and emotional for me.  I scored our team&#8217;s goal on a head ball from about 15 yards out, so I felt great about that.  I was not able to do any more, however, in part because of the conflict between our coaches.  The head coach wanted to use a more defensive alignment, while the volunteer coach wanted to stick with the alignment we had used all along, a 2-3-5.  No team would use that alignment today, but it had worked well for us in those early days.  The head coach&#8217;s solution was to decree that the &#8220;wings&#8221; (forwards who tend to play toward the sidelines) had to play defense against the opposing team&#8217;s wings in addition to their primary attacking role.  Since I was a &#8220;winger,&#8221; this required me to play &#8220;endline to endline,&#8221; which I was pretty well able to do for the length of a regulation game, but as the overtimes kept coming, and we continued to push to win the game, I got as exhausted as I think I ever have been in my life.</p>
<p>The game ended.  It must have ended.  I don&#8217;t recall it.  The only clear memory I have of the period after the game is walking into the unheated locker room, throwing my shirt down on the concrete floor, and collapsing onto it, gasping and sobbing.  When I was able to get to my feet, I remember going to our volunteer coach and apologizing for the &#8220;loss.&#8221;  I tried to reassure him that I had tried my hardest, but it was clear that he already knew that.  He gave me a pat on the shoulder and told me to shake it off.</p>
<p>Well, I can&#8217;t say I have shaken it off, even 40 years later.  The game was full of emotion, frustration, exhaustion, conflict, and injustice for me.  I have remembered it painfully for all these years as a time when the adults ruined it for the kids.</p>
<p>The referee called a game-changing hand ball, solely on the basis of sound.  The ball hit our midfielder&#8217;s thigh, but the ref could not have seen that; he was trailing the play by 20-30 yards.  It must have sounded like it hit his hand, so he called the penalty kick.  I was behind our midfielder, in front of my own goal, playing defense, playing &#8220;endline to endline,&#8221; when I saw the ball hit our midfielder&#8217;s thigh.</p>
<p>The other adult, our titular head coach, vented his frustration at the situation he found himself in, and the result was visited on me.  I don&#8217;t know if he did this purposely to disadvantage me personally, but I know he never nominated me for any post-season awards, never showed any regard for me at all, really.  I also know that he spent the whole game screaming at me to get back and &#8220;cover my man.&#8221;  The fatigue built up and kept me from being effective on attack, and I know that I could have won us the game, one way or another, except for this.  He sacrificed me and the rest of the team for his selfish goal of resisting the volunteer coach&#8217;s influence.</p>
<p>During my adult life, I was involved in teaching and coaching and refereeing for 25 years, and I always tried to make sure I never did anything like these two people&#8211;my coach and that ref&#8211;did that day.  In many ways, I continue to think kids often are better off without any adult intervention at all.</p>
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		<title>So true</title>
		<link>http://www.ibiblio.org/byers/wp/?p=588</link>
		<comments>http://www.ibiblio.org/byers/wp/?p=588#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Tue, 29 Sep 2009 04:49:18 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>MT</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Philiosophical]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Commentary]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.ibiblio.org/byers/wp/?p=588</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[I am out of the memoir mode for the moment.  I happened to see this quote from Mohandas Gandhi in A.Word.A.Day today:
&#8220;The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong.&#8221; -Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi (1869-1948).
Given the experience of my last few years, and the insight I have gained into some of the people [...]]]></description>
			<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><img title="Happy birthday...Oct. 2" src="http://www.ibiblio.org/byers/wp-img/gandhi.jpg" alt="" width="250" height="303" align="right" />I am out of the memoir mode for the moment.  I happened to see this quote from <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gandhi">Mohandas Gandhi</a> in <a href="http://wordsmith.org/awad/index.html">A.Word.A.Day</a> today:</p>
<p>&#8220;The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong.&#8221; -Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi (1869-1948).</p>
<p>Given the experience of my last few years, and the insight I have gained into some of the people around me, I have come to see the truth of this statement.  The truth of it has, in fact, become clear to me in rather painful ways.</p>
<p>Edit:  Happy birthday, Mohandas (Oct.2)</p>
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		<title>The day we painted George Wallace&#8217;s campaign billboard</title>
		<link>http://www.ibiblio.org/byers/wp/?p=553</link>
		<comments>http://www.ibiblio.org/byers/wp/?p=553#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Fri, 25 Sep 2009 14:59:36 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>MT</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Memoirs]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Political]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Commentary]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Life Events]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.ibiblio.org/byers/wp/?p=553</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[In 1968, my junior year in high school, George Wallace took part in the presidential election as a third-party candidate.  He took several southern states in that election, and living in Atlanta at the time, one saw his campaign posters all over town.  This sort of inflamed my nascent political passions and those of my [...]]]></description>
			<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>In <a id="es2v" title="1968" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1968">1968</a>, my junior year in high school, <a id="nciw" title="George Wallace" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Wallace">George Wallace</a> took part in the <a id="a988" title="presidential election" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/United_States_presidential_election,_1968">presidential election</a> as a <a id="y795" title="third-party candidate" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Third_party_%28United_States%29">third-party candidate</a>.  He took several southern states in that election, and living in <a id="q.t4" title="Atlanta" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Atlanta">Atlanta</a> at the time, one saw his campaign posters all over town.  This sort of inflamed my nascent political passions and those of my friends.</p>
<p><img class="alignnone" title="Standing in the schoolhouse door" src="http://www.ibiblio.org/byers/wp-img/memoir/wallace.jpg" alt="" width="500" height="223" /></p>
<p>We were a pretty diverse group, but you wouldn&#8217;t know it to look at us&#8211;we certainly were not diverse in terms of race or class; likewise, we all were galvanized and focused on the same sort of politics and current events of that year&#8211;the year of the <a id="v2en" title="Tet Offensive" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tet_Offensive">Tet Offensive</a> and the anti-war <a id="sf14" title="protests" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1968_Democratic_National_Convention_protests">protests</a> at the <a id="uc-2" title="Democratic National Convention" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1968_Democratic_National_Convention">Democratic National Convention</a> in Chicago; the year of the assassination of <a id="zq0e" title="Robert F. Kennedy" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_F._Kennedy">Robert F. Kennedy</a> and <a id="kpbw" title="Martin Luther King, Jr." href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Martin_Luther_King_Jr.">Martin Luther King, Jr</a>.</p>
<p>Through the outward turmoil of that year, we were going through our own inward turmoil, knowing that we would graduate the following year with the draft taking more and more of our acquaintances as they graduated ahead of us.  As focused as we were on the <a id="ddvz" title="Vietnam War" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vietnam_War">Vietnam War</a>, we also saw the <a id="z_::" title="civil rights movement" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/African-American_Civil_Rights_Movement_%281955-1968%29">civil rights movement</a> ongoing all around us.  1968 was a year of <a id="ve1b" title="protest" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Protests_of_1968">protest</a> of many kinds worldwide, and a year of strong reaction to the passage of the<span style="font-size: x-small;"> <a id="awba" title="Civil Rights Act of 1968" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Civil_Rights_Act_of_1968">Civil Rights Act of 1968</a>.</span> As one striking example, Georgia elected <a id="yidb" title="segregationist" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Racial_segregation">segregationist</a> <a id="m2nd" title="Lester Maddox" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lester_Maddox">Lester Maddox</a> governor the year before.</p>
<p><span id="more-553"></span></p>
<p>It was within this kind of historical and political context that George Wallace&#8217;s supporters put up one of his huge billboards beside the convenience store where my friends and I often sat, drinking Cokes after soccer practice.  The billboard was simply designed.  On a white background was a picture of Wallace, wearing the best he could muster in terms of a smile.  Below his picture was his slogan, borrowed from <a id="nwcb" title="Barry Goldwater" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Barry_Goldwater">Barry Goldwater</a>&#8217;s 1964 campaign, &#8220;In your heart you know he&#8217;s right.&#8221;  That got our young minds churning.  We immediately fashioned a series of ripostes and parodies of that slogan, but the poster continued to rankle us day after day.</p>
<p>Being high school juniors, we had recently acquired a modicum of mobility in the form of access to the oldest, most rundown cars our parents owned.  On any given night, at least one of us could prevail and get a car.  In addition, one of our number had naive, tolerant parents who would allow us to take over their basement and then retire at an early hour.  I think you can see where this is going by now; it was a perfect set up for a bit of youthful hi-jinx if there ever was one.</p>
<p>So while one of us could get a car and another of us could get us our freedom at midnight, another of us had artistic ability&#8211;at least enough to pull off what we had in mind as a protest of our own.  We got together a bag full of spray paint and batted around ideas for how we could dress up that political billboard that offended us so much.  We came up with an idea we thought we could execute without too much trouble.  We would outline a <a id="j3yr" title="Ku Klux Klan" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ku_Klux_Klan">Ku Klux Klan</a> hood over Wallace&#8217;s face and white out his face except for his smiling eyes.  His slogan would be slightly modified as well to read, &#8220;In your heart you know he&#8217;s a racist.&#8221;</p>
<p><img title="Just about sums him up" src="http://www.ibiblio.org/byers/wp-img/memoir/maddox.jpg" alt="" width="186" height="250" align="right" />The next day, sitting in the parking lot after practice, we liked the billboard quite a bit better than we had before.  Our mission had gone smoothly, and we were well pleased with our result.  My own contribution had been minimal&#8211;I had acted as a scaffold, along with another boy, for our budding Michelangelo.  The other two guys acted as lookouts because we were right on Roswell Road, a four-lane thoroughfare that was busy even late at night.  We took the matter of being caught pretty seriously; after all, <a id="tzbi" title="Lester Maddox" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lester_Maddox">Lester Maddox</a> was the governor of Georgia at the time, and we could imagine the police taking a dim view of our little prank.</p>
<p>It was early in the campaign, and Wallace&#8217;s campaign apparatus was flush, apparently, because the billboard was replaced within a week.  You cannot imagine how it incensed us to be challenged in that way.  The following weekend we arranged another mission, this time with another &#8220;vision&#8221; of how this poster needed to look.  This time we would alter Wallace&#8217;s face with a slash of dark hair over his forehead and an itty-bitty mustache on his lip&#8211;we&#8217;d make him into <a id="ztlh" title="Hitler" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hitler">Hitler</a>, and we&#8217;d change his slogan to read, &#8220;In your heart you know he&#8217;s a <a id="dyg0" title="Nazi" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nazi">Nazi</a>.&#8221;</p>
<p>This time our ranks expanded somehow, as if by magic.  Word had gotten around school, and despite the fact that we all had sworn secrecy, people seemed to know who had done this righteous act of <a id="rspu" title="sabotage" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sabotage">sabotage</a>.  Some of the political types from student government wanted to come along, and somebody had said it would be OK, apparently, because they were waiting for us in another car when we got out late that night.</p>
<p>They were eager to be involved but not to be of much help, however.  They assisted primarily by staying out of the way, &#8220;keeping lookout&#8221; some blocks down a side street.  Well, obviously, they had a lot more to lose than the rest of us.  After all, they were honor students and, as I said, student politicos.</p>
<p>As smoothly as the prior sortie had gone, this one was rather more fraught.  In addition to the extra people underfoot, we almost ran afoul of the law that night.  We were about halfway finished with our paint job when a police car pulled into the parking lot, his lights swinging around to point almost directly at us.  We just had time to drop into the tall grass and bushes and make like silly rabbits, freezing there 15 feet from his grill.</p>
<p>The policeman was taking a break and sorting through some papers, as far as we could tell from where we lay quivering.  He stayed there for some 30 minutes, and we wondered if he had looked up to see our half-finished art work in front of him.  He never got out; he never moved the car; he simply sat there making us sweat for 30 of the longest minutes we had ever spent.  We used the time to sketch out escape routes by which we would scatter and baffle him if he ever tried to give chase.</p>
<p>Finally, he left, and when we were sure he was gone, we got back up and finished painting the billboard.  It looked even better this time, and the campaign gave up on replacing it.  They papered over our handiwork, and it stayed blank for several more weeks.</p>
<p>The next day at school we were relieved to find that the campus political types had taken great pains to credit themselves with the weekend&#8217;s vandalism.  Sometimes a person is moved to boldness in straightening out matters of fact; sometimes one finds it much wiser to snicker up one&#8217;s sleeve and stay quiet.  This was one of those times.</p>
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		<title>The day I baffled the bully</title>
		<link>http://www.ibiblio.org/byers/wp/?p=577</link>
		<comments>http://www.ibiblio.org/byers/wp/?p=577#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Sun, 20 Sep 2009 19:30:43 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>MT</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Memoirs]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Life Events]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.ibiblio.org/byers/wp/?p=577</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[One of the many elementary schools I attended was populated with some real special characters.  This was an Atlanta elementary school, and I was there for sixth and seventh grades, right before going to high school the way we did in those days.
We had our &#8220;early maturing&#8221; types who developed secondary sex characteristics&#8211;and primary sex [...]]]></description>
			<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><img title="George and Lennie" src="http://www.ibiblio.org/byers/wp-img/memoir/George-Lennie.jpg" alt="" width="300" height="237" align="right" />One of the many elementary schools I attended was populated with some real special characters.  This was an Atlanta elementary school, and I was there for sixth and seventh grades, right before going to high school the way we did in those days.</p>
<p>We had our &#8220;early maturing&#8221; types who developed secondary sex characteristics&#8211;and primary sex interests&#8211;way before the rest of us.  They would &#8220;party&#8221; and &#8220;make out,&#8221; whatever that actually meant, in the basements of unsupervised homes in the afternoons.  We also had our little boys and girls who just needed some time to catch up.  One kid in our class, however, had already had quite enough time to catch up, to forge ahead, actually, except he hadn&#8217;t, academically anyway.  He was about two years older than the rest of us, and a real dull tool.</p>
<p>He didn&#8217;t seem quite as <a id="wryb" title="developmentally disabled" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Developmentally_disabled">developmentally disabled</a> as his lack of progress in school would lead one to believe.  A good part of his problem seemed to come from his lack of cooperation with the educational process.  He knew what everybody wanted him to do.  He just didn&#8217;t feel like doing it most of the time.</p>
<p>Another of our number was a great <a id="ly82" title="George to his Lennie" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Of_Mice_and_Men">George to his Lennie</a>.  Well, I say, &#8220;great.&#8221;  He was not great in the sense of taking care of him as George did Lennie in <span style="text-decoration: underline;">Of Mice and Men</span>, but great in the sense of at least hanging out with him.  The rest of us didn&#8217;t have much to do with him, really.  This George&#8211;I think his name was Jimmy, actually&#8211;was especially good at bending the big guy to his will.</p>
<p>One day Jimmy decided it would be fun to get the big guy whipped up and angry at me.  As the school day was ending, Jimmy apparently told him some lies about something I had supposedly said or done, and they were both waiting for me when I came out, along with a bunch of other kids who were there to watch the show.</p>
<p><span id="more-577"></span></p>
<p>We had a brief set-to right then, and being caught by surprise, things weren&#8217;t going very well for me.  The big guy was in a rage, and I was just standing there, confused about what was going on.  He had about 20 pounds on me and was maybe a half-foot taller, so it was clear that I had to get out of there or get beat up pretty bad.  It was an easy choice.  There was no principle to defend; there was just an ass whuppin&#8217; to avoid.</p>
<p>Luckily, for all his imposing bulk, the guy was not that fast.  I was able to stay ahead of him pretty easily and come up with a plan as I headed for home.  The streets in these neighborhoods were sort of scraped out of the hilly terrain, so there were plenty of steep banks where the engineers had tried to flatten out the hills a little.  I was able to lead him right up to one, slowing down a little to make him think he actually was about to catch me.  I could hear him thundering along right behind me as I approached the edge, and that was when I hit the ground and let him trip over me and fall all the way down the bank.</p>
<p>I was surprised&#8211;and fortunate&#8211;that a 30-foot tumble down a steep, rock-strewn bank had such a persuasive effect on his attitude.  I found that he had become quite reasonable and ready to listen.  I began shouting down at him, explaining that I hadn&#8217;t done or said anything against him and that all this had been the doing of Jimmy, who by this time was standing there right beside me.</p>
<p>There was a dawning.  I left Jimmy spluttering an explanation of his own, but the way the other kids were laughing, I think even &#8220;Lennie&#8221; knew what the truth was.</p>
<p>Oddly, this entire episode never came up again.  The big kid kept clear of me, and Jimmy all but quit picking on me.  The rest of the kids seemed to develop at least a little regard for me, but I don&#8217;t recall anyone ever bringing it up again.</p>
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		<title>The day I punched Buck Blalock in the stomach</title>
		<link>http://www.ibiblio.org/byers/wp/?p=546</link>
		<comments>http://www.ibiblio.org/byers/wp/?p=546#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Thu, 17 Sep 2009 06:30:24 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>MT</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Memoirs]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Philiosophical]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Life Events]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.ibiblio.org/byers/wp/?p=546</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[Seventh grade isn&#8217;t tough for everybody&#8211;just the geeks.  Of course, most seventh graders are geeks, at least intermittently.  I was one of the geeks more often than I would have liked, so I should know.
Seventh grade was tough as hell for me.  It was tougher for Buck Blalock.  He was a big, doughy kid in [...]]]></description>
			<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>Seventh grade isn&#8217;t tough for everybody&#8211;just the geeks.  Of course, most seventh graders are geeks, at least intermittently.  I was one of the geeks more often than I would have liked, so I should know.</p>
<p>Seventh grade was tough as hell for me.  It was tougher for Buck Blalock.  He was a big, doughy kid in my class, way too mature and sensitive to live in the world with the rest of us on the island&#8211;the <a id="x.ol" title="Lord of the Flies" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lord_of_the_Flies">Lord of the Flies</a> island we all inhabited back then.</p>
<p><img title="Fine likeness, actually" src="http://www.ibiblio.org/byers/wp-img/memoir/piggy.jpg" alt="" width="350" height="227" align="right" />He was &#8220;Piggy,&#8221; all right, and I might have been Ralph or Simon and been his friend, but it seems I didn&#8217;t have the nuts for it.  I had just moved back to Atlanta the year before, and I didn&#8217;t want to be &#8220;the new kid&#8221; forever.  A lot didn&#8217;t depend on what I wanted, though, and that became clearer and clearer as time went along.  Several of the boys were just as happy to keep me &#8220;the new kid&#8221; forever if they could manage it.</p>
<p>So, here I was, kinda big and doughy and sensitive myself, and the teachers must have thought Buck and I were a match made in Heaven.  They kept arranging for us to be partners in this and buddies in that.  Maybe that plan was working out fine for Buck, but I started looking down the road, and I didn&#8217;t see any promising forks.  It wasn&#8217;t that I disliked Buck and liked the other boys&#8211;Buck was fine, and some of the other boys were jerks of extravagant proportions.  It&#8217;s just that the choice, at least in my mind, became a matter of throwing in with Buck and being a social outcast for life, or putting up with the annoyances of trying to be &#8220;one of the guys.&#8221;  Even a seventh grader can do a simple deduction like that, and hey, some of the guys were all right.  Some of the girls, too, but I could see that wouldn&#8217;t be happening for any friend of Buck&#8217;s.</p>
<p><span id="more-546"></span></p>
<p>All of this came to a critical point one morning when the teachers assigned Buck and me to a job or errand involving close confinement in some sort of book room or supply closet&#8211;I forget which.  Anyway, here came Buck, all sincere and mature, bearing in, suggesting we become best chums or suchlike as that.</p>
<p>I fell apart.  This mindless aggression welled up in me&#8211;horror and revulsion, not at Buck, but at the specter of what I thought being friends with him meant.  I punched him once in the gut, which he hardly felt since he was pretty well padded there and I hadn&#8217;t followed through very much.  I let him have another with a little more force behind it and started yelling something at him, something about staying away from me unless there were some reason he had to be around.</p>
<p>Well, his chubby face fell as only chubby faces can fall.  The poor guy was sort of devastated&#8211;predictably, I guess.  I could see that things had not worked out as he had planned, not at all.  Normally, I had a soft heart for people in pain, but not this time.  In my callow mind, he meant to do me harm somehow, and it was really more a matter of self-defense, the way I saw things.  That drained all the empathy from me mighty quick.</p>
<p>So, I wasn&#8217;t Ralph or Simon, though I certainly wasn&#8217;t Jack on our little island.  I admit I was one of the cast of nameless boys; still, I have trouble seeing this as an allegory about the <a id="terk" title="banality of evil" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Banality_of_evil">banality of evil</a>.  It was a learning experience, for sure, and though Buck paid a price for my further education, I&#8217;m pretty sure he rebounded in whatever way he was able.  I can&#8217;t help feeling bad about the experience, though&#8211;a fact which shows in that I prefer to think of it in rhetorical terms, terms beginning with, &#8220;If harm was done&#8230;.&#8221;  The <a id="cb43" title="subjunctive mood" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Subjunctive_mood">subjunctive</a> <a id="put5" title="passive voice" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Passive_voice">passive voice</a>, <sup>[<a id="rvfw" title="Weasel Words" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Weasel_word">1</a>]</sup> if there is such a thing, gives one some hard-won intellectual distance and comfort.</p>
<p>Historical notes:</p>
<ul>
<li>The movie version of <a id="oc:x" title="Lord of the Flies" href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0057261/">Lord of the Flies</a> came out in 1963, my seventh grade year.  Many of the boys in the movie were just my age.</li>
<li>That same year, <em><a title="Eichmann in Jerusalem: A Report on the Banality of Evil" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eichmann_in_Jerusalem:_A_Report_on_the_Banality_of_Evil">Eichmann in Jerusalem: A Report on the Banality of Evil</a></em> by <a title="Hannah Arendt" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hannah_Arendt">Hannah Arendt</a> was published.</li>
</ul>
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		<title>The day I took two doves that all the others had missed</title>
		<link>http://www.ibiblio.org/byers/wp/?p=541</link>
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		<pubDate>Fri, 11 Sep 2009 06:26:57 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>MT</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Memoirs]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Life Events]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.ibiblio.org/byers/wp/?p=541</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[Just about the only pleasant activity I got to engage in with my Dad growing up was hunting.  One should keep in mind that this was the 1950s and 60s, and people had not developed some of the attitudes about hunting they have today.  The game was there for the taking in those days, too.  [...]]]></description>
			<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>Just about the only pleasant activity I got to engage in with my Dad growing up was <a id="nzco" title="hunting" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hunting">hunting</a>.  One should keep in mind that this was the <a id="m72r" title="1950s" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1950s">1950s</a> and <a id="zy19" title="60s" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1960s">60s</a>, and people had not developed some of the <a id="zm9." title="attitudes" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anti-hunting">attitudes</a> about hunting they have today.  The game was there for the taking in those days, too.  In this simpler time, hunting was an activity imbued with tradition, and it provided a good way for the men of the house to &#8220;get out from underfoot&#8221; and have some fun together.  We ate everything we killed, too, and those feasts were culinary high points to be treasured.</p>
<p><img class="alignnone" title="Browning Superposed--nice little shotgun" src="http://www.ibiblio.org/byers/wp-img/memoir/superposed.jpg" alt="" width="500" height="99" /></p>
<p>My Dad always was in a good mood on these occasions&#8211;something that could not be said on a general basis.  We usually went with a gang of guys from his work.  Sometimes we&#8217;d get up really early and drive to south Georgia in November to hunt <a id="zekf" title="quail" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bobwhite_Quail">quail</a>.  Other times we&#8217;d just head out to some rural area around Atlanta for some September afternoon <a id="kf-x" title="dove" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mourning_dove">dove</a> hunting.</p>
<p>I was typically the only boy along.  I was left to infer that this might be because my Dad wanted to spend time with me.  I also inferred that I was little enough trouble to have along.  Of course, even at an early age I also inferred that he didn&#8217;t want to spend time with <em>only </em>me, but OK, I could deal with that.  In an odd way, his reticence worked to my advantage.  While I never got to hear him say he liked spending time with me, I never had to hear him say he wasn&#8217;t interested in spending time with me alone.</p>
<p><span id="more-541"></span>See, I had a conflicted relationship with my Dad&#8211;nothing too unusual about that, but I wonder sometimes whether it went too far in that direction for anyone&#8217;s good.  He was very old-school, an only child of a domineering mother who actually dressed him as a girl for the first few years of his life.  He went on to become a tank commander in World War II, so apparently his mother wasn&#8217;t able to feminize him completely.  Still, his austere <a id="mxdz" title="Scots-Irish" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scotch-Irish_American">Scotch-Irish</a> upbringing and his military background left him pretty emotionally bereft.  He was OK with anger, but he regarded most of the rest of the emotions with more than a little suspicion.  Those mushy emotions will weaken a guy, you know, and we can&#8217;t be having that.  Also, anything that might take him out of a dominant role with me was out, obviously.</p>
<p>He had a real talent for bonhomie with his friends, though, which came out on these occasions.  I was able to sort of absorb some of the overflow of that <a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/bonhomie">bonhomie</a>, and that was enough for me, largely because I knew nothing more would be forthcoming.  I think another reason I got to tag along was that I was a pretty good shot, too.  I had tried shooting <a id="wbdd" title="skeet" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Skeet_shooting">skeet</a> in the first grade, and I got seven out of 25, and this with a 12 gauge, pump-action shotgun knocking me around.  I had a BB gun from an early age and could take bumblebees out of the air with fair regularity.  By the time I was middle school age, I could shoot about as well as anyone, but of course, a southern boy must defer and not try to make a big deal out of himself.</p>
<p>In keeping with this deferential mode, we usually took up something less than the prime locations at the dove fields.  There was plenty for everybody, usually, and my Dad, being a &#8220;college boy&#8221; from <a id="qdhg" title="Pennsylvania" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pennsylvania">Pennsylvania</a> and <a id="fsyl" title="Ohio" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ohio">Ohio</a>, was always something of an outsider at these events.  And why not?  Most of the rest of the people at the field were relatives or childhood friends.  One simply defers.</p>
<p><img title="They are little bullets when airborne" src="http://www.ibiblio.org/byers/wp-img/memoir/mourning-dove.jpg" alt="" width="250" height="185" align="right" />But that explains why we were where we were on the particular day I have in mind.  It was far from a prime location.  The field was long and fairly narrow&#8211;narrow enough that the shotgun pellets from the other side rained down on us with regularity.  Most of the doves were coming into the field from the other end that day, too.  They had quite a time making it to us down this long narrow field without getting shot.  Most of the ones that did were really moving and good at dodging the shots coming at them.</p>
<p>For anyone who thinks a dove can&#8217;t dodge a shot, maybe you have to see it to believe it.  They look right at you, and about the time you take aim on them, they cant their wings a bit and slip sideways just enough to make you miss.  And if you don&#8217;t think they&#8217;re fast, again, get under a flock in your car and prove it to yourself.  Barely flapping along, they can make 50 miles an hour; get them in a hurry, and it&#8217;s more like 70.</p>
<p>So, the &#8220;double&#8221; I took that day was pretty special to me.  The light was beginning to fail, and the birds passed by behind us instead of out over the field.  They had been shot at several times, and they were at top speed.  Passing left to right, the trailing bird several feet lower than the leader, maybe 20 feet separated them.  I swung my 20 gauge <a id="x6:7" title="Browning Superposed" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Browning_Superposed">Browning Superposed</a> on the trailing bird, and when I fired, the recoil bumped the shotgun up just enough to swing on the leader.  I dropped them both in about a second, and as the sound of the shot faded, I heard our hunting partner, a much admired coworker of my father&#8217;s, howling out a prolonged, congratulatory <a id="br_o" title="Rebel yell" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rebel_yell">Rebel yell</a>.</p>
<p>These are the kinds of elements that make a moment elegant, evocative, and memorable, to me, anyway.  The coherent timing of the events; the attractive arrangement of the particular sights and sounds; the economical execution of a simple act; appreciation shown by a respected person; and in this particular case, the approval of a person who, while &#8220;close,&#8221; might as well have been little more than a significant  stranger.</p>
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