The Ramblings of Weesatch Joe

I had to kill a deer tonight.  I didn't want to. It had gotten its rear leg caught in the fence and, suspended between the freedom of flying through the air and the racing over the earth below, it had torn the earth in vain, trying to free itself from the woven steel. I had seen it from a hundred plus yards away, alerted to it by my dog. It must have happened some time earlier in the afternoon. I watched for just a moment from my porch, realizing what it was, knowing what happened, fearing what the final answer would need to be. Responsible citizen that I am, and timid hunter that I also am, I called the county game warden for assistance. As a back-story, and a small interlude, I have no issue with hunting animals for meat and, when necessary, for management. I used to enjoy bird hunting but haven't done it in over 20 years. My last venture deer hunting was in 1996, Barney Fife style, a singular cartridge residing in my breast pocket, rifle empty and slung from my shoulder. I m...

Dog’s head volleys left and right, right and left, Watching the world through her window’s lens. I imagine her thoughts and interpret her barks and woofs: ‘I could catch that truck, given a chance,’ - I don’t think you really want to find out, Dog. ‘That cow doesn’t scare me...who does she think she is?’ - About 800 pounds of anger, on the hoof. ‘Wait...that bird is sitting in MY yard? Blast off! Be gone!’ - Plenty of space, Dog, and she doesn’t listen to you. ‘Can I go outside and play with that dog walking the lady?’ - No, Dog. ‘That squirrel is mocking me! I must scare it off!’ - Seems that way, doesn’t it? I don’t think it’s scared.’ A cocked head, raised ears, a final woof, Warning all takers that she’s the neighborhood watch. It’s a bluff, not serious; just for show. Then, a sigh, as she thinks, ‘Maybe you’re right.’ She doesn’t look at me. The ears fall, the head lowers, the body settles. Her mouth rests on the couch as eyes follow the passing cars. She turns, slowly, ...

  It’s Alright Alvin brought the cup to the small table in their apartment, placed it in front of his wife, and sat down across from her, smiling at her lovely face. A plate of cookies sat between them, next to a small vase of fresh-cut flowers. He looked out the window next to them, seeing the blue sky, a brilliant backdrop to the trees that were dressed in their fall fashions, reds, yellows, and tans. He thought about opening the window for some fresh air, but the allergies made his wife’s eyes water.  Maybe he would go out after dinner and enjoy the sunset, he thought. He pulled his red metal folding chair out from the table and sat down with a soft grunt, the tablecloth settling over his knees that creaked like rusty hinges. He spoke to his wife. “Do you remember when we went to that little town in New Hampshire and had coffee and tea at that little shop by the bay? We sat at a little table just like this one. I had coffee and you had peppermint tea.” He nodded at her cup,...

Yesterday was the first day of school in the district where my wife teaches. Tuesday night, there was the usual night-before-school-starts flurry of activity: finishing lesson plans, loading up her books and laptop, laying out her outfit for the day, getting the shoes chosen, making sure lunch was ready to go, and triple-checking her double-checking of the alarm clock. When the lights went out, she was as ready as ready could be to start the day at 0530 when that triple-checked, double-checked alarm would go off, alerting her to what she had already known: it's go-time. When it went off this morning, I was up as well. I loaded her lunch kit with leftovers (last night's chicken enchilladas and rice), soda, and cookies. I filled up her water bottle, then told her that her hair looked great, her blouse was perfect, and the shoes matched just right. With a hug and a kiss, and a "good luck; see you tonight," she was out the door, ready to take on sophomores and seniors and...

She pays all her bills, and mostly on time, Spending her dollars while earning mere dimes. She's waiting on tables at a beer joint in town Where their interest is up, but her bottom line's down. She owes money here, somebody else there; Trying to stay even with pennies to spare. It's not much of a living; it's the best that she can. She's doing her living on the installment plan. There's little to give; there's little to take. The work is all real; the money, near fake. What else can she hope for? Can she find a good man? She's doing her living on the installment plan. The last call is poured, the lights turned down low, One cowboy remains, the music is slow. He drains the last drop of his flat, luke-warm beer, Puts ten on the table; "Let's get outta here." She considers his offer, ponders the chance Of taking him up for tonight's last-call dance. They walk out the door, her purse in her hand, She's doing her loving on the installme...

I wrote this the day after my son left for Navy boot camp in June of 2023.  In his classic short story, "The Things They Carried," author Tim O'Brien tells the story of what men, grunts, soldiers, carried in their packs while humping the boonies of Vietnam. The second paragraph begins: The things they carried were largely determined by necessity. Among the necessities or near-necessities were P-38 can openers, pocket knives, heat tabs, wristwatches, dog tags, mosquito repellant, chewing gum, candy, cigarettes, salt tablets, packets of Kook-Aid, lighters, matches, sewing kits, Military Payment Certificates, C-rations, and two or three canteens of water. Together, these items weighed between 15 and 20 pounds, depending on a man's habits or rate of metabolism. That wasn't counting his rifle, K-Bar knife, pistol, extra magazines, helmet, flack jacket (if he chose to wear it) and soggy clothes, sodden with sweat, humidity and rain. In short, the GI had a lot to c...

Letting your oldest child go, leaving home, heading off on his or her journey to study, earn, or just live, is a terribly painful moment. As a father, I don’t know what childbirth is like, first-hand, but I imagine in some ways, it is almost as painful. After all, in child birth a woman releases her child whom she cared for and nurtured in utero for nine months out into the world. When that same child reaches early adulthood, somewhere between sixteen and thirty, and the ersatz adult decides it’s time to fly the nest, that too is a parent releasing the child, whom he or she now cared for somewhere around two decades (which equates to approximately 25 pregnancies worth of time), out into the world. Again, it’s a birth of another magnitude, a full-blown earthquake compared to the rumblings that preceeded it, but it is painful in a wholly new way and level. Now, I have experienced some parents – fathers, mostly – who blustered about how when their child left home, they had new paint on...