Pooping in the woods

One my truly great pleasures is taking my six-year-old daughter hunting. She likes to hunt just as much as I do and it provides us with another opportunity for quality father/daugther time. The only problem with taking my six-year-old daughter hunting is she's six and she's a girl. Nothing against girls and them hunting, I'm all for it, but things work a little different for them.
Wearing a pair of jeans, her velvet looking zip-up boots, a pink Barbie jacket cover by an orange vest my daughter simple state she was ready to go hunting. I had already packed up enough gear for a 10-day expedition to the Artic, so in some senseI was read to go too. One of her great pleasures is riding the 4-wheeler with me and he makes sure to tell me to hit every mud hole on the way in. I did.
The spot I took her too is an elevated shooting house that has plenty of room and is a likely spot to see a wandering whitetail. I started off by hauling all of our gear up and in the stand. She piled in next as we got ready for the hunt. We'd already discussed the rules: Be safe and Be quiet. We accomplished one of our two goals. We were safe.
We'd been in the stand all of 3 minutes before the first question came, "Are there any bears out here?"
"No bears," I said.
"Do you think these deer like salad, because there sure is a lot of green stuff out there," she quipped.
"They'll love it," I said.
"We should have brought them some ranch dressing," she fired right back.
"I think we're okay without it ... and remember we have to be quiet," I whispered.
We spent the next 10-minutes getting her binoculars adjusted so she could see. That was probably the quietest 10-minutes of the trip.
Just prior to our hunt I made her go to the bathroom ... twice. This isn't the first time I've taken her hunting and she's got the bladder of a six-year-old girl.
"Daddy, I got to use it," she said.
"Adeline I thought I told you to go before we left," I answered back.
"I did, but I didn't have to then," she replied.
"Well ... there's only about an hour of daylight left do you think you can hold it?," I pleaded.
"But daddy, I got to go No. 2," she said with a puzzled look.
Going No. 1 in the woods with my daughter is one thing, but No. 2 is a whole different game. So, we piled out of the stand and I got her ready to do her business. I happened to look back as she was about to do No. 2 right in front of the ladder that leads to the shooting house.
"Adeline, don't go there somebody will step in it," I said frantically.
"But daddy, if i go in the bushes a bear my get me," she said.
"There are no bears, just get behind that bush and hurry up," I said in a loud whisper.
Needless to say we didn't see a deer. In fact, other than us, I don't remember seeing anything else in the woods.
We slowly made our trek back to the 4-wheeler only to find it with a dead battery. It was about dark and she was about to wig out at the prospects of staying out in the woods all night long. I assured her we wouldn't have to and that she'd have to get tough.
She did get tough and made the walk without a whimper as long as I promised snacks when we got back to camp.
Back at camp I loaded her up on snacks and we and retrieved our 4-wheeler. Got it cranked and loaded it on the trailer. With Adeline fat, full and happy we made our way back home. As we pulled into the drive way, I was tired and semi-cranky after the long day. Right before she got out of the truck she said, "Daddy, I sure do like it when we go hunting ... don't you?"
Yes darlin I sure do.

I vote YES to bums and pimps

We just finished with a big election. Got a new president on the way as well as several new members in the house and senate. Spirits are high about new changes and a new boost for our great country.
We're screwing up. The votes have been cast and looking back we've kicked ourselves in the crotch. I'm not saying Obama won't do a fine job, I'm sure he will. He's got some good qualities and appears to be a good man for the job. But, I think we're putting the wrong people in office.
Right now, it's a rich man's game. We elect rich people and expect them to actually care about poor people. Hell, most of the don't even know any poor people.
If you really want to see change, elect some bums and pimps. You give me a bum and I'll show you a man that knows hard times. A man that knows how to rise up out of the sewer and keep going.
A gave a bum $5 the other day. He looked like he needed it more than I did. If an IRS came to my house looking for $5 I would have taken to aspirin and called a lawyer in the morning. A bum knows how to hustle. They pick up a buck or two here and there. Plus, they know how to spend their money. Pint of Thunderbird or dinner? They weight their options and make an informed decision. That's what we need on Capital Hill.
I also want to put pimps in congress. Nobody takes care of business like a pimp. Any man that can get a woman to sell HER body for sex and give HIM the money knows how to get things done. Pimps know how to multi-task, how to deal with intense and sometimes hostile situations.
Yep we need bums and pimps. To hell with voting for rich folks that had rather be swinging a golf club than working for the people. Sure pimps swing golf clubs too. I'm sure they'd use a 1-iron on North Korea's leaders to straighten up and act right.

Story behind the brogans

When deciding on a name for this blog, I wanted to settle on something that fit who I am. After careful consideration, I think I picked one reflecting the core of what I'm made of.I'm from Neshoba County. I grew up in the Fork Community, a rural area on the west side of the county. My folks were like most folks from the area, we owned a patch of land and we raised of few cows and grew a big garden each year. It's a front porch type of place where great value is put on a well placed shade tree. Old men there wear Dickie pants, drive pick-up trucks and carry pocket knives. Many of them wear brogan style boots. My grandfather wore brogans. In fact, I only remember him owning three pairs of shoes. He had a black pair of dress shoes for church on Sunday, a pair of rubber boots for working when it was wet and his brogans. He wore his brogans daily. He'd got through a half dozen pairs of laces before the soles would wear out and he'd buy a new pair.I placed my feet in thousands of prints left behind by his brogans. I followed his boot tracks through pastures and fields. My grandfather was as tough as the leather on his brogans. In a sense they symbolized the man who wore them. Strong, durable and practical. The history behind brogans dates back to the Civil War. Southern men wore them to battle. Albeit the style of brogans has changed some since the 1860s, but so has the South. Nevertheless, they were and still are call brogans. There's something comforting about that strength and durability.My father bought me my first pair of brogans. The dark, tanned leather molded to my feet and they made me feel like a man. I'm a brogan type of man. Those who know me best understand they fit who I am. In my closest you'll find everything from wingtips to tennis shoes and you'll most certainly see my brogans. Like my grandfather, I wear them almost daily.I'm on my fourth set of laces on my current pair. They're starting to show some signs of age. Scratches, scuffs and stains have long since embedding themselves. These aren't dress boots, they're boots you can walk a mile in now matter where that mile leads.Now, my daughter puts her little feet in the prints made by my brogans. She's like me a lot of ways. She's comfortable in the outdoors, doesn't mind being dirty and is generally a pretty tough little nut. Most folks are hoping she gets her fashion sense from her mother. Me included. While she may never own a pair of brogans, I do hope she has a little of those brogans in her. Like my grandfather taught me - never forget who you are and where you come from.In 34 years I never have forgotten and me and these brogans have miles to go before we sleep.

Such is life as a man

For centuries men have been getting the raw end of relationships. Since we neither have to endure the rigors of pregnancy or the pain of childbirth we’re forced to pay a long and painful penitence. While pregnancy only lasts nine months, our suffering and mistreatment goes on for a lifetime.
From the time a man gets to the age where the opposite sex matters it’s an uphill battle. When you’re 16 years old you quickly realize that you’d better earn enough money sacking groceries to pay for dinner for two. When you’re taking a pretty girl to the movies you’re expected to pony up for her ticket and yours. On top of that, you have to pick up the tab on the popcorn, Cokes and other such robberies at the snack bar.
For this reason I made sure I dated skinny girls that didn’t want to eat the jumbo tub of popcorn. Skinny girls didn’t get that way by eating $25 worth of junk while watching a romantic comedy.
Paying for your date is just the tip of the cash flow iceberg. When you find a girl you want to keep for a while it gets worse. In order to ensure that girl will show up on your wedding day you’ve got to buy a ring. And not just any ring, you’ve got to buy a certain type of diamond that’s cut to a specific shape. On top of that you’d better get one that is bigger and more expensive than the one her friend just got.
During the engagement people throw these nice parties “for the couple.” Don’t’ be fooled guys; they aren’t doing this for us. They don’t have these gatherings for the groom, they’re all for the bride. They make you dress up in a shirt and tie acting like you’re having a good time. They shower the couple with gifts, although none of them are really for the groom. You get a bunch of fancy dinner plates you’ll never get to eat off of and if you’re lucky you get some nice steak knives.
For some reason the bride does not have to give the groom anything to seal the engagement. It’d be nice if the groom got an engagement 4-wheeler or a set of really nice golf clubs.
When the father gives away his daughters hand they’re usually smiling because they know that she’s out of his pocket. He gets a better grip on his check book while the groom figures out how he’s going to pay for the rest of his life.
My wife really isn’t that big shopping or spending money. Nevertheless, there are still times when I have to come off the cash. Women’s gifts are always more expensive than the stuff men get. Jewelry costs more than a tie.
Women even have a made up holiday so they can get more stuff. It’s called Valentine’s Day. I understand Christmas and I don’t mind too much getting out my wallet for my anniversary. But I just don’t understand Valentine’s Day. Do I love my wife anymore on Feb. 14 than I didn’t on Feb. 13? It’s just another great ploy for us to spend money on those we love.
I’m thinking about starting a new holiday called “Man Day.” It’s for men and by men and only manly gifts should be purchased. And don’t going saying Father’s Day is the same thing. Mother’s Day cancels out Father’s Day and most the time you don’t get something manly on Father’s Day. A leaf rake or a new weed eater is more of a honey-do gift than something manly.
I just need to find a good day to set up Man Day. I’m guessing somewhere around the first of August. That gives you a big enough gap between Christmas and it’s right before the start of hunting season. This gives you plenty of time to practice with your new shotgun before the start of dove season.
Getting a new national holiday isn’t an easy thing, but since most of the decision makers in Washington are men it should catch on fast. Just sit back boys and wait for Man Day to rolling around in August. After all, nothing says love like a 12-gauge pump.

Wear it ... don't bare it

There are two things in life that we all deal with and they are naturally linked together. Our size and the clothes we wear accordingly portrait a visible first impression. For most of us this is not a problem. But, there are those in our society that just don’t conform to the norms we accept.
For example: How many times have you seen a big girl wearing little girl clothes?
I’m not degrading people of girth, but I am degrading those with girth that think people want to see more of it than necessary. If you’re 5-foot-6 and you weight 190 there’s no sense in showing off 150 pounds of that 190. It all goes back to the saying, “Trying to stuff 10 pounds of taters in a five pound sack.”
No matter how you stuff them taters, they all won’t fit.
And I’m not picking on women either, men are just as guilty. I don’t have six-pack abs and my arms look like they’re chiseled from solid Crisco. Because of my physique, or lack thereof, I don’t wear tank tops or tight shirts that show off something I don’t have.
The good Lord made us all different. Some women have long, lean bodies like Paris Hilton. Some women look more like a Hilton Hotel located in Paris.
We should all strive to be proud of how we look. I’m never going to be a super hunk with the body of a Greek statue. I’ve found out that gorging on Mexican food doesn’t lend itself to making you look Greek.
I was standing in line at a grocery store and the couple in front me both needed an extreme wardrobe makeover. They were built like two tons of fun and they had stuff hanging out all over the place. Credit should be give to whomever sewed the stitches on that girls top because she was about to bust out of the seams in more than one location. Her partner in fashion crime didn’t fare much better. He was wearing a tank top two sizes too small and had more hair on his back than a cocker spaniel. I too was blessed with back hair, but I don’t go strutting around like a proud Sasquatch either.
I know Adam and Eve wore only fig leaves, but they didn’t have access to McRae’s either. Clothes are made to fit folks of every shape and size and subscribing to the philosophy of just letting it all hang out doesn’t work. In fact, the rule should be: If it hangs out then most people don’t want to see it.

When in doubt ... fry

It was just released recently that Mississippi is officially the fattest state in the country. While this isn’t ground breaking news, it was noteworthy that we of the Magnolia State crossed into new territory for fatness. According to a study release by the Center for Disease Control, 31 percent of Mississippians are overweight.
I’m a part of that 31 percent and not ashamed to admit it. While I’m not a massive wall of fat, I’ve managed to store up a few extra pounds for a rainy day. But, what the CDC doesn’t take into account is how and why we got so fat.
How we got so fat is a time honored Mississippi tradition. We have good mommas and our mommas can cook. We’re told at a young age to clean our plates and when they’re serving up country fried steak, creamed potatoes candy yams it’s not much of a chore to eat every morsel.
Doctors have long since denounced frying anything and in Mississippi we fry everything. From Twinkies to pickles, we’ll smother it in batter and drop it into some hot grease. One of the great sounds known to the Southern man is the moment a perfectly battered piece of chicken hits a cast iron skillet of grease.
If doctors ruled the world we wouldn’t cook anything in grease. Then generations of people would go their whole lives without enjoying a fish fry. They wouldn’t understand the simple goodness of a country fried steak covered in white gravy or the value of perfectly fried okra. With good grease the world would have been denied the opportunity to see of the great chick flicks of all time, Fried Green Tomatoes.
According to the study Colorado is the leanest state, with 17.6 percent of the population obese. I think the study is skewed somewhat because I don’t think that accurately reflect the true tonnage in Colorado. Most likely the thin air in the mountains causes the scales to be off. Either that or the lack of oxygen makes people not want to eat.
Mississippi also topped the charts on being active. Well, actually, Mississippi is the least active state in the country. We had the highest rate of adult of inactively at 31 percent, while Minnesota was the lowest at 15.4.
These numbers are also out of whack based on location. If you live in Mississippi you know it’s not any fun being active from June through early September. When the temperature gauge hits triple digits and the humidity is at 95 percent there’s no reason to overdo any physical activity. Air conditioning was invented for a reason and too much sun is bad for your healthy.
Folks from Minnesota don’t really do physical activity for their health; they do it by necessity. Up in the great blue north is gets so cold you have to move around some just to survive. In the middle of December if you just stand around outside doing nothing you’ll freeze right up and they’ll have to use blow torches to get you back mobile. Despite our bulk, we’re not too worried about the latest CDC study. Sure, we may have a little more girth than the average state, but we’re proud of it. When the rest of the country is ankle deep in tofu and we’ll eat high on the hog. I wonder if they ever tried frying tofu?

Jump dummy jump

We all have our fears. Some folks fear dying and others fear snakes and spiders. I even know a girls that gets so wigged out over clowns she'll freak out and pee her pants at a circus. For me, I have a bad case of Ritchie Valens disease. Flying just scares the crap out of me. I pretty much won't get on one if I'm stone sober.
Been that way all my life. I'd much rather drive 11 hours than fly two. When my daughter was young we flew out to Texas to visit my mom. My daughter was less than a year at the time and pooped her pants about halfway into the flight home. Have you ever tried changing a diaper at 36,000 feet in a bathroom built for skinny midgets?
Nevertheless I'm all about overcoming obstacles. I figure the best way for me to get of my fear of flying in airplanes is to jump out of one. Yep, skydiving. Soon I plan on taking some classes, strapping on a parachute and jumping out of a plane. I have no rational reason for this. I know, like my infant daughter at the time, I'll crap my pants.
I've done my research and very few people die from skydiving. There are three things involved with skydiving: Jumping, opening the chute and landing. Once I get out of the plane I will for damn sure open the chute, and Newton's Law of gravity means I'll land in some matter, but the actually jumping out part is the kicker. Meatloaf might have to think twice about saying two out of three ain't bad.
I've ridden bulls. I've been in barroom fights. I've even spent the evening at a place called the Bloody Bucket. Despite some mashing of teeth I've always walked away. As long as the chute opens I'll walk away from this one too. Although I make have to walk straight to the bathroom and change my underwear.