Dad was more than just a marksman, he was a good shot. Long guns, scatter guns, hand guns, long bows, hell, even a slingshot, it didn’t matter for he was a very good shot. He would squirrel and bird hunt with a long bow and arrows he made. He would use whatever was at hand in order to provide for his family.
Dad began teaching me how to shoot when I was seven or eight years old. He taught me, and taught me well. By the time I turned ten, I supplemented our country diet through the passing seasons. Dad taught that shooting wasn’t to be for fun, it was a great responsibility in order to fill a need. Ammunition was not to be wasted on simply shooting something just because you could. It was to be used for practicing and hunting, in that order.
As my skills progressed, each new lesson would hold something different in store. For example, .22 targets went from Del Monte 303 sized cans to smaller ones. The cans were replaced with smaller items such as walnuts, pecans, and soda pop bottle lids. Dad would point out to me that when I couldn’t see the soda pop lid around the front bead anymore I was on target. He taught well, and I learned well.
My shooting skills helped bring food for the table. A few years later, they would bring more into my life than I had hoped for. Those particular years, I hope to never have to live again, but would if the need arose.
Dad’s shooting skills helped his family survive though the Depression and Dust Bowl days. Times were so much different then, when compared to today. Dad had grown up hard, as his Dad and Granddad before him. Skills, talents, and hard work beginning at an early age were commonplace items across the Mid -West. I was to be no exception for Dad would see to it, personally.
I began to work when I turned ten, not just farm chores, but work as in to help the family out. My Dad was a bi-vocational preacher. He worked for God and worked for a living, for Dad always believed a preacher should not be a financial burden to a congregation. He was a carpenter for many years. I was only one of his employees. I worked daily after school hours, and then full time during the summers. That was on top of keeping up with all the farm chores and duties. Anytime I tried anything typical of a young one, Dad would tell me he knew a lot more about being young than I knew about being old. That advice was later to be passed down by me to my children as well.
Our shooting times would become friendly times of competition for Dad and me. I could hold my own with Dad, or a simple turkey shoot with those less qualified. I would be remiss to not point out the fact Dad and I was friendly to one another, but were never friends together. Dad didn’t know how to treat his sons as friends, and in turn we three brothers never knew how to treat him as a friend.
Whether it was the sixties or the damned war, I do not know, perhaps some of both, but Dad and I stopped talking to one another and drifted away. I still got along with my Momma just great, but either too much water or too much blood had settled between dad and son. Of those things, he never asked, and I never told. Looking back now, we both lost out on many years.
In 1982, my Momma’s health began to fail. She had been through tough health time prior to that, but she reached a point where she needed more help than Dad could do by himself. She asked if my family could lend a helping hand. Within a couple months my family became joint tenants on the old home place, and began to build a home for us nearby my childhood home. In doing so, Dad could completely retire from working for a living, and Mom could have the extra care she needed. My wife was as close to my Mom as her own daughter might have been. Our five children became her new hope for the future. Dad and I were no different at all, nothing had changed for we were still as distant from one another as before.
Dad watched as my sons and I built our home. The only thing we subbed out was the concrete work, everything else we did ourselves. Dad watched as I continued to teach my sons how to shoot, and to work hard. He watched how my sons and I were friends, and how their friends soon adopted me as their dad. He saw a family living, working, playing, and functioning as a family. I wanted my children to grow with love and understanding.
My sons began busting clay pigeons with Dad, a sport he had always enjoyed. Through them, he could get rid of the proverbial rust from having sat idle for so long.
That Christmas, the boys and I bought Dad the best set of side by side double barreled shotguns that Savage Fox offered for sale, a twelve and a twenty. He was delighted, and could not wait to take them down into the field where his skeet range was.
A few days after Christmas, Dad and the boys were making the clay pigeons burst into powder and clay shrapnel as if the damnyankees had unleashed the grapeshot from their artillery pieces about the battlefield. Box after box of shells were enjoyed that afternoon by those in attendance. Grandpa and the boys were enjoying one another.
My wife and I took care of my Mom when her health turned for the worse once again. She fought a good fight for her last few years, but even she came to a point in 1989 we all must face some day. Through it all, Dad had a good insight as to how family can take care of things.
The relationship between Grandpa and the boys finally blossomed, allowing him to become a vital part of the family once again, the patriarch if you will. He was no longer Grandpa, for our children had changed his name to “Pop Tom”, a title he proudly wore. Fences were eventually mended, and Dad and I become good friends.
Years had been lost, but his remaining few made up for many of them. Dad and I had become best friends. I took care of Dad through his illness years, and became a much better man for it. He proved to me, once again, he knew more about being young than I knew about being old.
This is the tenth Father’s Day since his passing. We still visit, and someday I will see him once again. He taught me well, and for that I am thankful. He may me gone now, but memories of him remain.
I wish a Happy Dad’s Day to all the Dads, both past and present, whom have done their best in taking care of their families, and for being the very special person they need to be. Your family needs you…as much as you need them.
Dad began teaching me how to shoot when I was seven or eight years old. He taught me, and taught me well. By the time I turned ten, I supplemented our country diet through the passing seasons. Dad taught that shooting wasn’t to be for fun, it was a great responsibility in order to fill a need. Ammunition was not to be wasted on simply shooting something just because you could. It was to be used for practicing and hunting, in that order.
As my skills progressed, each new lesson would hold something different in store. For example, .22 targets went from Del Monte 303 sized cans to smaller ones. The cans were replaced with smaller items such as walnuts, pecans, and soda pop bottle lids. Dad would point out to me that when I couldn’t see the soda pop lid around the front bead anymore I was on target. He taught well, and I learned well.
My shooting skills helped bring food for the table. A few years later, they would bring more into my life than I had hoped for. Those particular years, I hope to never have to live again, but would if the need arose.
Dad’s shooting skills helped his family survive though the Depression and Dust Bowl days. Times were so much different then, when compared to today. Dad had grown up hard, as his Dad and Granddad before him. Skills, talents, and hard work beginning at an early age were commonplace items across the Mid -West. I was to be no exception for Dad would see to it, personally.
I began to work when I turned ten, not just farm chores, but work as in to help the family out. My Dad was a bi-vocational preacher. He worked for God and worked for a living, for Dad always believed a preacher should not be a financial burden to a congregation. He was a carpenter for many years. I was only one of his employees. I worked daily after school hours, and then full time during the summers. That was on top of keeping up with all the farm chores and duties. Anytime I tried anything typical of a young one, Dad would tell me he knew a lot more about being young than I knew about being old. That advice was later to be passed down by me to my children as well.
Our shooting times would become friendly times of competition for Dad and me. I could hold my own with Dad, or a simple turkey shoot with those less qualified. I would be remiss to not point out the fact Dad and I was friendly to one another, but were never friends together. Dad didn’t know how to treat his sons as friends, and in turn we three brothers never knew how to treat him as a friend.
Whether it was the sixties or the damned war, I do not know, perhaps some of both, but Dad and I stopped talking to one another and drifted away. I still got along with my Momma just great, but either too much water or too much blood had settled between dad and son. Of those things, he never asked, and I never told. Looking back now, we both lost out on many years.
In 1982, my Momma’s health began to fail. She had been through tough health time prior to that, but she reached a point where she needed more help than Dad could do by himself. She asked if my family could lend a helping hand. Within a couple months my family became joint tenants on the old home place, and began to build a home for us nearby my childhood home. In doing so, Dad could completely retire from working for a living, and Mom could have the extra care she needed. My wife was as close to my Mom as her own daughter might have been. Our five children became her new hope for the future. Dad and I were no different at all, nothing had changed for we were still as distant from one another as before.
Dad watched as my sons and I built our home. The only thing we subbed out was the concrete work, everything else we did ourselves. Dad watched as I continued to teach my sons how to shoot, and to work hard. He watched how my sons and I were friends, and how their friends soon adopted me as their dad. He saw a family living, working, playing, and functioning as a family. I wanted my children to grow with love and understanding.
My sons began busting clay pigeons with Dad, a sport he had always enjoyed. Through them, he could get rid of the proverbial rust from having sat idle for so long.
That Christmas, the boys and I bought Dad the best set of side by side double barreled shotguns that Savage Fox offered for sale, a twelve and a twenty. He was delighted, and could not wait to take them down into the field where his skeet range was.
A few days after Christmas, Dad and the boys were making the clay pigeons burst into powder and clay shrapnel as if the damnyankees had unleashed the grapeshot from their artillery pieces about the battlefield. Box after box of shells were enjoyed that afternoon by those in attendance. Grandpa and the boys were enjoying one another.
My wife and I took care of my Mom when her health turned for the worse once again. She fought a good fight for her last few years, but even she came to a point in 1989 we all must face some day. Through it all, Dad had a good insight as to how family can take care of things.
The relationship between Grandpa and the boys finally blossomed, allowing him to become a vital part of the family once again, the patriarch if you will. He was no longer Grandpa, for our children had changed his name to “Pop Tom”, a title he proudly wore. Fences were eventually mended, and Dad and I become good friends.
Years had been lost, but his remaining few made up for many of them. Dad and I had become best friends. I took care of Dad through his illness years, and became a much better man for it. He proved to me, once again, he knew more about being young than I knew about being old.
This is the tenth Father’s Day since his passing. We still visit, and someday I will see him once again. He taught me well, and for that I am thankful. He may me gone now, but memories of him remain.
I wish a Happy Dad’s Day to all the Dads, both past and present, whom have done their best in taking care of their families, and for being the very special person they need to be. Your family needs you…as much as you need them.