An uncle’s illness reminded me yet again of the vulnerability of my own father. That coming up to 70 years old, his time may be limited with me. While that is extremely distressing since in the past decade my Dad and I have crossed into that great parental stage of being friends with your offspring, we seem to have limited time left, and increasing obligations on my part.
Which get me to thinking: one day Charlie may wonder: Dad was 30 when I was born. His whole teens and twenties are a mystery. Who was Matt before he was "Dad"? I am hoping that in the coming years, I can explore more of that part of my own father.
But what of Charlie?
Well, as you can plainly read, running blogs are boring. Who gives a flying fuck if I had to shit bad for the last mile of a run? My time sucked in the San Antonio Marathon, so who cares?
But I decided I would keep this blog for a while. I will fill it with funny, weird, and wacky recollections from my short, but honestly amazingly fun time on this planet. Some of this may have to wait until Charlie is a mature adult who has settled himself in life. Some he can hear as a child. But when I am facing the pearly gates at hopefully a very ripe old age, I don't want Charlie to ask: who WAS my father? I want my son to know where he came from, dumb ass mistakes, adventurous risks, drunken escapades and errors in judgment. Hell there are a few meals I may need to discuss since I can still recall that amazing taste or smell YEARS later.
If you are reading this, years from now Charlie, don't fret about one thing I know you don't want to know. There will be no recollection of torrid love affairs, or sexual escapades. No son wants to know about that side of his father. Gross. Needless to say, your mother was the best of all, and the best decision I ever made.
So I will start this with a very brief yarn. On my second trip hunting, ever, I lined up my shot on a herd of pigs at the bottom of a hill. At the top of said hill was a herd of cattle. The ranch owner let us hunt the ranch to reduce the feral hog population. She obviously did not want us to shoot the cattle. I lined up my shot, fired my rifle, and hit a pig. Unfortunately, it still lived and I need to fire again for a kill shot. Once done, me and my hunting partner and went to collect the pig and cut it up for tasty lean pork. It ended up on the other side of a barbed wire fence. Walking across the field to collect it, I suddenly heard what sounded like thunder. It was not thunder.
No. It was a herd of cattle, running at full speed down a hill, nostrils flaring, straight towards me. My hunting buddy was on the other side of the barbed wire fence, so considerably safer. Nothing stood between me and perhaps the most redneck death one could imagine. As luck has it, I was blessed as a fast runner, and used that talent to high-tale it to the fence, toss my rifle underneath the fence to the other side, and slide under the barbed wire without stopping (a harder feat than it may seem). The stampede continued unabated. So I shouted to my hunting buddy, who had a pistol, to shoot warning shots in the air. That did stop the cows.
But they stayed just on the other side of the fence. Watching yours truly. One even started bucking and jumping and shaking his head at me. The random horse in the herd whinnied and shook its mane. But I lived. And so, I escaped perhaps the lamest death that one could have. Being trampled by future cheeseburgers.
Next time I may look back a bit further, to college or my interactions with the future Vice President. We'll see.
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