Hillbilly Golf

The Disney movie Brave changed my life.  No, not in the way No Country For Old Men did, but, I could argue, for a movie I only half-watched, Brave had a much bigger impact.  No Country just made me paranoid of cattle-killing bolt guns and get a really sweet bob haircut, while Brave, dammit, made me a bowhunter.

The Cliff's Notes version is this: Dylan watched Brave, then wanted a bow.  Then she wanted a nicer bow.  I stood around while she shot targets, handing her arrows and mumbling, "Nice shot," until my cousin Brett gave me his really nice bow.  We practiced, we watched bow shooting videos on YouTube, Dylan won a contest, I arrowed a buck.  We were hooked.  Then Grady wanted a bow.  And around we go, the circle stays unbroken.



So now we do things like worry about our laundry detergent's scent (for sneaky hunting) and spend Sunday afternoons at 3-D shoots.  You're probably thinking, 3-D shoots, that sounds awesome!  Are there lasers involved?  Cosplay?  Furries?  No.  It's even more awesome.  Think hillbilly mini-golf with weapons.  You hike around, usually up and down hills, and take shots at 3-D targets.  Some shots are difficult (Ashland has a bison out at 100 yards, Siskiyou has an iron hog with a very small soft center to hit.  There's a pile of busted arrows beneath it).  Some are easy.  Some are surrounded by poison oak, or blackberry brambles, or creeks.  Some targets are beneath cliffs and some are in caves.   Still not convinced that it's fun?  I wasn't either, until the first time I went.  The kids and I had a blast.  We flung arrows until my eyes got fuzzy and came home and started practicing for the next shoot.

Which is also something archery is great for -- discipline.  There's a concentrated focus in shooting a bow properly that very few activities offer.  Kids have to be calm, still, focused, and patient.  In archery, there's a hundred things that can go wrong before one thing goes right, and shooters have to sort all those things out in their heads before they shoot.  Plus, the sound of an arrow hitting a target is deeply satisfying.  It's something our cool-ass caveman forefathers and mothers did for survival, and that thwack of an arrow finding its mark is embedded in our DNA.

So now, we mark our calendars every year for the local shoots.  I keep googling more places to hillbilly-golf bow shoot to expand our territory.  Dylan's getting better, I'm holding steady, and now Grady is ready for his next bow.  He'll have to watch Brave first.  Maybe we'll all sit down as a family and watch No Country For Old Men, and see how freaked out the kids get, friend-o.

2%-er

Dylan, suddenly, hates having her photo taken.

It seems odd to me that only around 2% of the American population are farmers or ranchers.  Probably because 50% of the people I know are in those professions.  But I do realize that there's quite a bit that I do, because of my vocation, that most folks don't do.  For instance, I regularly stick my arm up cows' asses.  Seems weird, right?  It is, but it's one of the best and easiest ways to check if a cow is pregnant.  Getting them to pee on that little stick is nearly impossible, so, the long gloves it is.  I also get to take my kids to work with me whenever they're not in school.  I take it for granted, but I realize that most professions frown on bringing kids into the office whenever the mood strikes.  If I can cram them in the cab of a tractor, stick them on a horse, or pile them on a 4-wheeler, then they can tag along.  Besides, the extra set of hands is, well, handy.

They were home, and a little cooped up over spring break, so I had them as my cow feeding helpers.  I can count on Dylan to drive for me while I climb up on the back of a pickup that's loaded down with hay.  She likes to stay up front and play with the dogs while I holler left and right instructions, but generally, I don't have to pay too much attention to her driving.  She knows where to go and what to avoid.  I already know how much smarter she is than me because at her age, when I drove to feed for dad, he had to write a big "L" and "R" on my left and right hands to keep me from crashing into fences, trees, or bull wallows.  Dylan just puts smiley faces on her own hands.  

Grady, on the other hand (no pun intended), hates being left alone in the truck and I often have to push or pull him up to the top of four or five layers of hay -- while the truck's moving -- and then shimmy myself up super-gracefully to the top to feed.  He kicks off flakes of hay for me and sits, frozen and clinging to a twine on a bale.  Apparently, he hates heights only a tiny bit less than driving.

We got tired of trying to navigate our way to the horse pen in the dark after Drill Team practices, so on Saturday I put in a gate with closer (and semi-lighted) access.  Dylan and Grady were my brace building helpers which, mostly, worked well.  Dylan's good at measurements, so she ran the tape measure and Grady's good with tools, so he ran the chainsaw (no, he didn't).  They gathered rocks for the post holes and Dylan took a crack at hammering in fencing staples.  There's a little room for improvement in her hammer swinging skills, but it'll come.  And we completed a little project that looks pretty good with a new (to us) gate (Repurposed?  Up-cycled?  Some piece of shit that I used because I'm too cheap to buy a new one?  Take your pick).

They're back in school and I'm back to feeding solo, with a big ol' L and R written on my leather gloves.  You know, just in case.  And when the weekend comes, they'll be tagging along with their dear old dad, hanging out with a 2%-er.

Eastside Easter

To this day, if you ask me what's my favorite holiday, I'll tell you, hands down, it's St. Paddy's.  But let's be honest, I haven't celebrated National Irish Drinking Day properly in ten years.  This year, St. Patrick's Day fell on a Saturday, AND our friend and barkeep at Denny Bar whipped up some amazing festive cocktails and invited us in for a try.  Guess what Regina and I did?  We got all gussied up, but I didn't even have my boots on before someone turned on Stranger Things, and next thing we knew, it was nearly 10:00 PM (! -- way past our bedtime), and we were sound asleep.

But there's been another holiday that's snuck up on me and I'm really starting to warm up to it.  Yep, Easter.  It really has it all: church, tradition, food, beer, and candy.  We hosted Easter at our house this year and had a sizable and rambunctious crew.  We served both traditional (ham) and non- (Moroccan goat) for dinner and had not one, but two coolers full of Sierra Nevada and Coors.  There were only four kiddos (and one baby) for the egg hunt and we recruited a fifth sort-of-kiddo (Ollie) for the traditional Easter piñata.  Grady sold his non-candy egg treats to his sister for $1 a pop, and now has a wallet stuffed with singles.  It was, according to us, a success.

It's easy for me to cling to a tradition I once loved -- but did I ever really love green beer and leprechauns?  Yes, probably.  But the older, wiser me is starting to come around to this Easter thing.  And I think it just might be big enough to catch on.  We'll see.