Thoughts of a Crazy Old Man

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© 2014 by Mikel W. Dawson. All rights reserved.

Also by the author Guide’s Life

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 01/24/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4918-9009-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-9008-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-9010-3 (e)

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Contents

DEDICATION

PREFACE

QUALIFICATION

REMEMBER?

ADVICE ABOUT KIDS

BOYS WILL BE BOYS

PARENTAL AFFECT and GROWING UP

LEARN HOW TO WORK

POLITICS

RELIGION

LIFE

THE PUCKER FACTOR

WOMEN

HUNTING and GUNS

THE BEST SHOT EVER

LUCK OF THE DRAW

FISHING and FUN

LIES and HALF-TRUTHS

OUCH, THAT HURTS

US GUYS

FIGURE IT OUT

PERCEPTION

HORSES and PEOPLE

CHOICES WE MAKE

COFFEE

INSTANT COFFEE

FOOD

TOILET PAPER

FRIENDS

WEATHER

CHANGING TIMES

UNDERSTANDING

WHEN I GROW UP

PEOPLE

DEDICATION

To all of those who have influenced my life and helped me on the road of life,

Especially my dad, Bill Dawson.

PREFACE

This book fills in the first part of my life not covered in my first book: GUIDE’S LIFE. Along with some advice on life and such, I have included many stories from my growing up on the farm, moving to Greenleaf, Idaho and my adult life before becoming a guide in the late ‘80s. I’ve had a few people who’ve read Guide’s Life, and told me they were disappointed because they wanted to know about my life before. Here it is, hope you enjoy reading it.

QUALIFICATION

What qualifies me as a crazy old man? Well, I’ll tell you. I’m not so old. Some days I feel like I’m eighty, and some days I feel like I’m twenty. I have figured out one thing: From the neck up I’m twenty, but from the shoulders down my body tells me I’m not. Crazy? Well, this will take a little more to explain.

First of all, I used to ride saddle bronc. I was never any good at it, yet I still paid a price to see if a wild-eyed, snot-blowing horse could buck me off his back. This in itself should qualify me as crazy. I never really got hurt, but one time I got on a horse and made the ride out. I heard the buzzer, and then double-grabbed the rope. I thought I heard the pickup guy coming up alongside me, so I turned to look. At that instant, the horse made a turn to the left, and I went off to the right. WHAM! Next thing I knew, I was lying on my back next to the fence. I could see my hand resting on my chest. My first thought was I needed to get out of there because many times the horses would run back up the fence, so I needed to move! I tried to move, but nothing worked. Now I started laughing to myself, saying, Oh, boy! Now what did I do? Get up! But I couldn’t move.

Finally, I looked down at my right hand. I had to think real hard while staring at my hand to make it move. Slowly, it went up and grabbed the rail, and I pulled myself into a sitting position. I looked across the arena and could see the lights—they seemed to be moving up and down all by themselves. Wow! I thought to myself, this is really cool. I have never seen this before! In what seemed like slow motion, a guy came over and asked me if I was all right. I replied, Yeah, I’m okay. So I slowly turned around, grabbed the rail, and pulled myself to my feet. I was leaning on the rail, my head kind of hanging down, trying to get my legs to work right and stand up. I look up and there is this kid standing on the other side of the fence with real big eyes.

Hey, are you okay? he asks.

Yeah, I’m okay, I reply.

He says, Holy cow! You hit the post with your face!

So that’s what happened, I thought.

Slowly, hand over hand, I make my way down the fence. I get behind the chutes, and Fred, the chute boss, is grinning at me. Hey, you okay? he asks.

I reply, I’m okay.

He said he heard me hit the fence post all the way back behind the chutes. The cobwebs haven’t gone away as I stumble back to my gear bag. I stand for a while, looking at my bag and trying to figure out what I am supposed to do. Soon this gal who rode barrels came up to me and asked if I was okay. About the same time, a good friend came by, looked at me, and then tells the gal he’d go get my saddle and halter from the catch pin. She just nodded okay. She turned to me, saying we needed to go clean up my face.

I thought it was just dirt from the arena, so I took both hands and wiped my face. Then I opened my eyes and looked at my hands: They were covered with blood. I just stood there looking at my hands, wondering where all that blood had come from. She grabs me by the arm, leads me out to get washed up, and packs my face with ice.

I got home that night and went straight to bed. I woke up in the middle of the night, however, shaking cold as ice. My first thought was I was going into shock. Wow! I’ve never been in shock before. Now I kind of get my senses about me and realize shock can kill, so I review in my mind the treatment for shock. Warm up. I find an old electric blanket and get wrapped up. Next, I think, Elevate feet unless a head injury is suspected. I might have a head injury, so I lie flat. I get back to sleep (not smart) and wake up the next morning (real good). My right eye is swollen shut and the right side of my face is dark and sore, but I was able to go to work so I didn’t really count this as being hurt. I might have had a little sense knocked out of me, but I really didn’t think so at the time. I stopped riding broncs and went to work as a guide.

Next I was a farrier. How crazy must one be to get under an animal ten times my size sometimes and try to trim its hooves, considering the fact that many people don’t train them to stand still or lift their legs? Add to the fact farriers work all different hours and often get home to a cold supper because of those abnormal working hours. And the work can lead to hazardous damage to your body, all for little pay.

Now when it comes to pay, most people think farriers make lots of money, but those people don’t think about the fact that we mostly work for ourselves and pay all our own bills, taxes, retirement, insurance, education, and anything else that comes up. We have to deal with things like, My horse lost a shoe, and I am leaving tomorrow for a show. So, for instance, after my last appointment for the day, around 6:00 p.m., I drive out to replace the shoe on a horse with mud and crap all over the hoof and packed under it. There’s also not enough light to work with. Or perhaps, the owner has no place for me to work inside, so I have to stand outside in the drizzling rain. After I get the shoe on—so the owner can go to the show—and it comes time to pay me, I hear, But don’t you guarantee your work?

Mumbling under my breath, I say to myself, Yeah right, buddy, I guarantee I can stick it up your ass. But, with a smile, as I wipe the mud and horse crap from my tools and clothes, I calmly reply, Yes, I guarantee I will do the best I can. But I can’t guarantee how you’ll ride the horse or what it’ll do out in the field. And then I calmly hold out my hand, still smiling, as the customer, grumbling, fishes for his wallet, and I hear him say to himself, Well, my old farrier would do it for free. After I receive the money, I smile again and reply maybe next time he should ring his old farrier.

And, finally, what qualifies me as being crazy (in my eyes), is going against the good advice of my dad. One evening, Dad and I were sitting outside on the tailgate of his pickup. Just before we went outside, he and Mom had gotten into an argument. While sitting there, Dad told me, If I had it to do all over again, I wouldn’t have gotten married. I looked at him with surprise. He said, Mike, why buy the cow if you can get the milk for free? To say the least, I was a little shocked to hear him talk this way, but in a way, his reasoning made sense. And to think, not only did I get married once, I traveled halfway around the world to do it a second time! Now if that doesn’t qualify me as crazy, I don’t know what does.

Looking back over my life, I now understand how this behavior developed. It began in the fourth grade, the first time I played football—of course, traumatic brain disorder. Recently, in the news, I read that many NFL players have filed lawsuits against the leagues because of all the head butting and banging around they get from a career of playing ball. Hey, I played a few seasons, so I figure I should have some of the good sense knocked out of me. I remember a couple times I got my bell rung and was kind of groggy after hitting the other guy square on with the front of my helmet—I was tough. Later on, I played four years of football in high school. The same tactics were taught at the time—hit ’em square in the numbers with the front of your helmet; stick ’em good. Little did we know about the craziness that might result in later years from this tactic.

I also think some things are passed down from generation to generation. Looking back at my Dad’s life and trying to compare it to my own, I do see some things that qualify in this respect. In my later years, I have developed a problem with my hearing. I never noticed it; I always thought I could hear just fine. But my wife tells me a different story. When released from active duty, I was given a complete physical to make sure everything worked as it should. One evening, I called home and talked to the wife. I told her I would be getting a few more parts of my physical done the next day. She said I needed to get my ears checked because I couldn’t hear very well. I replied I would make sure to have it done. What I didn’t want to tell her was my hearing had been checked the day before, and I had perfect hearing.

I later learned I have a hearing problem called selective hearing. I have done some research and learned this problem is mainly a male problem, but it can sometimes affect women as well. Looking back, I now remember my dad had this problem, too. Many times, I heard Mom say to Dad, Can’t you hear what I am saying to you? I know it is genetic as now I find my wife often asks, Can’t you hear what I’m saying to you? I also have come to realize other physical effects accompany the loss of hearing. I’ve told you a hundred times to put your stuff up when you’re done, or No, you never said anything to me about that! Sometimes I am so confused, I think I’ve told my wife something, yet later on I learn nothing was ever said. I have a feeling many of my men readers will have to agree with me that hearing loss and memory loss mostly affect men.

REMEMBER?

There’s probably lots of stuff stored in the back part of our memories we haven’t recalled for many years, and I’m no different. I guess the first event I remember was pretty interesting. At the time, I thought I had just witnessed my father’s death!

On the farm where I grew up, we had two large canals running through our place. One crossed our lane on the south side of the house, and one ran between the barn and house. As youngsters, my brother and I were told to always walk in the middle of the bridges and never go near the edges because we would fall in and drown. Mom and Dad were very vivid about this subject, and it was constantly instilled in me. One day, Dad and I were walking from the barn to the house. Dad had a bucket full of chicken feed in one hand and my hand in the other. I’m guessing I couldn’t have been more than four or so at the time.

As we approached the bridge, Dad noticed the end of one bridge plank was broken and partly hanging down. He told me to stay in the middle of the bridge, and he went over to the end to better inspect it. I guess he wanted to break the end off to make it a little safer. Instead, as he tried to break it off, it gave way faster than he figured, and he went plunging down into the canal. I was scared to death! I went running up to the house. Out of breath, I made my way into the kitchen without taking my boots or coat off, sobbing, and told Mom that Dad had fallen into the canal and drowned. Mom came to me with a questioning look on her face, trying to understand what I was saying between sobs. She slowed me down a bit, and I was better able to relay what happened.

We went to the kitchen window and looked down toward the barn. Here came Dad walking up to the yard fence. We both went outside to see what had happened. Mom’s first words to Dad were to ask what on earth had happened to scare me so. Dad, with a big smile on his face and dripping wet, explained to Mom what had happened. He bent down and gave me a reassuring hug to let me know he was all right. He explained that he was big enough to be able to get out of the water, but I wasn’t, so I needed to be real careful around the canals, not only at the bridges, but also anywhere along them. I never had to be told again; this was the best object lesson I ever had. I guess the most important part was that Dad never spilled the bucket of chicken feed, but it was a little wet!

It’s kind of amazing what a person remembers. After I wrote the book, Guide’s Life, I remembered so much more that could have been put in the book. I now realize I could have made one book of only the guiding days and another book of the rest. They (you know, the big boys) say everything we say, learn, and do is all stored some place in that gray matter between our ears. I guess they’re right.

I was driving to an appointment the other day when all of a sudden something hit me about an incident that happened to me while working in the Salmon area. I don’t remember what the circumstances were that put me in Salmon in filthy, dirty clothes, but I’d just come off the trail with no change of clothes. Anyway, I was to spend a couple days in Salmon and was really grungy. I thought I would go downtown and at least get a clean shirt. I went into the clothing store on the main street of Salmon and proceeded to find a shirt. As I only had a small amount of money in my pocket, I was trying to find a shirt for the price.

The attendant came and asked me if she could help me. I explained I only had a limited amount of money and wanted at least a clean shirt to wear for the next couple of days. She looked at me and said, Just a minute. She came back with the owner, who asked if I worked at the Salmon River Lodge. I replied that I did. He then asked what I needed. I repeated what I had told the attendant. He then asked if a clean pair of pants, socks, and underwear would help. I said yes, but I didn’t have the money. He then turned to the lady helping me and told her to get me what I needed to get by, write up a credit slip for me to sign, and I could pay him the next time I came into town.

I looked at him, so surprised. He said he knew me and who I worked for, so he trusted me. I thanked him very much and proceeded to get a clean change of clothes. About a month later, I was back in town. I made sure I had enough money to pay my bill, and my first stop was his store. I sought him out directly and paid the bill in full. I again thanked him so much for helping me. He stated that guides and outfitters were a big part of his business, and he supported us when he could. When I was in need of clothes or boots, I always went to his store first. Such acts are very rare these