February 2014 Newsletter

Let’s start in reverse order as far as the above title goes. My Grandpa Joe always got a bit frustrated about this time of year. He would grouse about having the mollygrubs, moan about the miseries, mutter about Ms. Minnie (his wife), and opine that it looked like cabin fever had “took holt” like he’d never seen it before. There would also be some barely audible comments about “they are out to get me.”

Grandpa always suffered from a degree of paranoia, and he was never happier than when alone or maybe accompanied by his trusty and obedient sidekick (me). He couldn’t and wouldn’t work for another man if that involved any oversight at all, and his favorite phrases were “you’ll learn” and “they’ll learn.” Looking back I realize Grandpa was, to use the mountain vernacular, a tad “tetched,” but it didn’t seem that way to me. Furthermore, the older I get, and I’m now pretty much of the age he was when we spent the most time together, the more I realize that maybe he was far more insightful than folks thought. I just happen to share his deeply rooted distrust of the government, of officialdom, and of bureaucrats in general. All he wanted was to be left alone, and I’m firmly convinced that we, as a country, would be a lot better off if there was a lot more “hands off” on the part of government and a lot less meddling.

To Grandpa’s credit though, his moments of being down in the dumps were far outweighed by those involving a bright outlook, optimism, and looking towards the future with a twinkle in his eye. That’s precisely why he always complained about February having to be the shortest month of the year. “I reckon,” he’d say, “that a body couldn’t stand more than 28 days of this mess, and it takes a passel of tolerance to add a day once every four years.” The next moment, however, chuckling at the way he’d just condemned “poor little February,” he would launch into an extended session of storytelling or maybe start discussing what sort of outdoor-related project we ought to undertake once the weather became bearable.

Those projects ranged widely but they were always fun, and that’s what I remember most about those halcyon days of youth. No matter the month, they were filled with fun, and even then I had one joy to keep cabin fever at bay which Grandpa didn’t. That was the sheer joy of reading. As a boy and now as a man, I’m an inveterate, devoted, and endlessly delighted reader. I devour books the way I used to deal with Momma’s fried chicken.

At this time every year I make a point of re-reading some of Robert Ruark’s timeless tales of the “Old Man and the Boy.” If you read them and don’t enjoy them, let me put it bluntly—you’ve got a black hole in the middle of your soul. The stories are down-to-earth, as real as the feel of cool dirt beneath a boy’s toes the first day of spring he is allowed to go barefooted, and deeply moving. You can find samples of them (there were dozens in all) in one of four places—in two books published in Ruark’s lifetime, The Old Man and the Boy and The Old Man’s Boy Grows Older, in an anthology I compiled the better part of a half century after his death, The Lost Classics of Robert Ruark, or if you are a collector or willing to do some digging, in the place they originally appeared, the pages of Field & Stream magazine.

They always sustain and uplift me, and anyone who has yet to delve into Ruark has a grand treat awaiting them.

Speaking of Ruark, most of the rest of my recent reading has focused on biographies, and to a somewhat lesser degree, autobiographies, of noted outdoor writers. The reason is simple. I’m struggling on how best to handle a biography of Archibald Rutledge I’m writing (if you want to be on the “notify” list when it appears, which lies a ways off yet, just drop me an e-mail and I’ll be sure you know). He was a complex character who lived a long and exceptionally full life. It was a life with a fair share of controversy, and how to handle it presents one challenge. Another comes from the fact that he was a man of so many parts, a true polymath. All this makes for a real challenge and a keen desire to do it right. I’ve always felt that one sure way to get a feel for such matters is through studying the strengths (and weaknesses) of others who have labored along similar lines.

As a result my recent reading includes, among other books, Jack Samson’s life of Lee Wulff; the autobiographies of Elmer Keith and Jack O’Connor (both, Hell! I Was There and The Last Book, make great reading); Elizabeth Burroughs Kelley’s life of her father, John Burroughs: Naturalist; the biographies of Ruark by Terry Wieland, Alan Ritchie, and Hugh Foster; Robert Anderson’s Jack O’Connor; Tony Hayter’s life of the great English fly fisherman, G. E. M. Skues; Charles Kroll’s Fred Bear; and several others.

At this point I still don’t know how to handle Rutledge—probably with an approach which combines straight chronology with side steps viewing key aspects of his life such as analysis of his overall production as a poet and narrative write along with his relations with blacks—but it’s useful to see how others think and enjoyable in the process.

Mind you, I intersperse such weighty matters with light reading, mainly detective stories and adventure novels, and thanks to the fact that I read quite rapidly I get through a lot of books. If nothing else, armchair adventure is a mighty fine antidote for days like today, when it is raining, temperatures hovering just under 40 degrees, and a time best spent indoors.

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If nothing else, I can think comforting thoughts of a hearty meal, and my personal inclinations lean heavily in the direction of soups, stews, chili, and the like this time of year. Here’s a sampling of recipes from some of the cookbooks I’ve written with my wife, Ann, along with a couple of “use what you’ve got” approaches.

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