The teacher in me

You say it was this morning when you last saw your good friend

Lyin' on the pavement with a misery on his brain

Stoned on some new potion he found upon the wall

Of some unholy bathroom in some ungodly hall

An odd song to be obsessing over as I cruise down US 15 at six o’clock of a morning thinking about the class I’m supposed to cut my teeth on as a Bow Hunter Safety instructor. I find myself hitting the repeat button each time the song ends. How does this song fit into the coming day’s events?

He only had a dollar to live on 'til next Monday

But he spent it on some comfort for his mind

Did you say you think he's blind?

The memories the song is dredging up are from those early days of teenage disillusionment with my parents, school, the country and people in general. Mixed in with those memories are the alcohol-hazed days when I finally settled into being a misanthrope.

More than a decade of my life was spent with alcoholics, drunks, potheads, coke snorters, pill poppers, ‘shroom eaters and needle junkies. Most of us seeking a momentary escape from our lives, a fleeting pleasure earned with a dollar rather than our mindful efforts.

Yeah he'll always be another one of us

He said he wanted Heaven but prayin' was too slow

So he bought a one way ticket on an airline made of snow

Did you say you saw your good friend flyin' low?

Flyin' low

Dyin' slow

(Written and sung by Hoyt Axton, a band member of Steppenwolf)

Best I can figure, I’m reminiscing on where I’ve been to bolster my resolve as I step into a place I don’t think I belong. A place where my actions and words can ripple through the lives of others. Good people I have little in common with, yet feel I have some obligation to.

Do I feel guilty about all those who chose the path to a bottom? I chew on that and decide we knew what we were doing; we knew the consequences of our choices. Hell, I wanted some of those consequences! I think of those who have died, who are dying and those who have atrophied, who say to me “Don’t you wish you were eighteen again? Don’t you miss those days?”

No. No I don’t. My glory days are in front of me, not behind me in some brown bottle or wine filled bong. I think it so odd that in my mid fifties I’m making memories while so many of my once-upon-a-time friends are already trapped in theirs.

There is activity about the Frederick chapter house of the Izaak Walton League of America. I’m not as early as I’d hoped to be. Since I was at the previous class (Hunter Safety, the most basic course) just the week before, most of the instructors know me by name. They tease me about coming back for more. I make my way into the building and find Ben Kelkye, instructor of instructors, a man I admire, one of very few. I tell Ben I don’t want to become a Bow Hunter instructor. That I’m not a hunter and have nothing to add to the day’s events.

He argues, once more, that I’m already instructing the kids in the youth program so I might as well formalize my efforts and join the rolls of the National Rifle Association’s certified instructors. I compromise, tell him I’ll take the class over again as it’s been years since the wife and I took it together. He cheerfully agrees.

I struggle to pay attention to the lectures. The course is very different from the previous one, much more detailed. So much to absorb, especially when I have no plans to hunt. I have to keep reminding myself that I’ll be passing this knowledge on to the kids.

Still, what am I going to pass along? I’ve never killed a deer. I am so out of place among these knowledgeable “outdoorsmen” who have years of hunting behind them. Who actually love the sport, who teach the safety courses because they have a passion for hunting and want to see the tradition carried into the future so others can experience the outdoors as only a hunter can.

So what am I going to lecture about when my turn comes? How to safely use a tree stand? I’m a groundhog! How to track a deer? Or field dress it and transport it safely? I don’t hunt! Will I have to explain “carrying capacity”? How wildlife populations are studied, the carrying capacity is determined and bag limits set for the following season? Maybe. I did follow that well enough.

Or hunter ethics? Ahhh. Something I don’t need a harvested deer under my belt to talk about! I’ve had plenty of discussions with hunters and non-hunters about the lack of hunter ethics! Animals wounded by hunters taking shots beyond their abilities. (Deer running around after the hunting season with legs dangling from wounds caused by incompetent shots. Deer dying from infected wounds caused by arrows still sticking from their hindquarters). Idiots shooting bullets through farm equipment, old cars and farm buildings just for the fun of it. Hunters who admit they shot deer and didn’t take the time to track them because a better one would be along in a few minutes. Hunters who arrogantly trespass on private property, damage trees with their hunting stands, cut away saplings and brush to create firing lanes, damage fences, leave gates open, shoot goats, cows and horses because they don’t know what they are doing! Or worse, because they can. Then there are the meat poachers who sell their kill and the trophy poachers who kill for the head and antlers (sometimes just the antlers) and leave the meat to rot.

I can’t do much about the adults who might do those things. Sure, I can stand in front of them and berate them for a lack of ethics, but only they can change how they behave. The kids are another story. Most of them haven’t solidified their hunter mentality. They can still be influenced by the ethical actions of those of us willing to stand before them and preach the gospel of the ethical sportsman.

As I’m driving home late in the day, parts of another song (written and sung by former Steppenwolf member John Kay) fill my head.

My thoughts turned to the teachers

And the champions of the weak

The protectors of the creatures

And the saints down on the street

All the helpers, all the healers

Who lay hands on wounded souls

And whose daily acts of mercy

Drive the cynic from my door

Countless times I’ve seen the wonders

That the gift of hope can bring

To the betrayed and the forgotten

Yet I stood watching in the wings

Too many times I heard the call

And did not answer, to my shame

But I swear from this day on

I will lend a helping hand.