Hi all ... It has again been a long time since posting. I do want to say HI to becky (MeMe) and tell her I am glad you're back

I guess I am back

Hi all ... I've been gone for some time. Since Molly died I haven't been doing much writing. Some friends talked me into going on Facebook and posting some stuff but, honestly I find it kinda boring. There is too much of the same thing over and over. A blog let's people share information and I think it is more personal. Anyway, I have posted on my other blog and now am seeing if this one will work too. Hope to hear from some of you ... I have missed you guys

Problems posting on my Blog

Hi all,

Boy I have been having lots of problems getting on my blogs. I can write them BUT can't post them. Molly's blog works ON THE SAME COMPUTER...

I have GOOGLED my problem and found lots of answers of what is causing this. I have tried everyone but nothing seems to work.

BUT I stumbled into a backdoor to get on my blog. It is to complicated to explain and I am not even sure if I can explain it in words. Basicly I have to write the blog and hit publish.... all it does is save it as a draft.... I then go to my editing area where all my posts are listed. I check the draft and hit publish at the bottom of the page. Now it is published but I can edit it where it will change anything in the post.. That sounds like fun. It works every second or third time.. Now I am going to try to publish this one.. Wish me luck!!

Be sure to check my other blog too. I am going to try to put some stuff on there too...

Bye for now

Short Story - fiction - A Shot of a Lifetime

A Shot of a Lifetime
By Jay Wilson ©2011

My daddy was a devoted hunter and I guess it would only be natural that he would want his son to be the same. But there was a problem – I didn’t want to kill anything.

Being raised in upstate New York, hunting was a valued part of our livelihood. My dad kept meat in the freezer and mom’s job was canning the excess produce from our garden. But it was dad who was regarded at the `provider’ of the family. This title was not due to his local trucking/hauling business but because of the wild meat he would put on the table. Dad enjoyed telling his friends about his many kills with his old trusty Remington 12 gage shotgun. He liked using slugs and sometimes double-ought buck. Both these shells would cause a lot of damage and almost always killed the deer on the spot.

The funny thing about the `Provider’ was he provided meat year around. Many times I was told not to tell the other kids in my school about our night-time hunts. I didn’t want to but I had to accompany him to hold the light on the deer while he made his shot. I knew it was wrong but to say no to my dad could end bad for me. So I went and did what I was told to do. I hated it; the killing, the skinning and then disposing of the skin and intestines. I swore to myself I would never kill a deer.

It wasn’t just the killing that bothered me but was more about how many times I seen a deer that was knocked down and then get up and run off into the trees. I knew the deer wouldn’t cover much ground before collapsing dead or worse, die from the wound days later. . Dad wasn’t one to chase down a wounded deer because someone who might have heard the report of the gun might come to see what happened; or worse. The person might call the game warden.

This routine continued all through my school years. As disappointed as it made my dad, I would not shoot and kill a deer myself. I remember the first time that I violated the rule of going against my dad. I refused to shoot a doe which had tried to jump a barbwire fence and got its leg hung in the strands of wire. I was 15 or 16. My dad felt this was a good time for his son to `make meat’. He handed me the shotgun and told me to shoot it in the head. I stood there staring into the small doe’s eyes. I could sense her fear. I could not say the word no but instead dropped the gun and ran. As I ran, tears started racing down my cheeks. No matter what my dad did to me when he got home, I was not going to ever kill a deer.

I was sitting out under a tree by the house when he drove up in his pickup about 20 yards away. He got out and stared at me for a full minute. He then turned and pulled the little doe out of the back. With the deer dragging behind, he disappeared into the shed where he always cut the animals into small portions to carry into the house. He never talked about what had happened. I continued to go with him on his hunts but was never offered his shotgun again. And that suited me just fine.

Don’t misunderstand me about the guns. I like guns and enjoy shooting them; just not at animals. In fact I won the 4-H competition (22 caliber) at our county fair 3 years running. I was a good shot. When my friends came over to my house, we would go out and shoot our 22s at tin cans. Sometimes the others would get a little aggravated at me because I never missed. Even as good as I was, I had never killed an animal except for a good reason. I had to kill a skunk that was getting into our eggs one summer. And then there was the wild dog that was fighting with my dog. The wild dog had Ol’ Mitch down and biting him in the throat. My mom and dad both seen me shoot that old stray in the head and kill him. That bullet was plumb center and passed within inches of my dogs head. It was shot I had to take to save my dog. Mom told me it was one heck of a shot that saved Ol Mitch’s life. My dad said it would have been a better shot if it had been on a deer. He then turned and walked away.

My dad passed away last year. Even with our problems, I loved him very much. I guess I wasn’t made from the same cloth as Dad and didn’t see things like he did. My mom still lives in the old house by herself. We have tried to get her to move in with us. I live about 20 miles away with my family. I check on her as often as I can. The last visit was just last week and that is what this story is really all about.

My wife Ella and the kids decided they wanted to take mom into town for a `girls only’ lunch. And that was fine with me. After they were gone, I roamed around the house reminiscing the old days when I was just a kid. I saw Dad’s shotgun leaning against the fireplace. I had shot it many times in my late teens but only at cans and the like. It had become somewhat of a joke when I took the old gun out between Dad and me. He would always make some remark about not killing his deer. We would both smile. We had made peace between us.

I decided to take the shotgun out and shoot it. I loaded it with slugs and started out toward the old gravel pit where we used to shoot targets. It was a short walk through a wooded area; maybe a quarter mile. I wasn’t paying much attention walking along. That’s when I heard a noise and turned in that direction. A huge buck deer was standing sideways to me. He didn’t seem to care if I was there or not. I thought of my dad and knew he would have loved this opportunity at such a huge animal. I also knew mom hadn’t had deer meat since Dad had gotten ill better than 2 years ago. I had to search my soul as to what to do. I didn’t want to kill the deer yet it would supply my mom with meat for the winter. It would also make my dad smile where ever he was. And maybe it would answer a couple of burning questions I have been asking myself for a lot of years. Could I kill a deer? Was my defiance due to being a coward?

I knew I had the ability to make the shot. It was only 20 yards. I could hit a can with the slug at that range. This was to be a defining moment in my life. I could answer those questions, feed Mom deer meat, and make my dad proud, all in one shot. I picked up the shotgun to my shoulder and seated it. I looked down the barrel and placed the aim just behind the deer’s shoulder blade. The deer continued eating grass. I squeezed the trigger and the gun fired. I didn’t even hear the explosion or feel the recoil. It was a shot of a lifetime for me. Of all the hundreds of shots I had made in my life, this one I will always remember with pride.

A Cop on the Beat (poem) - a cop killed (true)

Hi all,

This post is a sad one. We had a policeman killed in Rapid City recently. Two other officers were wounded. The cop-killer who was stopped in a routine traffic stop was shot and later died at the hospital. He was a known offender and handled by the police many times.

If you would like to see the news article to get a better idea, click below:
http://rapidcityjournal.com/news/bba996ea-c076-11e0-9c4b-001cc4c002e0.html
and lots of pictures: http://rapidcityjournal.com/promo/procession-for-officer-j-ryan-mccandless/collection_3452c9c2-c07c-11e0-8e81-001cc4c002e0.html?photo=1





From the write-up and pictures, you can see this officer was a very special man - a good man - a good cop!!

Being an old cop myself, this hit me a little harder than most (other than close friends and family). As many of you know, I deal with things by writing about them. I wrote the following poem in memory of the brave officer who guarded our town.

God Bless him and the people who hurts due to his death....


...........................................................

A Cop on the Beat
By jay Wilson ©2011

A cop on the beat, patrolling the street
Made that stop that policemen all fear
Some fool with gun, with scruples none
Killed the young officer without a tear

This officer was good, did what he could
To make this city safe for you and for me
He put his life on the line, ended up dying
Now he is gone from friends and family

The news hit hard and I turned to the Lord
To seek for the answer I needed
I read the good book, I took a long look
I was assured the officer would be greeted

The Bible did say, a passage for this day
`bout a person laying down his life for a friend
To heaven he soared, to the arms of the Lord
But sadly will be missed by us and his kin

I will pray for his soul, but the truth be told
The officer already stands by the golden gate
I’m sure he is on guard, working for the Lord
And as always, the officer’s duty’s first-rate

The day may come when you are the one
who will ask St Peter if you can go in.
It would be great, if that cop by the Gate
smiles and says, “Welcome, my friend.”

Short Story - A Cough, a Gag, and Maybe a Tear

By jay Wilson ©2010


It was bound to happen. John knew it was only a matter of time before he was killed. He knew it would probably be today. The inexperienced soldier just felt it deep in his heart. He had seen too many around him die; both friend and enemy. It was the way of war. It was not the glorious fight and excitement he had heard old timers talk about. There wasn’t anything heroic about seeing the man next to him killed by a shot through his head. John had thrown up so much that there was nothing left. A cough, a gag, and maybe a tear were all that was left. This was his reward for going to war.

John was like so many who had joined the army to fight to defend his country. With his head filled with patriotism and a chest pumped full of pride, he marched off to war. They sang songs of victory and war. After all, it wouldn’t take long to whoop the enemy. They were led to believe that they were off on an adventure. And like so many it didn’t take long to find it was not an adventure; not even close. Each man had his own word for it but hell was the most common word used to describe the anguish of war. Most of the men were young; too young to experience the horrors of battle. They were not ready or mature enough to see what was to become a daily occurrence.

Early on many of the soldiers had had their fill of battle and wanted to go home. They longed for the comfort of family and the smells of home cooking. They wanted to awake in the morning to the sound of their mother’s voice calling them to breakfast. Instead the gunfire would wake them before the sun had time to yawn. The only smell was the stench of death. And there was the bodies laying where they fell; acting as grim reminders of what was in store for many more.

The enemy was less than 200 yards away, hidden in a hedge row. The camp noises rolled across the open ground between the two armies. John wondered how many of them also wanted to just stop the damn war and go home. He guessed the boys on the other side weren’t all that different from him. They would continue to fight because a man with a lot of stripes on his arm told them to just like we would. His sergeant was always pushing and yelling. He didn’t act scared at all but John knew different. John saw the look in his eyes when the enemy cannons sounded. Still he knew they would fight and many would die … maybe even himself.

In the middle of John’s silent thoughts, the sergeant’s voice boomed out for the men to prepare to charge. He thought to himself, `what men?’ He could see nothing but boys like himself. Each one questioned why he was there. Each did not view this as a way to manhood but rather as a way to die a horrible death. The call came again to prepare to charge. And charge they did.

Like two warring mounds of ants; each attacked. Black ants and red ants became mingled as a blend of the two colors. Each ant determined to kill all the enemy ants. And we were not different. Scared yes but both sides rushed together until the blue uniforms blended with the grey ones. Each side was there to win or die. And many did die. For those who survived, they would tell the story of war. How war has an ugly face that can only be seen in its mist. Stories would be told around many fires of the bravery on the field of honor. Heroes would go home with battle scars that only could be seen by the warrior who had tasted war.

Maybe some would remember the battle happened this way and yet someone else would remember it differently. And strangely each man would be telling exactly what he had seen and experienced. Many of the boys became men that day. Some brought home medals and some brought home metal still embedded in their wounded bodies.

As for John, he didn’t come home at all. He was buried in a shallow grave. His only recognition was a small white cross with a kepi on it at the head of his grave. No name identified who he was. No one could tell who he was because of the cannon ball. The burial detail, at first didn’t even know which side he was fighting for. The blood had pretty well hid the color of the uniform. It was a belt buckle that told the tale. Now you ask, was he a Reb or Yank? Does it matter? John lay in a field buried where his family will probably never visit or even know its where-abouts. He was a boy who will never see manhood. He will never experience the joy of a wife or the sound of his first born. His mother will cry as will many mothers of both sides. But John will not hear her nor be able to console the woman who gave him life.

It would seem this would be the end of the story; sad as it is. But no, there is more. There has to be.

I will close this story with a personal wish. I wish there never had to ever be another war. I wish that no young boys had to die for a piece of land, a way of life, or a flag. But alas, that is the way of the world. Since the beginning of time, war was always a deciding factor. It has never nor will it ever prove who is right or who is wrong. It only proves who is mightier. The battle might be decided by who has the biggest or the strongest army. It could be that the victor is the first to attack or use a more modern weapon like bombs, cannons, or aircraft.

Still, wars will always be. They will be a constant companion to peace and live just in the shadows waiting to be called forth.

The hardest thing to understand about war is many times it has to be called forth. Sadly sometimes war is necessary to preserve a way of life. Sadly wars will always be a part of man’s lives. Sadly there will be many, many more Johns to prove that fact.

A hero died today

Age 16 years
Above is the Face of a Hero -- Why? - Read on please


Hi all,

I have kept up with a special man over the last number of years. I read about him in an article. And yes he is special ... even today. He WAS the last WW-1 American Vet living. He was 110 years old. He has now passed. I wrote the following poem in Honor of him:
............................................................................
The Face of a Hero

We hear of many who answered the call
Each man volunteered, a hero one and all
There was to be a war and these men came
By train, auto, and by the goodness of their name

This first World War to end oppression world wide
Who could have guessed so many would have died
But still the young men came to join into the fight
They would stand with America for what is right

One such patriot wanted to help freedom ring
He lied about his age – he was just sixteen
With the heart of a warrior, he joined and fought
Then as a POW he learned the hard lessens taught

Frank W Buckles made it home at the end of the war
He was proud of his service and adventures afar
He thought his part was finished, forgotten and done
But we remember him as the last U.S. Vet of WW one

I just got word today that Frank W Buckles has died
This is the brave boy who, to fight for his country, lied
He is gone now to join all the warriors gone before
I know he will be welcomed by friends from the Great War

Although he will missed by we, grateful Americans all
We celebrate his life and passing to answer God’s call
He will take his rightful place with all the soldiers in heaven
Remember Frank W Buckles; died Feb 27, 2011

...................................................................

If you would like more information on him - see:

His story in news:

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20110228/ap_on_re_us/us_obit_last_wwi_veteran

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frank_Buckles

His story in Wikipedia
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frank_Buckles


Age 106 years old

Rest well ol' Warrior, You did your job!!!