Target Practice

Growing up a military kid as I did, I was exposed to elements a lot of kids never got to experience. I've heard accents from all over the world, moved more times than I dare to count and met people I never otherwise would have. I've gotten to participate in USO shows, decorate banquet halls for the coming home parties of War veterans, swim with Colonels and dance with hero's. I also got to know my Dad - he was my first hero.

Stories of my dad's early years in the military always interested me. I'm a bit of a history buff, so the stories he would tell me of his own father always left me on the edge of my seat as well. Possibly my most favorite story would be during the time we were stationed in Germany - around the time I was born. That's when he was the Sharp Shooter (sniper) for the on base S.W.A.T. team.


Dad grew up in the back woods of Up-State New York. His yard was nothing but trees, and his stomping grounds were also his hunting grounds. He could hardly be found without a rifle of some sort in his hands, out hunting deer with Grandpa Frank or milking cows for Woodrow for pocket change. He told me that even though he got very little money by today's standards, back then a dollar was a lot of money and could go a long way. That part always fascinated me. He said even five dollars would help pay the bills in his family. He helped to support his two sisters while (as my mom puts it) being a Football hero in his school.


He used to make a joke about growing up in Roscoe and going to school in Livingston Manor. He said they lived so far out in the sticks, they had to pipe in the sunshine, and sometimes that took days. Very few people knew where Roscoe was on the map, and that fact remains today. It's a very rural area even now, quite the contrast to what most people think of New York. Looking at the maps, I even recall the street named Beaver Kill Road from his stories.

When I was just a kid we went to visit my Grandfather and Grandmother in New York. I remember even visiting with the neighbors next door to where my father grew up. The brothers were still there, aged and crippled with arthritis. Dad had always thought of them as uncles, the two kind, old bachelors. As he sat visiting with them, my Mother took my brother and I wading in the Willowemoc river. She told us stories my father had once told her about swinging on a tire swing way out over the river and splashing down at just the right moment. All of these stories made my father into a hero in my eyes. He was an adventurer, just like me. He had stories to tell - if I could just get him to tell those stories!


I tried for years to get stories out of my father, but he didn't really talk much about his childhood. Something about it seemed shaded, as though he had been severely hurt somehow. Finally, we discovered a common interest in the love of target shooting and I would work on him during our long drives to the rifle range.



I don't remember what the first gun was that I shot, but it was likely at 10.22 rifle. It's a great starter gun with not much kick to it. All I remember was that it was a lot of fun and the big "bangs" I heard from his hunting rifle as he worked on sighting it in for the hunting season made my heart skip a beat every time. Eventually I learned how to zone that out.

Mom got her own .22 rifle when I was a teenager, and on the weekends she was stuck working, Dad and I would load up the truck and borrow her rifle. We would head to the range on the side of the mountain with all the gear and set up for the day.

Dad would set me up with Mom's .22 rifle at the pistol range. The smaller caliber was the only rifle allowed over there. He would stick little orange stickers on the target for me to aim at, he'd teach me how to sight the weapon and he taught me breathing practices. I would breath out slowly as I pulled easily on the trigger. When the gun would fire, at first I would jump. It would startle me. In no time at all, I was shooting like a pro.

We gathered our targets and looked at our progress. I remember by the end of the first day shooting with my mom's brand new rifle, I had not only shot the little orange sticker, but had blown it completely off the target leaving nothing but a 2 inch diameter hole where it had once been stuck. Not a trace of it was left. Dad was amazed.


Next he pulled out the Swinging Squirrel. The squirrel was set up on a metal bar that we would push into the ground. When shot, the squirrel was meant to swing back and forth, indicating the person aiming had hit their mark. Before long I had the squirrel doing flips over the bar like an Olympic gymnast. The orange sticker on its belly was all but gone.


When we went to survey the damage, the squirrel was no longer black, but the shiny metal surface was showing through nearly every inch. It has bent nearly in half and resembled a banana more than a squirrel. Dad decided it was time for the Big Boy range. Never in my life had I ever seen him more proud of me for anything, even the year I made honor roll.

The very next time we went shooting, he brought out the AR 15, the military version of the M16 assault rifle. It looked big and burly. It was the meanest looking gun I'd ever seen with it's matte black finish, flash supressor on the end and banana clip with 15 rounds. I was in awe.


Dad loaded the clip for the first three rounds and had me finish it. Then, with the clip out, he walked me through the dynamics of the gun. Before ever touching it, I knew how to load a round, eject the round, load and remove the clip, clear a jam, set the safety and fire my first shot. Going through all of that, my intimidation of the AR 15 no longer existed.


My first round sliced through the top corner of the target at 50 yards. The weight threw me off and I yanked the trigger instead of squeezing. The second grazed the field before the target, never even getting close. Then I settled in.


The rifle only had sights. With a gun as dependable as the AR 15, no scope was needed. It was dead on accurate. I grew that rifle as an extention of my arm. I began to squeeze shots off like a pro. Again, he placed the orange stickers on the center of the target, and before long I was as accurate with the AR 15 as I had been with the .22 rifle at 75 yards. Dad beamed.


"Nice shootin," another man at the range said to me as he looked through his binoculars at my target. Dad patted me on the back with his corse, rough hand. He and I both beamed. When I was really little I would proudly say "That's my Dad!" I could feel in his hand as he patted me that he wanted more than anything to tell this stranger "That's my kid."


After a while of blasting groups of 15 in a pattern smaller than a silver dollar, Dad was so proud I thought he would pop. "Hey Kiddo," he said to me, smiling. Mom had just arrived at the range after a long day at work, and he wanted to show off to her. I set the gun on safe, pulled out the clip, ejected the round in the chamber, and set the firearm down on the table. Mom smiled at me.


"Hi!" she said to me. "Your Dad tells me you've done really well today!"


"Thanks!" I said, surely blushing. Nearly all the eyes at the range had been watching me for an hour and I never realized it. Here I was just a 13 year old girl shooting better than most of the guys out there sighting in their yearly hunting rifles.


"Hey Manda," Dad said, "Show your mom your targets." I grabbed them up (I had kept them close to me all day. I was so proud!) and handed them to Mom. As she leafed through them with oohs and aahs, Dad called me back over to the AR 15 rifle. "Lets do one more target for your Mom and then we'll have to get going. I'm hungry!"


"Ok," I said, eager to finish off the clip. Mom came over to watch. I put several more holes in the target before Dad interupted me.


"Hey Kiddo, you see that shining thing up there on the next mountain over?" I looked where he was pointing.


"Where?" I saw a reflection of light against something, but surely that wasn't what he was talking about.


"Right there." Indeed it was.


"Yeah, I see it."


"Look through the field scope, maybe you'll see it better." I looked. "That's the Gong. Do you think you could hit that?"


"I think so," I replied. I didn't even notice when the rest of the range went quiet, watching and listening. I picked up the rifle again, sighted the gong and squeezed the trigger while breathing out gently. The gun fired. One second went by with nothing. Then two. On the third second, we heard it.


"CLANG!"


"You, you DID it!" Dad jumped up from his seat and his face lit up like the 4th of July. I still didn't notice, but people within ear shot of my father all stood amazed. "Do it again!" I smiled, took a breath, and repeated the action. Again, three seconds went by and we heard the loud "CLANG!" once more. Dad prompted me to do it again, but the magazine was empty. He had said to finish off the magazine and we'd have to go. I set down the rifle and took out the magazine. Proudly, with the broadest smile I've ever seen on his face, he handed me the box of shells. "Again," he said, as eagerly as a kid wanting another piggy back ride.


I went through three more clips with only missing twice. By the end of that third clip, I had a full audience behind me watching. Dad stood proudly by my side, my mother stood back in awe with the masses watching my performance. Each shot rang out, and each time the gong clanged. When my eyes were finally strained and I couldn't do it anymore, I set the safety, pulled the clip and stood up. As I turned around I finally noticed the shining faces behind me. They had all watched my every move.


"Nice job, Kid," a few of them said. "Way to go."


Dad and I rode back to the house that day with him telling me stories of his hunting adventures when he was a kid. He told me about his first gun, his qualifying scores in the Military academy, his days in Germany as the Sharp Shooter for the S.W.A.T. team, and all the stories I had longed to hear growing up.


When I told my father that I wanted to be a Cop many years later, he asked me if it was because I was dating a cop. Though I will admit that it was the reason I decided to try out for it finally, (I never had the courage to try before, but if that monkey could do it, it would be no problem for me), what my father failed to realize is that this memory and the stories he told me were the reason I had wanted to be a Cop since the day I spent at the range with him shooting the AR 15 rifle. I wanted to be a Sharp Shooter, just like my Dad.

The Igloo

The winters were rather harsh in Maryland. The snow banks piled up to immeasurable heights when the wind blew. Our first winter in Maryland, the snow drifts covered the back of our building, completely blocking the back door and nearly allowing for a fun snow slide from the 2nd story windows. I remember fondly an igloo my dad made for my brother one winter when I was around 4 years old. It was the one and only igloo I ever really enjoyed. Even at an early age I hated the freezing cold.

My dad had gotten a snow shovel and had worked for hours out in the chilled air to clear the sidewalks for the neighbors. I remember the way my father piled up all the snow next to the building where the laundry machines sat running on the other side of the red brick wall. The drier heater vent pumped nice, warm air out of that vent every time it was turned on. My dad hollowed out the igloo over the top of that vent.

The first time my brother and I went out to the igloo, I remember my hands were freezing from wearing the only knitted mittens I had. They were nice and warm, as long as you didn’t attempt to pick up snow with them. Once inside the igloo, I started feeling warm and cozy, as if I were in the house sitting on the floor in front of the television. The heat from the laundry machines warmed the igloo up so much that it began to melt and drip on us just a little.

It started to get late. The sun was setting. We began to get cold and decided to go back in the house before our teeth chattered out of our heads from the freezing water. That night, after my mom got done running the laundry, the night air was chill. The parts of the igloo we thought would melt away refroze as we slept, but this time they formed a thick layer of solid ice. Our igloo had become an impenetrable fortress, complete with ice cicles hanging from the doorway like sharp daggers.

Every time my brother and I went out to the igloo and shimmied on our bellies to avoid breaking the hanging ice carrots, my mom would run the drier again. Every time we came inside, the process would repeat. The igloo would refreeze as another sheet of ice would form. Eventually, we no longer had an igloo. We had a dome made entirely of refrozen melted snow, as see-thru as the glass blocks forming the walls of the shower in my mother and fathers bathroom. It was a magical, crystal kingdom belonging only to us.

That igloo still stood that spring long after the rest of the snow had melted and the only things left of the neighborhood snowmen were the coal eyes in the grass by the sticks some child had used as arms for their chilly friend. The neighborhood kids were jealous of my brothers’ igloo. One day a band of young boys were seen jumping on top of the igloo, trying their best to cave it in. My brother started to panic! His fort, his mighty indestructible fort, was tumbling like the Alamo!

My mother came up with an old saying then. “If you can’t beat them, join them,” she told my brother. He instantly ran out and decided he was going to be the one to cave in his precious fort. They didn’t deserve to! He jumped with the other boys for nearly an hour before the roof of the ice castle finally gave way, tumbling all of the boys inside the walls. Peering out of the window, all I could see were about 12 snow boots sticking up at odd angles. When he came back inside, my brother was extatic. Soaked from head to toe, he proclaimed that it was the most fun he had participated in since he could remember.

I've never seen another ice fortress like the one my father made for us in all my travels, but just like my family, that ice fortress was special because it was a one of a kind. It was chilly and cool to the touch, but when it took us in, its warmth lasted long after the rest of the world had forgotten the snow ever touched our lives. It remained when all else had long since faded into distant memories of coal black eyes and stick figure arms in the budding grass.

A Day in T. J.

As my wrist gets progressively worse, my typing skills are slowing being flushed down that proverbial drain. I've been trying to come by every day and leave something for you guys to read, but I hope you understand that it's been rather painful. Still, I know if I don't write something every day, I'll have a lot of catching up to do soon.



This morning I was reminded of a trip to Tijuana we took when I was a kid. My Dad's mother had come to visit us. I never really had a chance to get to know her, and looking back on that I find it to be a real shame. She was the one involved in the Kidnap story. By that point there was such a wall between us that I wonder if it ever struck her what she had done that day. She visited so seldom and we visited her even less often than that. I think there was a sort of wall between my father and his family. In that respect, I'm more like him than I realize. Anyway, Grandma Iva was the Grandma we didn't talk about since we didn't know her.



I have one fond memory of her though... and I'd like to share that.
Uncle Roger, this one's for you.



Grandma Iva came to visit when I was about 10 or so. We were living in Victorville California at the time and it had been countless years since we had seen her. For one of the days that summer, we decided to take a trip down to Tijuana Mexico for a mini-adventure. I'll never forget when we neared the border. The aroma in the air changed significantly. It altered to a blended smell somewhere between laundry detergent, bodily filth and rotten fruit. It was an odd mixture with that hint of lemony freshness thrown in there somewhere.



People everywhere were selling things. Kids sat along the sidewalks peddling little trinkets and dolls. Women would sit on colorful blankets surrounded by paper mache roses they sold for one American dollar. A man walked past in the busy streets with brown sandals hanging from a tall stick he carried. Pinatas were hanging from every store window and the world of Tijuana was full of color in so many forms.



My mother never learned any foreign languages, but when I was a kid and we lived in Maryland our neighbor tried to teach her a little Spanish. The only thing she ever remembered was how to say "I want a beer" in Spanish, which is incredibly ironic, since she didn't even like beer. Still, eager to try out her one phrase, she went to a Cantina and used her one line. When they asked her which kind of beer she wanted in Spanish, she sputtered and spat, not having the slightest idea of what they had just said to her. Finally, in plain English, the Cantina man asked her "What kind" and pointed to the taps. She opted for a Bud Light.




Dad and his mother wandered through the vendors, admiring the wares. Everywhere smelled like barbeque beef. Copper pots and pans hung from the frames of the tents. Fresh breads and fruits filled every corner of old wooden tables under the tarp roofs. Street performers played guitar and sang. T-shirt vendors offered to sell the shirts off of their back. Women tried to sell beaded necklaces that they draped over their arms. Kids sold candies and kites and stuffed dogs on strings. Flowers abounded, prostitutes wandered past freely. Drunks stumbled in the streets, wandering from one bar to the next. Other than the modern clothing, we were in the Wild, Wild West.

A few of the tents had clothing. That seemed to be what my Grandmother was interested in above all else. I tagged along as my Dad and Grandma got lost in conversation among the tents. From somewhere behind my brother shouted to us that he had just seen the bad guy from Crocodile Dundee. Mom turned to look - sure enough, it really was him.

We found one tent that specialized in leather goods. Grandma fell in love with a beautiful red leather jacket with fringe down the sleeves and a rose detail. The price tag on the jacket said $100, but my Dad advised her to strike a bargain with the vendor.

"Down here you have to haggle on the price," he explained. "You can get some pretty amazing stuff for really cheap that way. They're always willing to make a deal."

He was sure she had the concept, but just to get her going, he told her where to start.

"I'll give you $35" she said under my Dad's instruction.


"Oh no," he said in a thick accent. "I take $75 American."

Grandma looked over at Dad who urged her on. "Counter with somewhere in the middle."


"I have $50 cash I'll give you right now," she said with confidence, finally getting the hang of the whole thing. His face looked pained.

"Oh no!" He shouted, almost sounding insulted. "I have to have AT LEAST twenty fie dollars for this jacket. Its such a fine quality!"

Confused, she jumped forward and pulled out $25 from her purse. She handed him the cash, snatched the jacket from him and walked away hurriedly before he changed his mind. Dad howled with laughter.

"Mom," he explained, "He thought you said FIFTEEN!!!"

Angel on my Shoulder

I didn't know my Mom's father very well. Every memory I have of him I can count on one hand - and yet he left a powerful impression on me.

My earliest memory of him was a time he babysat his grandchildren, including my brother, my cousin Michael, his sister Shawna, and myself. Gremlins was playing on the TV and we were at my crazy Uncle Mike's house. The adults had all gone out together and we were told to stay inside... that's about all I remember, other than his bony fingers jabbing me as he patted me on my back. He clearly loved his grandchildren and we loved him in return.

Fast forward a few years... Dad had a year remote tour in Alaska and we couldn't go with him, so Mom moved us kids to Arkansas so she could be near her family. Looking back on that time now, I realize what a basket case she was then. I imagine I would be too if I had two children around me all the time and no spouse to help me take care of them at my age now. She was right about 30 years old then. I'm sure we drove her crazy.

We often spent afternoons and evenings at her parents house. By then my grandfather had already begun to forget many things. His mind was beginning to slip and occasionally he didn't know who he was anymore.

"Excuse me, Ma'am," he said one day while we were visiting my ill grandmother. Mom sat on the side of the bed taking care of her, feeding her soup. Grandpa had been sitting in the living room quietly watching TV for a while when suddenly he got a lost look in his face and stood up. He wandered into my grandmothers room. "I don't know where I am or how I got here," he paused and swallowed, "but if you let me stay the night, I promise I'll be gone by mornin'."

It was a very sad moment for my mother. I remember her crying over that day. He didn't know who he was or who the woman was he married and spent more than 35 years with. It was a devastating day for us all, and we knew then that his mind had really gone.

Over the years he had occasional moments of clarity, but they were so far and few between that I never really got the chance to know him. We only lived in Arkansas for that one year in my youth, and even though we went over there often, that's the only clear memory I have of him. That, I feel, is an absolute pitty.

The last memory I have of him while he was still alive was during my mothers 20 year High School reunion. My cousin Michael and I had stayed home with Grandpa because someone needed to be there with him. Otherwise he was prone to strip naked and wander down the street, wondering where he was. I wish it were something I could giggle about, but it got quite serious.

Michael and I were sitting on the couch. Grandpa was beside me and had been quiet for hours. It was fine with me, he didn't know who I was anyway. He hadn't known my name since I was around 5 years old. I was a complete stranger to him at 15 years. Suddenly, he spoke up.

"Who are those two little boys over there?" Since he often mumbled to himself, I took that moment to be that exact thing, his ramblings to himself. I didn't respond.

"Who are those two boys," he asked again after a long moment.

"Grandpa," I said, looking over towards the kitchen table where he pointed, "there aren't any little boys over there."

A few more minutes of silence followed before he spoke again. He mainly mumbled, but after a few minutes he grew loud enough to understand.

"Who are those two little boys over there," he asked me again, this time jabbing me in the ribs with his elbow.

"Grandpa, there's nobody over there," I said again, slightly annoyed.

"Yes there are," he said. "There's two little boys."

"Grandpa, there isn't anyone over there."

"Yes there are!" He was starting to get upset and I contemplated going along with it just to make him feel better. Just about the time I was going to say something, he continued. "Manda," he said, shocking me beyond belief, "there are two little boys over there, and they BOTH have wings!"

My jaw fell open and chills ran down my spine. I fell silent, put an arm around his tiny shoulders and held him tight for a long time. He patted me on the back.

"You're a good kid," he said. "I'm proud of you." The clarity in his eyes faded, and I knew once more that he was gone.

When Mom came back that night after her reunion, I had waited up to tell her what had happened. She fussed at first because I was still awake, but when I told her what happened, her eyes teared up and she stared at me in silence.

"It won't be long then," she said to me. She hugged me tightly and walked away. She couldn't look at me for a little while.

That year on my 16th birthday, he finally passed away of natural causes. Though I didn't know him, for some reason I feel like there was some kind of a connection between us. My 16th birthday should have been an amazing day. Some of my friends brought me cards and gifts that I loved, but I couldn't shake the melancholy feeling I was getting. It got stronger as the day went on. By the time my parents brought lunch to my school from Wendy's I knew deep inside that something was wrong. I couldn't explain it - I just knew.

When I got home, they came clean. They didn't want to ruin my birthday so they wouldn't tell me, but when I saw Mom watching old home movies looking for clips of Grandpa and talking on the phone to an airline rep, I knew what was going on. Dad told me and I cried, but suddenly the whole day made sense. I understood then. I didn't cry for too long - I settled. I've never before or since excepted a death that easily.

The story doesn't end there though... I never expected it to happen, but I saw him once more.

In the year 2000, on September 1st, my life took a dramatic halt - and I do mean halt. I died three times. Three times I was brought back by the doctors in an emergency surgery. Yet only once did my brain register any of this. It was one simple dream through all of it for me, as they fought for hours to save my life.

Far off in the distance, I saw him walking towards me. He looked exactly how he did when I was so little, when he was elderly but healthy. He walked with purpose and a slight swagger. He smiled that broad smile he had, and the right eye squinted a bit. There was no mistaking it, that was my grandfather under that brown fedora.

"Well Kiddo," he said to me when he got close, "ya ready to go?" I was puzzled.

"Go where, Grandpa?"

He looked me up and down a long moment. He smirked, smiled, and patted me on the back with his bony hand once more. I felt the knotted knuckles thump my flesh on my shoulder. It was painfully wonderful.

"Naw," he said in that familiar southern accent he had, "you aren't ready." He smiled at me once more and nodded his head towards whatever lay behind me. "Go home, Kid."

I woke up in the hospital at that moment and looked up into the red and crying eyes of my Mother and Father.

"Hi, Mom," I said. "Hi Dad." That was about all I remember. I passed out then and woke up two days later with both of them close to the bed. They never left my side.

I never had the heart to tell my Mom about that dream. I've never forgotten about it, and I know I'll remember it for as long as humanly possible, but I'll always believe that he chose me for a reason. He loved me for who I was.

And he sent me back for a reason.