Men With Guns

I think I can say with a certain amount of confidence I was raised in a traditional family. Mother and father. Church. City high school. Traditional values of respect and honor and gratitude. In addition hunting has always been a huge part of our lives in my family. It is very traditional to hunt. Ever since I was a small, small boy we have been raised with guns and hunting. My father was a hunter, and my grandfather was a hunter. We loved hunting. I remember a few deer hunts, I remember a few grouse hunts, but more importantly I remember the pheasant hunt.

The pheasant hunt was the annual hunt that was never to be missed. We would get our licensees, get whatever permits we needed, clean our guns and buy our ammo and we would head out into the fields to see if we would get us a couple of tasty roosters to bring home and bake with wild rice and potatoes. Those days were spent with family, laughing, joking and pitting ourselves against whatever we were hunting. For me these days were about being with the folks you loved, and then if you were lucky bringing home something different to eat.

For years we would go out to these fields where you had to have a permit to hunt as well as your normal license. There were plenty of fields and plenty of birds. We would hunt all morning and then we would head into the local church that would make chili and burgers and sell soft drinks to all the hunters in the area. We would sit together and joke and tease about all the things we did that morning, the dumb shots we missed and brag about whose bird was the prettiest or had the longest tail feathers. And then once we were full we would head home and slowly hunt along the way – hoping to bag our limit if we hadn’t already. Unfortunately those times began to dwindle – too many hunters, too few fields, too few birds. It became crowded and uncomfortable. After so many confrontations between hunters, and idiots shooting from their field into ours, feeling buckshot gently rain down on you, it was finally time to find somewhere else to hunt.

My dad started to work at this chemical plant just south of Provo that had a pretty large field off to one side of it. He was the plant manager and so was the guy who gave permission to anyone who wanted to hunt. Mostly no one hunted around there and so we were left to hunt that field most opening mornings. Every year we were able to bring a couple of pheasants home, but more importantly we were able to spend some time together and to remember what was really important – family.

I’m not sure when my younger brother became familiar with fighting and comfortable with confrontation but by the time we were hunting those fields he was a bit of a roughneck. He still came with us and that was important. But he was living a lifestyle that was different from the way we were raised, he chewed tobacco, he drank a fair amount and he used his fists a bit more often than the rest of us. It was never a real big deal to me just because I could see that he was still the good-hearted kid I’ve always known him to be. Drinking and fighting don’t make you a bad person.

Now hunting is definitely manly. There are guns and dogs and boots and jeans and guns. The guns are really the thing. We stand around and talk about the guns we’re using, how mine’s better than yours and it’s more powerful, better spread and all that. Folks with guns out away from any real law enforcement is never a real good combination. But angry folks with guns away from any real law enforcement can turn out deadly.

Well this one morning we’re out in the field, it’s early and we’re having a great time laughing and falling in holes. From one side of the field a couple of men come into the field. Now, as I’ve said, my dad was the plant manager, he gave permission to be in these fields and he hadn’t given any permission. So we knew these guys were trespassing.

As they got closer we could see it was a couple of young men and their dad. They ambled over and started small talking about this and that, asking how we’d been doing (meaning as far as hunting was concerned) and commented on the weather. Finally one of them asked if we minded them hunting the field with us. My dad explained that it was private property and that they had to have permission to hunt here – failing to mention that HE was the one who gave the permission. The man answered back that they did in fact have permission and that they knew the plant manager. Now we knew they were lying. There was an uncomfortable shuffling on our side as we wondered what would happen next.

My dad has always been a cool cat. He doesn’t get ruffled easy. He gently explained that the plant manager should have given them a written permission form and asked them if they had theirs. And then they got angry because they were being forced to prove they had permission which we knew they didn’t have. Hard words started being spoken. They insisted they had as much right to this field as we did. Voices were raised. Hard words were spoken. Voices turned angry. Guns were shifted from one arm to another. Fingers were pointed. Things were going badly. I suggested we call the local sheriff and let him settle who had the right to be in what field – and I reached into my pocket and pulled out my cell phone. This did it. They broke off and headed away, and out of the field, with hard looks over their shoulders.

As they got to the border of the field, they hopped up onto the train that was parked in between fields, handing guns up and then going up between cars. Once all three were up between the cars, one of the sons turned around and with his chest poked out a bit said, “Fuck you old man.” to my dad and pointed at him with his chin and the bravado of someone too far away to do anything about.

Without hesitation or permission or a backwards glance by brother handed his gun to my dad who took it without thinking. Once my dad realized what he had done he said my brothers name in warning. My brother gave my dad the finger. The index, not the middle, and said, “I’ll be right back.”

At this point everyone knew there was going to be a confrontation. It might be just words. But when folks without guns stand up to people with guns, it rarely ends well. My brother quickly closed the space between them and us. He hopped up onto the train with the other two men. One of the sons had already hopped down on the other side, but the father and the son who had sworn at my dad were still standing there, guns in hand. Without a thought my brother pointed at the man who had spoken to my dad and he said, “You’re going to apologize…” but before he could get anything out the father interrupted him with angry words and a hard stare. My brother turned to him with confidence only anger and experience can bring and he said to the man, “I’ll get to you next.” And then turned back to the offender and said, “You’re going to apologize to my father right now.”

“Sorry.” The man said, but just barely.

With a hardness I had never seen from my brother and through gritted teeth he touched the man’s chest with his pointed finger and said in a low and threatening tone while looking him right in the eye, “Like. You. Mean. It.”

“Sir.” The man said, raising his voice and turning to my father across half a field, “I apologize for using that word and for offending you. I’m sorry.” And then they just stood there. My father nodded slightly to acknowledge the apology, not knowing what to say in response.

My brother also stood there as if trying to decide something. Then he finally said, looking the father and son dead in the eye, “You can both go now.” And he stood there and watched them hop down off the train, and walk away. He watched them long enough to know they weren’t a threat any more. And then he got down, walked back to us, and with little more than a backward glance he took his gun back from my dad.

I don’t remember what was said between us. I’m sure my dad said my brother shouldn’t have done that. It was unnecessary. I remember being giddy with the manliness that I felt, not because of anything I had done but because my brother was the definition of a man. And I admired him for his courage and integrity. He had stood for what he knew was right, even in the face of danger and being outnumbered. He had stood there, toe to toe, unarmed against men with guns and had looked them in the eye and demanded an apology. And gotten it.

It’s always been a bit of a secret I’ve had, but I’ve always admired my brother. I’m older and he’s younger. I’m supposed to set the example – but he is someone I would follow any day. I would follow him to Hell. Despite the tough front he sometimes puts on he is the kind of man I would like to be. He is kind. He is responsible. He is hard working. He is dedicated. He is honorable. And he is true. He stands up for what is right, even in the face of danger. He is my hero. I don’t agree with some of his choices, but when it comes down to what’s important, he’s better than many churchgoers I know. It’s just my opinion but I doubt it’ll keep him out of heaven. But if it does I will cross that line, I will enter Hell like he did for my father, and I will pull him out. Because that’s what a man would do. That’s what he would do for me. I love you my brother.