I was three years old,we were watching Grandad fire his pistol at a target on the fence-post.I was excited by the gun and he let me fire it. He stood behind me and helped sight the pistol toward the tin can.
I shot and missed--and boy was Grandmother mad at Grandad.
Later that day we all went in the car to an apple orchard--and while my Granparents and my mother talked with the orchard owner-I wandered back by the open car trunk and guess what I found---Grandads pistol,the one he said had a hair trigger. I pulled the loaded Smith and Wesson from the holster and walked over to the four of them and pointed the gun right at them--my finger resting on the trigger and told them to get their hands up! That gun was just a toy to me--but it was death in reality should I pull that trigger.
The Orchard owner worked his way slowly behind me and took the gun away--Grandad never again left a weapon where a child could get his hands on it.
The farm was also a place where I experienced another right of passage,my first deer hunting trip. I was 10 years old and received a Winchester model 37,410 gauge shotgun as an early Christmas present. I couldn't wait to fire it. We went out back and after a lesson in gun safety--I was to fire at a can on the ground but spotted a sparrow land in a bush next to the can--and I pulled down on the sparrow and blasted him,but he didn't die right away--he thrashed around---dad hollered "why did you do that"?-When the bird was thrashing in his death throes--I realized just what a gun was capable of-I was ashamed of my actions and cried my eyes out---I got over it and we went hunting--but I learned a valuable lesson----don't waste expensive shells on birds ya can't eat!!!--nahh just kidding.
The farm had delicous well water,pure and cold,with a flavor un matched. I think it taste so good cause ya had to walk a long way with those heavy buckets.
The farm was the realization that everything was not pure and innocent ,and that some things were tainted and dirty'like torn down fences,trash carelessly discarded and deer maliciously destroyed and left to rot by tresspassers without decency. Things got so bad during deer season that local cattle owners actually painted the word COW on the sides of their stock so that just maybe the careless hunters wouldn't shoot them.
I remember one day I really got disgusted by hunters. I saw a buck run across the meadow to my right,toward a section not in my view--a number of shots rang out followed by shouts from at least three people all claiming to have shot the deer--they got into a terrible cursing fight--It bothered me---cause it was really being in the outdoors--that it was all about to me--not all about the harvesting of game--.In all honesty--if we were to survive on the game we killed we would have starved to death. None of us were really great hunters--but the fun part was coming back to the house to warm up and eat the great meals Grandmother had waiting for us.
The farm was the friendly neighbors, the ones we bought fresh eggs from,the ones who kept an eye on the place during the week when all of us were back in Arlington--and the friendly neighbors who seemed to always offer a helping hand--The country folks were fine people who had respect for their property as well as each other.
The farm was lazy hot days when I roamed the fields catching grasshoppers, a bait popular with the bass in the pond.You didn't need fancy lures or an expensive rod and reel,the bass in the pond weren't that particular. We even caught bass on a hook with a piece of tin foil on it.Many of the children in the family had the thrill of catching their first fish from that productive body of water.
The farm was a potpurri of sights and sounds and smells,the beautiful fresh greens of Spring, the majesty of Fall colors as the leaves changed.The pristine purity of the snowfalls of Winter.
I can still hear the church bells ringing on Sunday morning--their melodic tones drifting across the valley. There was an old bell on a post that my Grandparents rang--to call us kids in from the woods.
Grandmothers Thanksgiving feast were an event of gastronomical proportions--mince meat pies and pumpkin pies and incredible dressing and turkey and ham and bread and puddings and sweet potatos and on and on--the only thing better tha smelling the fair was stuffing your face.
The farm was work and responsibility. We helped mow grass,whitewash fences,work in the garden,carry water from the well and help Grandad with ongoing maintenance projects.
The thing is, chores on the farm didn't seem like work,we were only there on weekends except in summer,the jobs were fun and we enjoyed helping improve the place that we thought so much of.

Part 3 a bit later---The Codge

The Farm

Deer Run,Quail Hollow and Mimosa Pines;just some of the names my Grand Parents thought might compliment their beautiful Blueridge foothill property near Stephens City Va.
The names were appealing but never adopted,the name that endured was simply-The Farm.
The farm was purchased in 1949 by my Grandparents,Clarence and Elizabeth Campbell and comprised several hundred acres of rolling hills,green valleys,timber brush and creeks and ponds dug by my Grandfather. There was an old stucco farm house,and leading from it were paths,one to the well and the other to the outhouse.
The farm was more than a weekend retreat,and more than the beauty within its boundaries.The farm was days of anticipation and real excitement for us grandchildren whenever we had the opportunity to visit.
The farm was the 70 mile trip from Arlington Va.,the road meandering through rolling farm land,rich in history and scenic beauty. The journey was enhanced by the stories told by our Grandparents as they colorfully brought the past and present to life,their vivid narratives kept us spellbound while stone fences,animals and quaint old farms flashed by at highway speed and before we realized it we were at the big white gate to the farm.
The farm was our refuge,a private piece of land shared with nature,a place offering adventure and diversity and now many years later the sanctuary of strong indelible memories.
The farm was gardens cared for by my Grandmother whose labor was rewarded by the miracle of food from the ground.
The farm was the old pot bellied stove,its warmth most appreciated when icicles hung from the eves and the winds of winter blew the snow into a carpet of white.
The farm was white washed fences and whitewashing fences and on one memorable morning the farm was the image of an 8 point buck,caught and framed for an instant,as he took a momentary rest from his flight,he stood silhouetted against a picture postcard backdrop and then bounded effortlessly over the fence and out of sight.
The farm was my first bow and arrow,constructed from branches home grown,crafted by my Grandad who loved us kids.He was always happiest when he was helping or teaching,he also guaranteed the bows would work because of the small amount of indian blood in his ancestry.
The farm was long walks with Grandad,as we tred to keep pace with his long strides that he called his military step.
He was proud of his military background,having served as an enlisted man in WW-1 and a Captain in WW-2 before being injured and disabled.
Grandad often showed his patriotism in many ways. He also treated his land with respect and judged men -not by their position or pocket book-but by their word and actions.
The walks with Grandad were educational as we learned about the woods,wildlife and about our own reponsibilities to help preserve and respect it.
The farm was peaceful nights as we all lay in our beds listening to the sounds from the woods meadow and pond. Grandmother would tell us what creatures we heard calling in the night. Her favorite was the whippoorwill down near the pond.
The farm was walks to the outhouse,sure of purpose and on one occasion becoming comfortably seated and then suddenly discovering a Blacksnake coiled at my feet1. I ran to the house in a panic to tell Grandad,he said"I'm sorry Ricky, I forgot to tell you that snake makes his home there in the spring" The sudden shock of the snake was only one thing quite another was when Grandad offered me five dollors to walk out into the pasture and put a ring in a bulls nose. Grandad was either trying to find out how brave I was or how much common sense I had,or perhaps--just maybe I was getting on his last nerve that day-----Naaaah!!!
The farm was the thrill of cutting our own Christmas tree from the property and dragging it back towards the house and being suddenly startled by the sound of thundering hooves as cattle were running towards us-thinking we were bringing them food. I was a little bitty kid then--those cows looked like giants to me--I was scared to death---the cows followed us to the gate trying to eat that tree.
The farm was work,fun,togetherness and a learning experience in every facet of life and one time a mistake happened that was nearly deadly!!

part 2 later The Codge

We moved to Ca. back in 83 . We drove from West Va. and took what my brother called the Northern Route.
It was our first time heading west--and ea. place we passed through was a first time for us--so the trip was very interesting and the scenery held our attention.
We passed through St. Louis and saw the arch at night--Kansas was really beautiful, I had expected flat land with not much beauty but was thrilled to see some rolling land very green--lakes and antelope.
We were traveling in two vehicles--and only put in 500/600 mile days and camped at state parks along the way--all were very nice.
The place that blew me away was Colorado---God and Hollywood must have teamed up--the place is too pretty to be real--It looked like it was created on a Hollywood set--even the trees were gorgeous--the streams were pure blew--the rocks were clean--the snow pristine.
The plains and the mountains perfect--the houses blended in like they grew there---
I know that I haven't been all that many places--but Colorado is awesome!!!Makes me want to see more of this country when I retire.
The Codger

We met at a parking lot by the beach--and Mr. B would be our sr. leader--but he said he had to take care of some errands--that we were to take off up the beach and he would catch up with us later.
We were all dressed in fatiques--had web belts with water -machetes--first aid equipment and those old pogo radios-which were kinda heavy and only had a range of about 2/12 miles--we had two of them.
I was kinda cool when we started out--so the heavy fatiques weren't too bad till the sun got a little higher.
We dived into our business--following orders to search the beach and dunes--moving north--we found all kinds of junk--dead sea gulls,trash,condoms,dead fish and turtles,rope and styro floats and fishing line and a dead cat--and at one point topped a dune--and there was a naked couple--who saw this little army of teenagers with fatiques and machetes--and they threw on their pants and gathered up their stuff so fast---
We started about 7.30 am and had been walking for three hours, no sr. member--which was kinda weird--but heck, most of us were 15/17--we could handal it--We kept heading North but a few of the guys were not in good shape--either weight was a problem-or lack of exercise--but we started to get stragulars--We waited a number of times for them to catch up and by lunch--they were 1/4 mile behind--so we stopped at the wreck of a barge--rusting away in the surf---to have lunch-a few people had some snaks they brought others nothing--they had told us we would be supplied during the day by a 4 wheeler with water and food--well no sr. member,no 4 wheeler--and we began to ration water--as we began pushing forward again-North--
We had found about 23 dead seagulls--2 dead turtles---and all kinds of other stuff-including some plastic material which was unusual.
By mid afternoon we had been walking for over 7 hours--the sun and exertion and wind and salt and sand began to take a toll on us.
The shirts had been off tied around our waist--water was getting to be a real problem and the beach was narrowing and the land west of the dunes was getting more rugged and desolate.
We stopped a number of times for the stragulars--and they had just about had it--and we were feeling like crap ourselves---We had now been walking for 10 hours--the water was almost all gone--we were sunburned and tired but continued to try to do what we were asked--but it was clear we had a problem.
The area west of the dunes was palmetto land and pockets of salt marsh and as the sun sank lower in the East--it relieved the heat but the mosquitos came out--the salt marsh to our west was alive with insects--the beach was narrowing and the tide was coming in.
I estimate we had walked 40 miles at least--we really did need some assistance now---darkeness was coming and we would have to make a makeshift camp on top of the dunes--and build a fire to ward off the mosquitos--
We looked back south of us for the stragulars and waved at them when suddenly--a pair of landing lights shown through the early evening shadows--a plane was flying the beach toward us--only 50 feet in the air---he buzzed by us and it was that beautiful Red Stinson Voyager with my dad at the controls--he wobbled his wings and waved at us--and came around on a slow turn--right over us again and dropped a message streamer that said stay put--help is on the way--
I was never so glad to see my dad--he came through for us--He lead the 4 wheelers from Ormond Beach airport right to us--they had food and water--and took us to the airport--it was very late by then--I was totally exhausted----and to think our soldiers go through much more than that every hot day in Iraq--and someone is always trying to kill them. My dad is gone--but not really--I think about him constantly---------------------ric the Codger
Oh the sr. member who was supposed to be with us--had girl friend problems--and got severley reprimanded---the last I heard was some of the plastic material we found may have come from a fuel tank on the aircraft------

part # 1 Saved from the Mosquito Hoards

I belonged to the Civil Air Patrol,I was a cadet. My Father a senior member was a pilot and Operations Officer for the Orlando Squadron.
C.A.P is an auxillary civilian wing of the Air Force and since I believe the 40's-- has assisted in finding downed aircraft---a search and rescue organization.Cadets are often called upon for land searches and also to be spotters in the search aircraft--which are most often private planes owned by Squadron Senior members-but in some case squadrons had some of their own planes as well.
We were all called out to the base--an A3D-- had gone down--I may after all these years be in error as to the name of the aircraft but it was stationed at Sanford Air base and I believe it was a medium range bomber--in any event-it was believed to have gone down in the Atlantic-just off shore from an area from Cocoa North to Ormond Beach.
We as cadets were ask to begin a search of the beach and the dunes-starting in Cocoa working North--we were to be assigned a sr. member--and we were to look for any debris that may have come from an aircraft and of course any signs of the crew.

part 2 later