Classic Philip Marlowe

"Breeze looked at me very steadily. Then he sighed. Then he picked the glass up and tasted it and sighed again and shook his head sideways with a half smile; the way a man does when you give him a drink and he needs it very badly and it is just right and the first swallow is like a peek into a cleaner, sunnier, brighter world."

- The High Window, Raymond Chandler, 1942

uhhh ... what did I mean by that ...?

(or "What's that Lassie?  Is Timmy trapped in an old mine shaft!?")

This morning, I found a writing notion scribbled on my idea pad from sometime last week - I'm guessing early Friday morning.  I wrote simply "through a glass darkly" trusting that when I came back to it in an hour, I'd remember enough to fill in the note with more info and tuck it away.  Of course, there are any number of things I could've been trying to tell myself, from the utterly hackneyed to the utterly sublime.  Somewhere along that continuum is the idea I'd had.

I'm normally a lot better about scribbling notions down.  I'll at least get two connecting thoughts on paper before setting it aside.  Not to worry, though, I've got newer things to ponder (which I'd better write down as soon as I finish this).  If the darkened glass returns to me, then it was at least a little insightful.  If not, it was probably crap to start with, right?

My next dog

I want to name my next dog "After the War" - y'know, like the Paul Simon song "Rene and Georgette Magritte and their dog, 'After the War.' "  

I suppose it would be classier to call it "Apres le Guerre" though.  

Definitely not "Nach dem Krieg" - that might make it sound like the war was still going on. Despite it being almost seventy years since WWII, Americans are probably still a little bit skittish about people yelling strange German phrases into the air at twilight, even if you're just calling your dog inside for the evening, back to home and hearth.

Communist Party - always makes me laugh

Years ago, I had a t-shirt with this image on it.  I wonder if it makes Kim Jong-Un mad that he, his father, and his grandfather were all left out of this party.

Where did Elijah's Chair go... and why?

I’ve been in a bit of a spiritual crisis lately (“a bit” of a crisis?  Sounds like a logical conflict right off the bat ...  like “a bit” pregnant.)

But before I digress too much, let me get back on track.

I could give pages and pages of background, but really, nobody needs that.  You don’t want it and neither do I.  Let me summarize.  Bla-bla I got shocking news about something my father did years ago. Bla-bla really shaken bla-bla sense of self bla-bla trust issues with God bla-de-bla-bla-bla.  Now you’re up to speed.

I’m really not going to fault other people’s perception of their relationship with God.  If they find it nurturing and warm and positive, I’m very happy for them.  It’s not my place to intrude on other people’s relationships, be it with their pets, their family and friends, their co-workers, or their God.  I’m not one of those people who argue that only their experience is valid, or that because I can’t get along with someone, nobody else should be able to. 

I’d always felt God and I had a good relationship.  I’d talk and listen; he’d listen.  He’d always been a great listener for me.  Lots of silence, lots of space to think.  I’m an introvert at heart.  I just thought He and I were in tune.

After my terrible news, though it started to dawn on me that all he really seems to do is listen.  Other people say “I talked to God, and this change happened.  Thanks, God!”  I can’t say that.  I can say “I talked to God, and while I was talking to him, I kinda figured out what I was going to do.”  That, or "I talked to God, and while I was talking to him, I decided that I just had to do something.  Pick a thing and step forward." He was welcome to step in, but … y’know … he never said much ... well, anything.  I'd like to say I felt him standing by me, sheltering me, nurturing me.  I'd like a lot of things. I’d like to be able to fly. Still, I believed.  The truth of a vast, loving presence in the universe that I embraced was bigger and more indomitable than each individual disappointment.  I refused to be give up in the aftermath of disappointment, which included refusing to let go of things I was convinced were supposed to be true.

I always gave him his space, and was always openly grateful for what was already around.  I’d have a bad day – or a bad year, and I’d think “I may not be completely satisfied with how things worked out, but hey, all of this is a free gift anyway, and there are plenty of things to like about it.  It certainly could be much worse.”  So, I thanked Him for everything, good and bad.  Honestly.  Life is good and bad, and even the bad could be so much worse.

But it’s always been like a long distance relationship.  Not because I wanted to feel that He was nowhere near, the distant God who was dwelling in our tabernacles two thousand years ago, and then hasn’t been back yet.  I trusted and I waited.  I kept a chair for him, like Jews keep a chair for Elijah at circumcisions and Seders.  There is always hope that the prophet will come, that Elijah will join in the sacred moment unfolding, being truly present.  No, that’s untrue.  Hope is not the word.  Faith is the word.  Hope may be a bird, a thing with feathers, as Emily Dickinson said.  Faith is both small and vast and has anchors into the core of our being.  Elijah is invited by centuries of faith planted deep in the hearts of a pilgrim people.  One day, he will come, and he will sit in every chair saved for him, in every home and every synagogue.  I actually believed that, deep in my soul.  Do I still? I don't know.  I believe it could be very true ... for some people, anyway.  

It’s not like I was even making demands for myself. I didn’t ask God for a pony or for riches.  I’d have been happy with peace of mind and a sense that what I did mattered.  I was most frustrated when others lost so much more than me, and seemingly so much more alone than me.

I always had a place reserved, a quiet space set aside, trusting that He would be there.  Any moment, He would take a personal interest.  Any moment, I would have that feeling that other believers talk about, that moment when they feel the soothing, enveloping presence of the divine.  Any moment, I would feel embraced.  But every moment passed, and the space, the chair, the embrace, stayed empty.  Even in my darkest moments, long stretches when I felt I was inches away from losing my heart and giving fully into despair, I was convinced He was out there, even though He wasn't "in here" with me. Either I'd win for now (because I refused to surrender) or I'd lose and find myself in His presence.  In the case of the latter, the two of us would have a long conversation, our own special version of a "come to Jesus" meeting wherein I would express my chronic disappointment and frustration, and He would acknowledge it.  Then He'd give me a acknowledgment that not all things turn out great, share my disappointment that they didn't, and then ... hell, I don't know, God and I would go have ice cream or something.

But before that final going home, I had trusted that I would do what I could, and it would matter, that something good would come of it, and maybe some manna would fall from the sky.  

But where I am now says, "Sorry, that doesn't happen.  Good try, though.  You still have your self respect and your stubbornness, though.  Be happy, right, like Sisyphus rolling his boulder up the mountain, that story that gave you decades of noble hope that all was in some way right, that the struggle was its own reward. Keep doing good to others; keep offering them solace. Do what you know is right, whether the universe knows or not."

So maybe I don't know what to do.  Maybe I never knew what to do, or how to do it right.  Maybe I never came close to the mark I saw.

I think of this story from Elie Wiesel that for a long time fortified me, even at the same time it made me wonder and fear:

This is from his book Souls on Fire, and he's retelling a story he first told six years earlier in his book The Gates of the Forest.

"When the great Rabbi Israel Baal Shem-Tov saw misfortune threatening the Jews, it was his custom to go into a certain part of the forest to meditate. There he would light a fire, say a special prayer, and the miracle would be accomplished and the misfortune averted.

Later, when his disciple, the celebrated Magid of Mezritch, had occasion, for the same reason, to intercede with heaven, he would go to the same place in the forest and say: 'Master of the Universe, listen! I do not know how to light the fire, but I am still able to say the prayer,' and again the miracle would be accomplished. 

Still later, Rabbi Moshe-Lieb of Sasov, in order to save his people once more, would go into the forest and say: 'I do not know how to light the fire, I do not know the prayer, but I know the place and this must be sufficient.' It was sufficient and the miracle was accomplished. 

Then it fell to Rabbi Israel of Rizhyn to overcome misfortune. Sitting in his armchair, his head in his hands, he spoke to God: 'I am unable to light the fire and I do not know the prayer; I cannot even find the place in the forest. All I can do is ask You to redeem us, and this must be sufficient.' 

And it was sufficient. 

[ but now, he doubts ...]

It no longer is.  The proof is that the threat has not been averted.  Perhaps we are no longer able to tell the story.  Could all of us be guilty?  Even the survivors?  Especially the survivors?"

As he says ... perhaps we are no longer able to tell the story.  Could all of us be guilty?  Even the survivors?  Especially the survivors? 

I feel like a survivor of something, like I'm eking out non-failure from the pile of rubble, and nothing more.  The story I tried never seemed to work, and now it seems to work even less.

What to do? What to do ...??












  

A prior president re. thugs wanting to destroy government in order to save it

Abraham Lincoln, Statesman - Cooper Union address - 1860

"... sometimes in the middle of the night ..." - Camus

"But sometimes in the middle of the night, their wound would open afresh.  And suddenly awakened, they would finger its painful edges, they would recover their suffering anew and with the stricken face of their love."

"Must I write?" - Rilke

[Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet]

...
You ask whether your verses are any good. You ask me. You have asked others before this. You send them to magazines. You compare them with other poems, and you are upset when certain editors reject your work. Now (since you have said you want my advice) I beg you to stop doing that sort of thing. You are looking outside, and that is what you should most avoid right now. No one can advise or help you – no one. 

There is only one thing you should do. Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write.

This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple “I must,” then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your whole life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse. Then come close to Nature. Then, as if no one had ever tried before, try to say what you see and feel and love and lose. 

Don’t write love poems; avoid those forms that are too facile and ordinary: they are the hardest to work with, and it takes great, fully ripened power to create something individual where good, even glorious, traditions exist in abundance. So rescue yourself from these general themes and write about what your everyday life offers you; describe your sorrows and desires, the thoughts that pass through your mind and your belief in some kind of beauty – describe all these with heartfelt, silent, humble sincerity and, when you express yourself, use the Things around you, the images from your dreams, and the objects that you remember.

...

In a Miles mood this morning ...

Miles Davis & the Quintet - 'Round Midnight, 1967 - 44 minutes.

Herbie Hancock on piano, Wayne Shorter on tenor sax, Tony Williams on drums and Ron Carter on bass.

'Round Midnight - YouTube

"I am an insane eye doctor ..."

Classic Gahan Wilson cartoon -

"Celebrate" Banned Book Week - really? Really??

#bannedbooksweek Come on, Google Store.  With all those books in your inventory, surely, you can find an appropriate word to use for observing Banned Book Week.  "Celebrate" certainly isn't it.

"Woo-hoo - books have been banned!  Let's celebrate!" Yeah, you're seeing it now, aren't you, Google?

Stephen King on getting the job done or "Writers write."

"So then, Mr. President, I told the Chairman ..."

"... You're thinking 'Did Vice President Garner fire six shots or only five?' Now to tell you the truth I forgot myself in all this excitement. But being this is a Colt .45 Peacemaker, one of the most powerful handguns in the world and will blow your head clean off, you've gotta ask yourself a question: 'Do I feel lucky?' Well, do ya, punk?"

Where yesterday used to live

There will be a slight delay ...

Stieglitz - "Fifth Avenue, Winter" 1893

"My picture ‘Fifth Avenue, Winter’ is the result of a three hours’ stand during a fierce snow-storm on February 22nd, 1893, awaiting the proper moment,” Stieglitz wrote in 1897. 

“My patience was duly rewarded. Of course, the result contained an element of chance, as I might have stood there for hours without succeeding in getting the desired pictures.”

Rilke - "... poems amount to so little ... "

... Ah, poems amount to so little when you write them too early in your life.  You ought to wait and gather sense and sweetness for a whole lifetime, and a lone one if possible, and then, at the very end, you might perhaps be able to write ten good lines.  For poems are not, as people think, simply emotions (one has emotions early enough)—they are experiences.

—Rainer Maria Rilke, The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge

I know it's not always the case ...

... but most of the time, the average male's conversational menu breaks down like this:

Michelle Obama and Drinking More Water

Are folks opposed to drinking plain water or to Mrs. Obama?

A new White House initiative (well, at least the First Lady's part of the House) has begun, encouraging everyone to drink more plain water.  Even just a glass more a day, they say.  Not "Stop drinking anything else!" or "Get 60+ ounces of water a day!" or even "For your good and the good of the country, the NSA is tracking your beverage habits."

Drinking more water sounds nice - and it's not an obviously horrible thing.  There are evidently some mixed opinions still about how much difference a shift to plain water will make, but it's still not a bad thing to drink more water and less of other things, assuming you don't drink so much that you develop water intoxication (no, really, it's called dilutional hyponatremia and it's real).  But it's very rare and you have to add a LOT of water to throw off your electrolyte balance.  The danger of hyponatremia is significantly smaller than running with scissors, let's put it that way.

Granted, some might point to the numerous companies involved in this initiative who make a very nice profit selling us three cents of water for two to three bucks.  That's a very fair reservation to have about this campaign and definitely can engender some criticism.

But you may recall that Mrs. Obama has already stepped into a hailstorm of criticism from conservatives and some libertarians for her so very radical opposition to obesity.  Some folks found it outrageous that any First Lady would try to tell them what they ought and ought not do with their bodies. Never before in our history has a First Lady done such a thing! Never ever .. well, except for nearly all the First Ladies back to Eleanor Roosevelt.  Sure, Bess Truman liked to keep to herself and stay out of the spotlight, but every other First Lady has been an unabashed opponent of things like unemployment, illiteracy, malnutrition, alcoholism, obesity, bad posture, and probably even running with scissors.  This is despite the fact that any reasonable person knows that all of those things (and more) are every American's God-given rights, guaranteed by the Constitution.

But few First Ladies encountered the derision and hyperbolic frothing for their pet projects that Michelle Obama has.  The notable exception was Hillary Clinton's abortive attempt to stop baking cookies, like she loved to do, and had even gone to university to study up on, and become an extra-governmental health czar.  Also, as I recall, a lot of people in the late 70s and early 80s thought it odd that anyone in Washington, D. C., would actually be opposed to alcoholism.  Betty Ford got a little flack for that.

So, really - what does make obesity and chronic dehydration so sacred to reactionary conservatives?  What is it that makes the dogs bark so loud on this issue?

One thing I'd like to mention at this point - and I'm sure a number of you have noticed this as well - is that Michelle Obama is African American.  Even people who regularly start complaints with "Well, you know, it doesn't bother me in the least, but ..." have noticed this fact, even though it doesn't bother them in the least, and they have a lot of African American friends.  Or they would if any of them lived in their neighborhoods or went to the same country clubs or tractor pulls as them - pick your vector. In a New York minute ... they might eventually invite them over to the house.

With all that being said about eventually kinda welcoming people, I still get the feeling that Dale and Judy Whitebread wouldn't be at all happy if "one of those people" were to be so "uppity" as to suggest that maybe they're not be doing all they might to combat obesity and less-than-optimal hydration.  They might even get belligerent and express their outrage, frothing at the mouth while they complain.

Hopefully, though, if they find themselves parched, or if their throats get a little scratchy, they might take a few extra sips of water.  That's just a little suggestion from me.  Mrs. Obama didn't ask, commission, or otherwise authorize me to say it.  I'd hate to get y'all fired up again.

Back home, one way or the other

I was born and spent the first 14 years of my life in Pueblo, Colorado, a smallish blue-collar town on the plains in central Colorado. While my time there was by no means idyllic, it was childhood, so relatively simple and uncomplicated.

During a DOD rif, my dad's job was phased in the summer before I started 8th grade, well not so much phased out as relocated 800 miles east near Texarkana.  He could follow it or search for something else in the crumbling local economy.  So he followed.  And we followed.

For two years, we lived in the piney woods of east Texas – big culture shock.  Actually, we lived about a hundred yards across the state line into Arkansas, but we much preferred to think of ourselves in Texas than in Arkansas.  Next, we moved to central Oklahoma for a stormy summer, and then west Texas for my high school years. In truth, all three moves brought significant differences in culture and climate. 

I went to college in the Dallas/Fort Worth area and got married, had two kids, had marital struggles, career struggles, etc. Typical stuff. Through all of that, a part of me longed to return to a home that hadn’t been home in a very long time. It wasn’t a new longing. We drove out of Colorado with the moving truck already hours ahead of us, and all along the road from Pueblo to Texarkana, I left my own trail of breadcrumbs, expecting to one day follow them back, expecting my own Babylonian exile to end.  In time, the breadcrumbs turned to baggage and I came to understand that I had a lot of unresolved issues about all the changes that precipitated our departure from Colorado. If nothing else, I wanted closure.

From college to my late twenties, I didn’t go back. It was on the list of things to do, but there were plenty of things ahead of the list, and it didn’t help that I’d never gotten along, even as a kid, with virtually all the relatives still there.

Then, one fall, I had a conference in Colorado Springs, which is only about 45 minutes north. I decided I’d take an extra day after the conference, go down to Pueblo, and scout around, checking out all the old places I remembered from childhood. I hoped somehow to find at least a little closure. I'd been carrying what had and hadn’t happened for fifteen years, and I was ready to be done with it. Over the years, I’d written stories and poems about a man’s search for a lost child, a child who was in fact, himself.

I set out in the morning, getting into town just past breakfast time, wandering my old neighborhood. Typical return home – it looked pretty much the same, and somehow very different. The neighborhood looked barren, even though it wasn’t – there were plenty of trees and plants in the yards, and most had been around at least fifty years. Also the houses looked smaller, both in height and volume, like they had shriveled up and shrunk down in the intervening years.

I drove to our old houses and found myself feeling curiously detached from them, then headed toward my favorite park and my elementary school.

The park was a nice experience – much bigger trees than those surrounding the houses, including some very memorable ones. I had an early flirtation at one, I faced a bully down at another, and at a third I had established myself as the best climber in my circle of friends. It was in a much better mood that I continued on to my old elementary school, just two blocks away.

I drove around it once, then parked over by the playground next to the gym. I’d walk around a little, then maybe go inside and see what teachers and other staff, if any, were still around.

As I was standing at the fence, about to begin my stroll, a long stream of kids, second or third graders, burst out from the gym, running along the fence line in front of me. Clearly, a gym class had just started, and the first order of business was running a lap or two.

They all trailed by me, one by one. When the last one was easily ten feet past me, the next to the last child, a boy, peeled off from the group and walked back to me very casually.

From about five feet away, he settled himself as though he expected a long conversation, then said to me, “I think I’m supposed to know who you are.” He was studying me, not in a suspicious way, but just like his statement implied – there was something about me that made him wonder what he might know me from.

In that moment, I was enlightened. I had my epiphany, my little slice of samadhi.

No, I told myself, there was no need for him to know me, because I was no longer of that place. All that was essential to me really had moved on years ago. Everything I had come to recover was already in my hands, and had been there all along.

I said, “No, actually, there’s no reason for us to know each other. I haven’t been here since long before you were born.”

He gave a slow, deep nod, like I was really just confirming something he had actually known all along to be true. He was the master challenging the student to speak out and either defend his search or reject his flawed perceptions that had brought him down that path. He compelled me to accept and assert my truth.

After his nod, with no more said by either of us, he turned and trotted back into the stream of children, retaking his place in the line.

I stayed into the afternoon in town, wandering more widely, curious how other places I had known had changed. I drove back to Colorado Springs satisfied that I had seen everything of interest.

The next day, I got on a plane and within hours, I was home.

Really home.

I still had plenty of struggles back home, mostly trying for way too long to make an unworkable marriage work, but a great many things were better in a great many ways.

That moment took place about twenty years ago, now.  Even today, that encounter brings me back to center when I catch myself drifting off.

Leonard Cohen & the hero self

“Roshi [his Zen Buddhist teacher] said something nice to me one time. He said that the older you get, the lonelier you become, and the deeper the love you need. Which means that this hero that you’re trying to maintain as the central figure in the drama of your life—this hero is not enjoying the life of a hero. You’re exerting a tremendous maintenance to keep this heroic stance available to you, and the hero is suffering defeat after defeat. And they’re not heroic defeats; they’re ignoble defeats. Finally, one day you say, ‘Let him die—I can’t invest any more in this heroic position.’ From there, you just live your life as if it’s real—as if you have to make decisions even though you have absolutely no guarantee of any of the consequences of your decisions.”

—	Leonard Cohen, Spin interview (2002)

Don't want your car stolen? Roll your windows up!

And ... something else - I forget what.

Words from Brendan Behan

"When I came back to Dublin, I was court martialed in my absence and sentenced to death in my absence, so I said they could shoot me in my absence."

"It's not that the Irish are cynical.  It's rather that they have a wonderful lack of respect for everyone and everything."

Texas Game Warden Field Notes - idiots in the wild

Can We Pretend That It Never Happened?

A Rockwall County game warden checked two duck hunters on their way out of their blind. When asked to provide three shells to check the plug, one of the hunters produced two shells and a marijuana pipe from his pocket. The hunter quickly tried to take the pipe back, but the warden took possession of it. The hunter was cited for possession of drug paraphernalia, and the other hunter was cited for an unplugged shotgun.

Over haul

A Zapata County Game Warden pulled up on a night set when he observed a vehicle traveling in his direction on FM 2687. The warden hadn’t been on the set long before he saw a vehicle shining a spotlight from the road. When the vehicle approached his location, the warden saw the vehicle towing another vehicle. The two trucks kept spotlighting when they drove past the warden’s position and stopped approximately 75 to 100 yards from his position. Two individuals exited the rear truck and ran over and grabbed a buck they had just shot earlier and threw it in the back of the truck. The two vehicles were stopped shortly after, and all four admitted to road hunting. When asked what the deal was with towing the other vehicle, they said after they shot the deer, they sped off and blew the transmission.

Dove Caught Your Tongue?

A Waller County game warden and a Harris County game warden were patrolling Waller County when, just before sunset, the wardens heard multiple shots coming from a wooded area. They made their way through the trees and observed three dove hunters having a great hunt, but not retrieving the doves that fell into the woods. If they had, they would have found the two game wardens. After the wardens hid in the brush for about 30 minutes, one of the hunters announced to his friends, “I am done. I have 23.” The wardens looked at one another to make sure they both heard the same thing when the hunter yelled again, “I am done. I have 23 doves.” The wardens took his word for it and announced their presence, separated the hunters, and discovered one with 20 doves, not 23. The other two hunters were within the daily bag limit. One of the wardens walked the hunter who was over his limit back to the hunter’s truck to retrieve his license. At the truck, the warden observed dove feathers that appeared to be from earlier in the day. The warden made a statement to the hunter, “This morning’s hunt was good, wasn’t it?” The hunter promptly agreed that it was really good and then realized what he had done, and said, “Oh, no.” He admitted that he had also shot a limit in the morning. Citations were issued for exceeding daily bag limit and failure to retrieve game.

Smile, You’re on Candid Camera

Two Van Zandt County game wardens were contacted by a local ranch owner concerning a unique picture that was taken on his game camera. The photo showed a woman, with a very distinct tattoo, holding a baby white-tailed deer fawn. The time stamp on the photo said that this woman was on the ranch property in May on the same date and time the ranch was burglarized and several firearms, hunting equipment and a Polaris Ranger were stolen. The wardens then conducted a press conference seeking help from the public in naming the woman in the photograph. The wardens soon received multiple Operation Game Thief calls that matched the woman in the photo with her name and the warden’s received a tip to her current location in Smith County. The wardens, accompanied by a Wood County game warden, went to the location and found her. After being interviewed, the woman confessed to stealing from the ranch and identified her accomplice. The investigation led to a substantial amount of stolen items being recovered, including three guns and the missing vehicle. The case was turned over to the Van Zandt County Sheriff’s Office, where burglary of a habitation, trespass and unlawful use of a motor vehicle were filed on all subjects.

It’s Raining Bird Shot

Two Taylor County game wardens received a call from a landowner claiming bird shot was falling on their house and even struck their horse. The wardens went to the residence of the landowner and while getting a statement from him, bird shot fell on the wardens. They located the shooters and had a very serious talk.

It Was My Girlfriend’s Fault

A Milam County game warden and Bell County game warden were patrolling Milam County on opening day of dove season when they located a group of hunters right before sunset. The wardens waited to see if the hunters would continue shooting after sunset, and after waiting in the brush for a while, the wardens made contact with them. While among the hunters, the wardens found three men and two shot guns, one a 12-guage, the other a 20-gauge, and spent shells everywhere. The problem with this is that only one man admitted to hunting. One warden asked one of the non-hunters why he had so many shells in the back of his truck. The man said his girlfriend was shooting beer cans. When the warden asked where she was shooting from and to see the cans, the man said she was shooting from 15 yards away and had missed every time. The warden called his bluff and the man later admitted to hunting and citations were issued.

Oops, We Did It Again

 A Red River County game Warden and two Bowie County game wardens received information about a possible road hunting incident near a residence. The property owner and his wife were outside at the time and after hearing shots, the husband, who had been drinking, jumped into his vehicle and began to chase the hunters. While in pursuit, in an attempt to stop the hunters the man began shooting a pistol out of his window. The man rammed the hunters’ vehicle and in the process flipped his vehicle over and suffered serious injuries. The hunters had called 911 to report they were being shot at. When wardens contacted the suspected road hunters, they denied having weapons and shooting at anything. Unaware that their 911 call had not been dropped as they believed, in the background officials could clearly hear someone say, “hide the gun in them woods,” and “not that far, we’re gonna come back and get it tonight.”  After hearing the 911 tape, the three hunters gave statements admitting to shooting at multiple animals from the road that day as well as committing multiple burglaries of habitations and storage buildings in the Dekalb area. Wardens also interviewed the hunters about a year-long investigation regarding the slaying of an 8-point buck last August in Red River County. The hunters admitted to being on the ranch illegally and shooting the buck leaving it to waste. A total of 24 cases were filed on the three individuals. Meanwhile, the overzealous property owner was filed on for DWI and deadly conduct.

Drive-up Service

A Polk County game warden was checking boat ramps on Lake Livingston when he saw someone motor his pontoon boat up to a local boat ramp at a high rate of speed.  The warden watched as the subject got out of his boat and staggered up through the parking lot to retrieve his truck.  The warden stopped the subject and conducted standard field sobriety tests.  The subject failed the test and was placed under arrest for BWI.