Almost Isn't Quite Isn't ...
Can you remember any occasion in your past where you almost did something but did not quite do it? And have you ever wondered what would be different today had you gone ahead and done that thing that you did not quite do?
For example, one summer afternoon in Nederland when I was 4-years old, I was playing with some dirt clods in a vacant lot beside our house. I spotted a snake coiled up inside an old coffee can. The snake was tan in color and its head appeared to be a light shade of orange. I reached my hand toward the snake with the idea of picking it up. It was a beautiful creature. The snake proceeded to stick its tongue out at me. This struck me as being funny so I ran and told my mother about the funny snake in the can. She rushed outside, saw the snake and tried to kill it but it escaped her fury and disappeared in the weeds. She called it a copperhead. I’ve always wondered what would have happened had I picked up that snake.
Some years later when I was 15-years old, Dick York and I were out north of Beaumont hunting in the woods near Pine Island Bayou. Yes, I was a South Park High School Greenie and he was a Beaumont High School Royal Purple, but we had set the rivalry aside and had become good friends. Anyway, I held a machete in one hand to cut back the brush and branches as we forged our way through the woods. I carried a J. C. Higgins 12-gauge shotgun in my other hand. Dick was coming along right behind me. He was carrying a Mossberg 20-gauge shotgun. All of a sudden I felt a strong gust of wind blow past right above my head and there was a deafening explosion. Then all sorts of twigs and small branches began falling down all around us. Dick’s shotgun had fired accidentally. That blast was so close to the top of my head that it combed my hair forward. After the shockwaves subsided Dick explained that, “I wondered if my safety was on so I pulled the trigger to find out.” Later, I teased Dick by telling him, “ I know that you’re a Purple and I am a Greenie but there’s no need acting radical about it.” I never told my mother about that. She always worried when I went hunting and I didn’t want to compound her consternations. But if that shotgun blast had been a few inches lower, I wouldn’t be sharing this account with you.
Another afternoon I was hunting alone somewhere in the Big Thicket between Silsbee and Sour Lake. I lost my bearings and wandered around for hours trying to find civilization. Darkness began to creep in as the sun settled lower and lower. Just as I was about to really panic I happened upon a two-lane highway. Then I saw my car parked about one-half mile away. By the time I reached the car, it was dark. While driving back to Beaumont, I thanked God over and over for taking care of this wandering, foolish child. I’ve always wondered what an unplanned overnight stay in the Big Thicket would be like. But I never really wanted to find out.
Then there was the time I nearly set the woods on fire out at Twin Lakes. Or that night as a kid living on Pipkin Street that I almost set our house on fire. Then there was the time I almost fell off of an 18-foot stepladder while trying to change the marquee in front of the Jefferson Theatre during a gusty wind.
I almost did not write this column because it was so painful to remember all those moments in time.
For example, one summer afternoon in Nederland when I was 4-years old, I was playing with some dirt clods in a vacant lot beside our house. I spotted a snake coiled up inside an old coffee can. The snake was tan in color and its head appeared to be a light shade of orange. I reached my hand toward the snake with the idea of picking it up. It was a beautiful creature. The snake proceeded to stick its tongue out at me. This struck me as being funny so I ran and told my mother about the funny snake in the can. She rushed outside, saw the snake and tried to kill it but it escaped her fury and disappeared in the weeds. She called it a copperhead. I’ve always wondered what would have happened had I picked up that snake.
Some years later when I was 15-years old, Dick York and I were out north of Beaumont hunting in the woods near Pine Island Bayou. Yes, I was a South Park High School Greenie and he was a Beaumont High School Royal Purple, but we had set the rivalry aside and had become good friends. Anyway, I held a machete in one hand to cut back the brush and branches as we forged our way through the woods. I carried a J. C. Higgins 12-gauge shotgun in my other hand. Dick was coming along right behind me. He was carrying a Mossberg 20-gauge shotgun. All of a sudden I felt a strong gust of wind blow past right above my head and there was a deafening explosion. Then all sorts of twigs and small branches began falling down all around us. Dick’s shotgun had fired accidentally. That blast was so close to the top of my head that it combed my hair forward. After the shockwaves subsided Dick explained that, “I wondered if my safety was on so I pulled the trigger to find out.” Later, I teased Dick by telling him, “ I know that you’re a Purple and I am a Greenie but there’s no need acting radical about it.” I never told my mother about that. She always worried when I went hunting and I didn’t want to compound her consternations. But if that shotgun blast had been a few inches lower, I wouldn’t be sharing this account with you.
Another afternoon I was hunting alone somewhere in the Big Thicket between Silsbee and Sour Lake. I lost my bearings and wandered around for hours trying to find civilization. Darkness began to creep in as the sun settled lower and lower. Just as I was about to really panic I happened upon a two-lane highway. Then I saw my car parked about one-half mile away. By the time I reached the car, it was dark. While driving back to Beaumont, I thanked God over and over for taking care of this wandering, foolish child. I’ve always wondered what an unplanned overnight stay in the Big Thicket would be like. But I never really wanted to find out.
Then there was the time I nearly set the woods on fire out at Twin Lakes. Or that night as a kid living on Pipkin Street that I almost set our house on fire. Then there was the time I almost fell off of an 18-foot stepladder while trying to change the marquee in front of the Jefferson Theatre during a gusty wind.
I almost did not write this column because it was so painful to remember all those moments in time.
Winston Hamby
The Beaumont Enterprise
Whamby2@houston.rr.com
posted by WinSpin at 8:57:00 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home