Scott T. Gill

 My boys insist that teenagers are worse nowadays than they were when I was a kid, that virtually no adolescent avoids dabbling in drinking or drugs or “doing it” as we like to say. I see their point, but I also know that in history there are many generations from all sorts of cultures that lived so foul, it’s a wonder the Almighty didn’t wipe us all from the map. I do agree it appears that more kids, even Christian kids, live morally ambiguous lifestyles (Mammaw called it “sinful” but that is too mean of a word for our sensitive feelings), but I think the real problem is with teens, they aren’t worse, their parents are.  

When I was 16 there was this lady, we’ll call her Mrs. Ellis (a name I’ve changed), and while most parents I knew worked hard to teach their kids to not drink before the legal age and to wait until marriage for sex, Mrs. Ellis opened her home for students to drink beer, play quarters, do shots,  and who knows whatever else. I was invited once to go to this countryside “Neverland” but I listened to the better angels of my nature and went home. Tons of my friends went and had their fun in a “safe environment” because, as Mrs. Ellis argued, “teens are going to do it anyway, so at least they can drink here and stay off the roads.” I guess she didn’t foresee the friends that developed a drinking problem during their high school years, a problem I can’t help but think was, at the very least, aggravated by her “safe zone.”

Mrs. Ellis isn’t the only parent that has pulled this stupidity and I’ve heard rumors here and there of a folks in our town that do the same, but it wasn’t until this past homecoming weekend that I’ve realized the parent enabling is a lot more common place than I once thought. I know of some folks that dropped off a kid at a home and witnessed high schoolers from all walks of life (athletes, artists, band, AP students, etc.) walking up with three and four bottles of whiskey and beer and who knows whatever else to party the night away while the adults took their keys and supervised. I know another parent who confiscated their kids’ phones and found pictures of drug use and drunkenness with nearly all of the pictures appearing to have been taken in the game rooms of houses.

I don’t know, maybe I’m just old fashioned, and pardon my language, but what the hell are these parents doing?  

You know, it’s hard enough to raise kids to make moral decisions and do the right thing. I’m the first to admit my kids aren’t perfect and I know they are surrounded by peer pressure. On top of that, we have leaders and states who have decided that marijuana, although agreed by so many is a “gateway drug”, should be legalized. And now, I have to deal with an increasing number of parents who not only feel the same way, but are willing to give my kids an avenue to be delinquent? Are you serious?

So, here’s the deal, if you are reading this and you happen to be one of those parents that think you are doing my kid a favor by giving them a place to do “what all teens do” then pay attention to my tome. If you are reading this and agree with me, then maybe something I say will help you as we struggle to raise our kids to be great men and women in a struggling society

1)   Being cool ended in high school, grow up and be courageous.

If I heard it once, I heard it hundreds of times that Mrs. Ellis was cool because she understood just how real teens live. The reality is, Mrs. Ellis had a significance issue in which she needed teenagers to give their approval of her, and why wouldn’t they? Heck, she was giving them an avenue to do what they weren’t allowed to do anywhere else. She needed to grow up, get counseling, and stop trying to be popular. We are adults, folks, and we are raising kids in a tough world; THEY DON’T NEED COOL, THEY NEED COURAGE! It takes courage to stand up for what is good, to do the right thing when all others won’t. Our kids need us to have the courage to be un-cool, to tell them no and to show them right way despite their protests.

2)   You willing to accept liability?

Mrs. Ellis argued that since teens were going to do those things anyway, they might as well be safe at her house and not potentially on the streets. How noble… until a kid suffers from alcohol poisoning or the police catches you and carts everybody off to the station. Was Mrs. Ellis going to pay all the tickets? Was she going to help out of the costs of babies conceived under her watch? Was she willing to accept responsibility since she was watching the kids so closely? I have my doubts.

See, here’s the deal, my kids know if they are caught doing something illegal that will send them to the “clink”, they are going to have to stay there until the fine is paid in “time” because I’ve taught them to do right and they know better and I ain’t got the cash to fund their disobedience (yes, I just butchered the language for emphasis). So, if you are reading this and you are a “cool” enabling parent, pull out the checkbook, cause you can pay the fine.

3)   Thanks for undermining authority; I’ll be sure to repay the favor.

By giving a safe haven for kids to break the law and disobey their parents, you, as a parent, just opened the door to all sorts of rebellion. You, by your act that just undercut my rules for my kid, have just communicated that it is okay to do wrong, that there won’t be consequences. You are presenting a world that isn’t real, and in the worst cases, you’re raising future criminals.

 See, in my day, except for Mrs. Ellis, we got in trouble at all our friend’s houses for wrongdoing. Mrs. Park would have spanked me just as soon as my own mom would. That fact alone helped me learn real quick that I would have to be either brilliant enough to hide the crime or stupid enough to attempt it because there were lots of parents who would be able to not only find out, but discipline me in the process. But because of you cool parents, now I look like the lone jerk and kids can find the easy route to rebellion (your house). What are you teaching them about right and wrong? About the law? So, I’ll make a deal with you, you keep up the neglect, and I’ll make sure if I get picked on you or your kid’s jury, that I’ll be just as diligent to do my civic duty.

ROCKWALL,TX. (July 16, 2014) Compared to her older brothers, my daughter is unique: they are athletes; she’s an artist, barely noticing a ball. They are rough, a little wild (Huck Finns and Tom Sawyers around here); she is quiet, shy, and reserved (Becky Thatcher). We’ve had her involved in art classes, but she needed something else, something more to teach her responsibility and commitment.  Then I had a crazy idea… chickens, she could raise chickens for eggs. It came out of nowhere, I know, even my wife thought so, but in all its craziness, it made sense. Irelandloves animals, is determined to be a “vet-nar-i-an,” so this would be an actual opportunity to take an animal from real young, raise it, and see how it contributes to our family. Farm houses and pastures surround us so a few chickens would add to the country-ness of our back yard. In February, Holt Ranch and Feed hosted a “chicken seminar” to teach about egg-laying hens so we signed up immediately. Egg-laying breeds are vast and our choices ranged from four: Rhode Island Reds, Rhode Island Whites, Barred Rock, and the infamousAmericanathat lays pink, green, or even blue eggs. We bought eight chicks, two of each, each two days old. With baby chicks, there’s also need of a plastic tub, heat lamp, feeding trough, water trough, and bedding.  Gathering our meticulously scribed notes and all the equipment,Irelandand I began our journey. She insisted that her “babies” sleep in her room and she woke up each morning talking to them and playing with her toys in their presence. Daily we fed and watered; weekly we cleaned and held the little gals, and constantly I charted the date to put them in the coop, which by the way, needed to be built. When their big feathers came in (so they would be warm enough), I started the design, and then for the first time in my life I constructed a chicken coop from scratch. Sporting two floors and tons of space, we nicknamed it the “Taj-Ma-Chick-Hal” and nearly cried the day we put the girls in it, but they took to it pretty quick despite their chilly first night. Who knew chickens could teach anything? Being the animal at the bottom of the food chain (everything likes chicken right?), what lessons could anyone learn? For one we’ve experienced the connection and reliance we have upon the rest of creation. Most moderns have nearly severed that experience entirely, getting 100% of our food from the store. Yet, once you start raising your own, watch your sweat and sacrifice harmonize with natural life, gratefulness and respect follow.  Instead of just going and buying eggs, we feed our chickens, give them plenty of water, check on them daily, protect them, and in turn, they provide us eggs. It’s hard to explain but you eat differently when you’re involved, savor a bit more, enjoy the satisfaction. Patience and planning are constantly before us now. Since most of us get everything instantly, or even get frustrated when we have to inconveniently take another trip down the street for eggs, we never realize that it took way more time, energy, and inconvenience to get those eggs than a mere drive down the road. It’s 18-20 weeks before that little chick matures enough to lay eggs and even then the eggs are tiny, sporadic, and at times misshapen.  To have chickens lay healthy eggs they must eat and drink well, experience little stress, and stay cool and protected, bottom line: the happier the chickens, the better the eggs.  For us, we check the coop each day, scan the weather, watch the forecasts, and plan accordingly, and thenIreland and I go to work. Is it worth it? When my little girl’s face beamed with pride holding that first little egg, when she grinned from ear to ear knowing that her work and her chickens helped provide food for our family, oh, yeah, it’s worth it. I’d get eight more for that.  She took that little egg and “called it” for breakfast the next morning and that has never happened in her life of seven years. Now, that’s appreciation, and heck, she slept with the little things for six weeks, surely she deserves it.

A bald eagle landed on a high branch above me. It was hard back then to get this kid to pay attention to anything but fish and game when I walked our piers. Between hopping cypress knees to get to the bluegill beds or popping snakes with my Daisy 880, little could pull me away, but this had my attention. Reelfoot Lake, Tennessee, was a summer respite for the great bird and I had seen many soar from a distance, but this was my first up close outside of a zoo.

            I nearly dropped my gun in the water.

The eagle was enormous with wings stretching wider than I was tall. Its eyes burned right through me. The sharp talons dug into the wood. My heart pounded, awe-inspired and scared all at once. No wonder the Bald Eagle is our national symbol…

            Yet, so many act as if it should be the vulture—a hideous carrion-bird, a symbol of death.

            In all my life, I’ve never seen so many people with so little patriotism. A few nights ago Megan Kelly interviewed Bill Ayers on Fox News. Ayers, now a college professor, was a domestic terrorist who led and involved himself in several governmental building bombings to protest the Vietnam War (apparently, there are several professors in some of our greatest institutions that came from these radical American-hating groups which makes me have second thoughts about sending my kids to college). Here was a guy whose right to free speech has been secured and protected by our brave men of arms saying that he’s not proud to be an American and military deserters are the true heroes. Apparently, he and our current President have run in several of the same circles and it’s rumored that they are closer than both admit.

            Attitudes are often contagious and some of Ayers may have rubbed on the First Lady, who, just a few years ago said multiple times that “for the first time in my adult life I’m proud of my country…” First time? In 20 plus years of adulthood, she was never once proud of our nation? Has she been living here or Russia?

            I visited the former Soviet Union several years ago and loved it, but I realized how much more I loved the land of the free. In Russia, there’s obligated military service for all young folks and they don’t make much money, so, to provide for their families, they hassle innocents for bribes. Everyone must carry a passport (no matter if you are a citizen) so a military man with fatigues and an AK-47 will motion you to come over, flip through your identification, and tell you how he must detain you because your “papers are suspicious.” You offer a few hundred American dollars and they overlook the matter, and there’s nothing you can do about it – this is commonplace activity.

            During WW2 every other Russian soldier had a rifle. If you were one of the unlucky comrades to get only a clip of bullets, then you watched for a fellow fighter to die so you could snag his weapon. Machine guns were reserved for the rear of the battlefront, for the KGB to shoot anyone who retreated from battle. So, you had a choice, charge in without a rifle or run away and be gunned down by your own countrymen.

            I met folks who had family members disappear under Stalin’s regime. He’d give the KGB weekly quotas of people to arrest for suspicion. It didn’t matter if they did anything, they just needed to keep the people under thumb. Upon arrest they would go to a quick kangaroo court, then sent to the Siberian gulags. So the KGB entered an apartment building, found a mom or a dad and asked for names of dissidents. If they gave none, they would be given a deadline for some names or they would find their own family sent away. When it was all said and done, Stalin had ordered the deaths of nearly 30 million people.

            Now, I know there are things in our history that are bad, but these are just a handful of examples from a place that for years has been our rival, and I’m telling you, I think we got it pretty good. So why in 2008 was our First Lady finally proud? Why do we have so many in Hollywood who have benefitted from our country’s wealth and obsession with celebrities, cozy up with dictators and governments who hate us? Why do we have men and women in the highest levels of education who have bombed their own country?

            In my experience, the problem with complainers and consistently unhappy people isn’t that things are bad, it’s that things are too good. They’ve been handed so much that they take it for granted and when things don’t go their way, the sky is falling. Mrs. Obama grew up in a one-bedroom apartment in Chicago’s south side, but eventually she graduated high school and was able to go on scholarship to both Princeton University and Harvard Law School. That’s pretty amazing; a daughter of a pipe-fitter being the first to enter college and the schools happen to be some of the best in the world? But she was still not very proud of a country that would allow her to do that? Only until her husband won the most powerful position in the world was she finally satisfied? You’re kidding, right? I was a heck of a student and had tons of political connections and I could have never gotten into those schools. My best offer came from Memphis State University and now I teach middle school, but I’m not complaining, I think this is a great place!

            Bill Ayers was the son of a successful company president, raised in a nice suburban neighborhood, sent to a fine private school, and attended college at the University of Michigan where he was even a fun frat boy. Then, he got involved in the war protests of the 60’s, eventually bombing tons of buildings, and was suspected of being involved in the deaths of some police officers. His case was thrown out because of mistakes made by law enforcement. Now, he is a professor at the University of Illinois, and he isn’t proud to be an American? Many countries would have executed him for treason with little hearing in a court. What more does the guy want? He’s not only NOT in prison for life, but he has a job in a profession that’s been thought of as the least stressful in the country. Yet, he’s still not pleased?

             I don’t get it.

Last summer I won the grand prize, no, it wasn’t a leg lamp (ala The Christmas Story), it was a cookbook. Now, hold on, don’t quit reading, this was not your ordinary volume of culinary concoctions, there was no Julia Child in her high-pitched, proper voice; this was a manly-man’s collection of wild game recipes, stories of the hunt, and tips on carving wild game and gutting fish. The book is titled, The Wild Chef, named for a section in Field and Stream Magazine and a product of Jonathan Miles and the staff writers of the outdoorsman’s periodical. The contest required writing about your last meal, where it would be, and who it would be with. It had to include at least two courses of wild game. I poured my heart into the piece and sent it in; being a writer, I knew I could at least write my meal tasty, even if it wasn’t. Upon winning, I anxiously waited on the delivery. When I told my dear wife she responded honestly, “That’s great, but honey, you don’t hunt.”

            She was right. It had been nearly 20 years since my last hunt, an omission contrary to my upbringing, a dereliction to my discipleship. As far back as six, I shivered in deer stands every November weekend. Rarely I spotted a whitetail, but, nevertheless, I tuned in to tapping woodpeckers and tweeting birds, whispering up prayers for a buck. We eventually traded the deer stand for the duck blind and a goose pit, and the fever hit for fowl with several meals of roasted duck or goose cooled on our plates. Yet, life happens and after marriage and college and kids, we moved from Tennessee to Rockwall, Texas, so I could attend graduate school. In Tennessee, it was common to find a farmer who just let you go on his land and hunt, but in Texas, you have hunting leases, and a student- father-of-four will likely lack the money to afford such opportunities. So my rifles and shotguns hibernated under my bed except for the occasional shoot I’d arrange for my boys.

            However, when The Wild Chef arrived, something sparked. I read it from cover to cover—twice. The hunting stories and hints on preparing game brought back memories of forest sunrises and hunting buddies in the duck blind—a part of my life many of my Texas friends had no idea existed. I had been raised an outdoorsman, but part of that rearing, the hunting part, had all but vanished and I longed for it back.

            Enter Weldon.

There are a few people in this world deemed as true “characters”, folks we meet that seem to have hopped right off the pages of a book, and when we actually encounter them, either hysterical laughter or offended feelings follow. Characters break the mold, aw, heck, they aren’t even poured into a mold—totally hand-crafted, woven and carved by the Almighty.  Weldon is a character, in fact, he runs the quality control department for characters, being master of them all. Adventurous and comedic, you’ll find yourself attempting new things with him around, not knowing what to expect, but splitting your side with laughter the entire time. I taught and coached Weldon’s son so I had had known him a little, but after a friend mentioned to him about my renewed quest, he emailed me on the spot, excited with opportunities to hunt.

Weldon and his friend named Charlie manage a game lease in south Texas on Charlie’s childhood ranch. Like Branch Rickey and the development of the minor league farm system, Weldon and Charlie watch for the top “players” in their exploding deer herd. Through the use of trail cams, the two know who the big hitters are, and they’ve nicknamed each, and they do what they can to keep those deer around so they can spread their genes to the rest of the herd. On top of deer, the ranch teems with Rio Grande Wild Turkey and masses of wild pig.

Charlie also owns land in Wisconsin that crawls with Whitetail Deer, Canadian Geese, Wood Duck, and Eastern Wild Turkey and he works hard to take care of the land that has become their habitat.

Between the two places, Weldon said I’d have a good hunt.

A few months later, I’m flying to Wisconsin to unite with a cast of other “characters” (apparently these creatures run in herds as well) to hunt Easterns and catch White Bass. There would be Charlie, the hard working, highly organized master of the land, funny, but at times wound tighter than a 24-hour clock. With him was his father, Stayton, a quintessential Texas rancher, whose cowboy humor kept everyone in stitches. Another hunter, Carter, a quick shooting, genuinely nice guy whose stories of honest mishaps could rival Mr. Magoo, joined us a day later.

We would soon be joined by the Wisconsin crew, an array of outdoorsmen, men who lived daily off the land, who could school any famed “professional” hunter or fisherman: Lance, the professor of wild turkey, a man I know held a PhD in the American bird, and Butch, the most humble, yet, I’m convinced, the greatest fishing guide in that part of the state. So there I was in Wisconsin, a man who not only hadn’t hunted in nearly two decades, but had never pursued a gobbler or had any clue where to start.

Lance met Weldon and I at 4:30 the next morning and he was hopping, ready to get to the blind before the Easterns flew the roost. I didn’t even have time for a cup of coffee, but it didn’t matter, I was so wound up I hadn’t slept a wink. I was a kid all over again, going on my first deer hunt.

“I have guns ready for you. They shoot a little low so aim for the top of their heads,“ and he handed us one shell. One shell? Who am I, Davy Crockett? Then I realized he had already loaded the other two, full service to the “t”. He lifted two decoys out of the truck and you’d swear they were the real thing with real feathers and fans from past kills, “Make my own decoys, so whatever you do, don’t shoot ‘em.”  Now that was added pressure, having not hunted in years and being so hyped up was a recipe for blasting those decoys to smithereens in a barrage of shooting.

We trekked through the dark to the edge of a field where two chairs sat behind some brush and cornstalks. After settling in, the morning sky began to blue and an Eastern hen flew down from the woods behind us and walked around the field before us. She was the early party arrival that must have signaled others, as gobbles echoed in the distance to the south and behind us from the north.

The word, “gobble” was coined sometime in the mid 1600’s, considered an imitative word, meaning that some English bloke made the word up in some attempt to mimic and describe the crazy sound. So I guess some explorer or colonist wandered in the woods and heard a big Tom and in retelling the story said, “Blimey, the big bird stretched out his neck and gobbled!”  And too bad trademarking word usage would come much later, because gobble is so close to the sound that there’d be no other way to describe it, and when the males come off the roost, their gobble echoes for miles.

Soon, three large males floated across the field. I say “floated” because when they puff out their chests, fan their tail, and cup their wings, you can’t see their feet   move so they look like little feather tanks hovering over the grass as they stop and prance and turn—a little dance to show off for the ladies. As the three “partied”, more hens showed and even some jakes (teenage boy turkeys). Lance sounded his call and we discussed strategy. I found it strange to be talking at a relatively normal level. See, turkeys don’t tone in to the human voice, so different than hunting deer, you don’t have to be terribly quiet, just still as a statue because they see like a hawk and will fold up and sprint away at 25 mph if they suspect you. So I sat frozen and watched as the “three amigos” cranked up the disco some 80 yards in front.

As far as our decoys, they weren’t interested, that would fall on the gobbler from behind us in the northwest who popped into the field on my right and made a b- line for Lance’s art. Weldon couldn’t see at his angle, so this bird was my shot. He arrived at our fake Jake and circled it, Lance reminded again to not shoot the decoy. As “NW” (short for Northwest) paced around the mannequin and picked a fight, I raised the shotgun, poised for a clear shot. Then he stepped closer to me and stared, no more than 15-20 yards away, and I gazed as his red, white, and blue head raised and turned like a periscope.

“Take the shot when you are ready,” Lance whispered.

The turkey turned away and I braced the Benelli and put the bead right on his head. A split second later, through echoing boom and grey smoke, I watched the Tom crumple and flap his wings for his final breath.

“Good shot.”

And I breathed a prayer of thanks for the bird. See, being a teacher and writer affords a lot of interesting experiences, but very few of them are accompanied by cash. With four kids (three of which are teenage boys, one being in college) and a wife that works and is going to school herself, we scratch and pinch and save for every single meal. This bird, like the fish I catch, is not for some novel meal to show off to company or merely a trophy to hang on the wall, it will truly allow my family to eat another day, another way the good Lord provides for our lives. So, I was humbled to see such success just 40 minutes into the hunt.

An hour later, after the three amigos were joined by a fourth, they all left the field to carry on the party in a more private vista (if you know what I mean). All that is, but one. When the three originally arrived, one of them constantly hung back and eyed our decoys. Once the group left, he stayed and now his curiosity drew him in, attracted to our decoys and the dead Gobbler who lay before them. After winding his way toward us, he turned his fan in our face and pecked away at fake Jake. Weldon raised his gun and held for what seemed an eternity, waiting for a clear shot. The gobbler fought and circled and finally moved away and Weldon fired, downing his Eastern beside mine.

It was a great day for a hunt, in fact it was a great week for being in the outdoors. Charley and Carter took their birds the next morning and Weldon and I (with the great fishing guide, Butch) caught 62 White Bass on the Wolf River (another story coming). In the evenings we toasted our kills with shots of Wild Turkey, Lance, the Turkey PhD., being our “bard,” leading with poetic verse, honoring the life of the bird and the skills of the shooter. I’ve never been much for whiskey, but as I clinked my glass and the liquid burned my gullet, I couldn’t help but celebrate. I was a rich man. In four days in Wisconsin I found my old self; the boy raised in the outdoors had finally come home. Yet, more than that I found some hunting buddies, a group of guys that, until you chuckle in a blind or deer camp, you’d never understand the fun. For years, I had enjoyed that kind of company with men, mainly dad, Mr. Moore (his best friend and my virtual god-father), and an assortment of great hunters, game wardens, and guides, but those relationships had disappeared with age, busyness, and death, and left a void I’ve longed to fill.

I headed down the hallway to my locker, it was the first day of my junior year and I was in between 5th and 6th period. I pulled the lock and cracked the door.

            “So now that we’re at school you’re just going to ignore me?”

            My heart skipped. Angie McGinnis stood there, hand on her hip. Her green eyes flashed at the confrontation.

            She was absolutely beautiful, a senior. We had worked together in the summer and became good friends, but for me, I had tons of girls who were friends, kinda the negative of going to a small school where most of us sat in class together since first grade.

            Angie was different though, she started our school in junior high. I had always noticed her, I mean, who wouldn’t? But we had never really talked. She worked for the same guy I did, peddling drinks and popcorn in the concession stands at the nearby public ball fields. I had always wanted to work with her and finally got the opportunity that summer. We had a great time and soon I found myself scheduled with her over and over again (little did I know she had requested it). We laughed and talked on the phone nightly, even had a fun little date (as friends) at the local mini-golf course.

            But school was now in session and I knew my place. I was a junior, everybody’s friend; she was a senior and every guy hoped for a date—any thought us having more than friendship, I pushed way, way down.

            Yet she stood at my locker, being brutally honest, confronting me for avoiding her, telling me that she cared about me and thought I cared about her.

            That was one of those turning points in my life, and I started to let myself have feelings for this girl. She was fiery, hysterical, and really smart, and a beauty that to this day is unmatched. After a couple of months and a particular evening seeing her leave a football game with another guy, I knew she had to be mine, she had grown to be my closest friend and in time I’d learn that I couldn’t live my life with her by my side.

            That event at my locker happened 25 years ago and today, 22 years ago, I married that girl, and still to this day I have those moments like the one at that locker where my heart flutters and I stutter and stumble with my words. After all these years, that gal still “rings my bell” and I cannot, for the life of me, get enough. 

Get it at Roma's Bookstore in Rockwall or Amazon.com

I slapped the last touches on a chicken coop the other day, having designed the thing from the ground up and pieced together every board of the poultry palace. Like all building projects, I ran into an unanticipated challenge. Basically, I needed to rip (or cut long-ways) a skinny board. There was no way to do it safely, except with a table saw. Deep in my shed, under some camping equipment rested mine; well actually, it was my dad’s. They don’t make saws like that anymore, all steel, solid frame. I had actually considered selling it a year ago. Heck, I didn’t even know if it worked. I dragged the old thing out and memories flooded in. The deck that dad and I built at Reelfoot Lake, sign stakes we made from small boards for his political campaigns. I just recently lost the guy, the manliest man I’ve ever known.

It’s funny how when someone’s gone, you suddenly realize the preciousness of the items they’ve left. It’s like the objects themselves breathe, take on the life of the departed. When I’m not a school I carry his old pocketknife, a classic Old Timer I bought him for Christmas. It’s not some Bear Grylls hunting blade, just a little folding knife to cut a box open or trim a rope end. Pocket knives were our “love language” as they seemed to be a periodic gift we gave here and there at Christmastime. Like baseball cards, I had my own collection, 90% of which came from him.

As I write this I’m sitting at his desk. Now this isn’t just a common office desk, it is a piece of history. Dad was a State Legislator in Tennessee for 20 years and when he first won election in 1966, the House of Representatives had voted to refurbish the chambers. The legislators were given the opportunity to purchase the desk they occupied. Dad did, not knowing truly how old it was, and it sat in my parents’ house in the same corner all my life. Crafted with solid cherry wood, it still sports the nameplate with “Gill” on the front. I did some investigating and found that prisoners built it in 1900 making it 114 years old. Soon after I hauled it home, I received an email from the Tennessee State Museum wondering if I’d donate it to their collection. Maybe one day when I’m gone, but now it’s my muse of sorts.

Just above my desk are two framed political cartoons. Strange, I know, to have something like that framed, but when you look close you can see the caricature of my dad. I remember when both editorial cartoons appeared in the Memphis Commercial Appeal in reaction to some legislation he penned or pushed. At first, he fumed over the Bill Garner humor, but after a couple of official prints arrived in the mail, complete with Mr. Garner’s autograph, Dad framed them and hung them in his office.

Each of these relics tells the story of my dad: the saw, his craftsmanship; the pocketknife, his manly independence; the desk, his leadership; and the cartoons, his humor and ability to take a joke. In fact, each of these things holds memories that Alzheimer’s stole so swiftly from his mind, and each day I sit at the desk, or cut with the knife, smile at the cartoons, or even run the tables saw, I’m given the blessing of being with him again, and I realized that maybe the old adage, “you can’t take it with you when your gone,” was not necessarily meant as a rebuke, that your stuff isn’t useful in heaven. Maybe, it’s because your stuff takes on a whole new life for your loved ones left on earth.

              WARNING:

What I’m about to confess is offensive, so vile, that if my novel actually makes it big and I become famous, these words will fire me in effigy. Are you ready?

I hold doors for women.

I know, it’s bad and I forgot to mention that I also give up my seat for a standing woman, and I’m prepared to protect a woman should she be in trouble. I also don’t run around on my wife, or flirt with other ladies. Crazy, I know, and  apparently I’m the worst of offenders because I pollute future generations with such atrocities, teaching my boys to do the same.

I had no idea that such behavior would be so outdated and offensive, but after reading some writers’ venomous responses to actress, Kirsten Dunst’s comments about women wanting a knight in shining armor, apparently I’m not only a caveman, I’m downright disrespectful.

I never meant to be so offensive and I never intended to communicate the idea that women are weak, less-than-man, or in need of anything. Believe me, I never thought holding a door would purport such things. I act like a gentleman because it is the way I was raised. I’m the one with a need, the need to fulfill my manly-man roles, and I will continue to pass the lessons to my guys because bottom line, boys must be knights in shining armor in order to be men.

A Man’s Very Natural Role

Years ago we rented a house on 30 acres of land about 20 minutes outside of Memphis. Rumors spread of inner city gangs wandering out, breaking in houses for their new members’ initiations. In fact, just down the road, one such incident actually happened. Then, in the middle of the night, I watched a truck back into my driveway, which sped off when I turned on the porch light. The next night, at 2 am, I heard a banging on my door. I grabbed my shotgun and loaded the shells, chambering the second one while I rushed down the hall. I was scared, mad, and ready to protect. It was a natural reaction, one I didn’t have to think about; I had to protect Angie and our firstborn, Philip, who was an infant at the time. The man, with hands to the sky (he heard the bone-chilling chambering of the shell), said he needed to borrow my phone because of a break down. I handed the phone through the door, gun cocked and ready to protect.

Several years ago a dear friend of mine learned he had brain cancer. His boys where roughly the same age as mine and Angie and his wife were the best of friends. The day before he died he asked me to take care of his family, to watch over them. Without hesitation, I promised him to do just that and even to this day, when his wife comes into town on business, I work hard to take care of her, whether it is tending her rental property or scraping her ice covered windows. She’s always been very independent, a modern woman for sure, so Angie has to tell her, “Just let him do it, let him come to your rescue,” quieting her protests. My wife knows it’s in my nature to provide and protect.

Men are by nature warriors and workers and we want to be heroes. The majority of us have no issue signing up for selective service (although, I’ve yet to hear an equal rights protester argue for women to sign up) and would go to war readily, knowing it would protect our families, and, Personally, I cannot fathom the modern idea staying at home, relegating the responsibility of provision to my wife. I have no problem with her working, but me not being involved in that aspect is unfathomable to me.

As argued earlier when men do not live within their natural roles, the results can be ugly and this is especially so when it comes to men and their relationship with women. So, what do we teach our boys about being a knight in shining armor, about protecting women? Here are some things that I constantly pass on to my guys and I pray they will continue in their lives in their quest for knighthood:

Take the Lead, Do Not Be Passive

A couple of years ago I went to one of my son’s prom photo shoots. They met their dates at a park and all the moms and dads stood around, lined them up on bridges and by trees, and clicked away. I’ve never felt so uncomfortable; I felt like a bystander at a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition shoot. I know I sound like a stick-in-the-mud, but the girls’ dresses barely covered anything and more horrifying than that was the silence of the dads. They stood around, barked instructions, praised their daughters’ beauty, and patted the boys on the back. I wanted to stand up and shout, “Do you know what that guy is thinking about your girl, Dad?”

I know it is easy to take shots because my little girl is a first grader, but there have been plenty of times already that I told her that she needed to change before going to school; that we needed to wear something more school appropriate. She fusses and cries, but to protect her dignity, I must stand my ground, and the same comes when we teach our boys about girls, we cannot be passive and just let them figure it out. They need to know that a man protects and that includes protecting a girl’s innocence. They need to know what is right and what is wrong and to not hesitate in making the right choice. Their dating relationships will be fraught with temptations and they are surrounded by debauchery, so we must teach them to take the lead and be moral even though it’s popular to be passive.

The Biggest Enemy Stares at them in the Mirror

“Dad, you need to trust me,” I’ve heard time and again when it comes to their dating and remaining moral of which my response has been, “Son, I don’t trust myself, how can I you?”

I learned a long time ago that when it comes to sexual temptation, men are their own worst enemies; we will shed knighthood as quick as a breath. Once, while in a seminary, I sat in a class where the professor asked for a show of hands for anyone who planned on having a successful ministry supported by a loving marriage. All 45 students raised their hand. Then he asked for those to raise their hand if they planned on having an affair, ruining their marriages and harming their future? Not one person responded. His point…nobody plans it, it is a sinful decision made at a weak moment. His solution? Live scared of yourself; realize that you could make that decision being in the weakest moment of your lives. I teach my boys that their temptation will constantly be to objectify women in order to please themselves. I teach them that they must fight this temptation, to act out of love and protection rather than reducing a relationship to merely sex. Practically, men must be disciplined to not put themselves in a situation where they would have to make a choice, because, sadly, we have a chink in our armor here and often will choose wrongly.

It’s About Dignity

            Humans have an innate dignity, something inside us that separates us from mere animals. Despite what many scientists may try to argue, humans are different and you see it in the way we behave toward one another. You never see a lion depressed after killing a gazelle and we never go and prosecute the lion; she’s just doing what comes natural and necessary for food. Humans are completely different; soldiers who have been trained to kill, who are under heavy fire from an enemy and may die themselves, often come back from war completely unhinged because they had to kill another human, and some never get over the idea. In Nazi Germany, there was constant propaganda that the Jewish people were less than human, which, through time, allowed for their mistreatment with little guilt.

 That struggle, that personal burden, that guilt that the Nazis silenced and soldiers feel radiating like pain, is because humans have inherent dignity. There is something inside of us that makes us glorious, and it damages the psyche to tarnish it. We recoil at the idea of a drunken frat boy dating our daughters and we sicken at the acts of pedophiles, and all of that because we don’t want our children marred, their innocence stolen.

For my guys, I ask them how they would feel if a boy took advantage of their baby sister. They immediately redden in face and are horrified at the thought; they want to protect her, that innocence, that dignity. Then, I explain that the girls they date are somebody’s sister or somebody’s daughter and their job and that feeling they have should haunt them into guarding a girl’s dignity, even if it means guarding it against themselves.

Be the Example

            When my dad served as a state legislator, I would go up with him at least one week of the year to spend time at Tennessee’s capitol and watch him work. For years he and another legislator, Mr. U.A. Moore (a man mentioned in an earlier article), roomed together while in session. When we went to dinner each night, I noticed the younger legislators, some with wives and children at home, partying at the restaurants, drinking to excess, and I heard stories, all sorts of stories about women and affairs. Yet, one thing I noticed, the young partiers constantly badgered Dad and Mr. Moore to join them, complaining that they never came along, that the two old guys were missing a good time.

            I learned something about those two old guys; they roomed together not just because they were best friends, but they did it to protect one another, to keep each other accountable when temptation knocked, and both remained faithful to their wives, loving them until their death.

            Teaching young boys to be knights, to be respectful and protective of women, starts with us as parents. Sooner or later we must grow up and show our young boys how to act. When my guys were young I made sure they saw me open doors for their mom and they’ve never once heard me call her anything negative. I’ve told them time and again how their mom and I waited for sex until we were married and that we have both known no other. Now, I know that we are in the minority and I’m not writing this to heap guilt on you if you’ve made lots of mistakes. We all have regrets for sure, but we can change, now. Start today on being a better example for your son, start today educating them on respect and their duty to protect women. They may fail, but the seeds will be there and hopefully they’ll blossom.

            At my dad’s passing, many dignitaries sent their condolences, and newspaper articles were written about him and his impact on our community and state. Yet, one thing stood out. A United States Senator (and former State Senator) mentioned in an article that many legislators would go up to Nashville and lose their heads, get caught up in the power and prestige and the parties. He said that my dad never did that, that he was a “straight shooter”, a man of honor.