He roamed the
wilderness unafraid
From Natchez to Rio
Grande
With all the might of
his gleaming blade
He fought for the
rights of man.
Jim Bowie, Jim Bowie!
He was a bold,
adventurin’ man.
Jim Bowie, Jim Bowie!
Battled for right with
a powerful hand.
His steel was tempered
and so was he
Indestructible steel
was he.
Jim Bowie, Jim Bowie,
Jim Bowie, Jim Bowie
A fighter, a fearless
and mighty adventurin’ man.
Theme Song for “The Adventures of Jim Bowie” (1956-1958)
That was almost sixty years ago. And I remembered every word of it. (Although don’t ask me what my post was about
yesterday.)
Though I am not sure I can explain why, I have always had an
irresistible attraction to weaponry.
As a preadolescent youngster, I accumulated an arsenal of
cap guns, ranging from Peter Gun-carrying
snub-nosed 38’s to a variety of replicas of western “six-guns”, pinnacled by
the magnificent “Stallion ‘45”, in which a individual cap was tamped down into each
of the six replica cartridges, the weapon was fired, and then the exploded caps
were laboriously dug out prior to reloading, a process that in total took
twenty minutes, ten seconds of which
involved actually firing the cap gun.
We are talking about weapons of zero destruction here. In
other words, toys. My interest in owning
a real gun is entirely
non-existent. Knowing the difference
between a plaything and “the genuine article”, I prefer the innocuous accompanying
word “Pow!’ to screaming, as they do regularly on Law & Order SVU – “We need a bus!”
Since my interest in fake weaponry never extended beyond
what you could pack into a shoulder holster or fit menacingly into your
low-slung holster strapped to your leg with a stabilizing sinew of rawhide – no
missiles, no drones, or their 1950’s equivalents – I assume that I was
identifying less with terminal lethality than with my cowboy and “Private Eye”
heroes on television, those intrepid lone wolves who fought injustice wherever
they encountered it, be it the Old West or The
Streets of San Francisco.
It came as no shock therefore when one day, when my Uncle
Irving, the surrogate gift-giver for my late father, asked me what I wanted for
my, I can’t remember, eleventh or twelfth birthday, I immediately exclaimed, “A
Bowie knife!” (It could not have been my thirteenth birthday, as even I
would not have had to audacity to ask for a Bowie knife for my Bar Mitzvah.)
Anyway, the day came, and I received my Bowie knife.
And I was really disappointed. (Though I pretended for my Uncle Irving’s
sake that I wasn’t.)
It was a Bowie knife all right, with its patented sharpened
edge on both the top of the knife and the bottom. But it in no way measured up to the
gargantuan proportions of the knife I had seen wielded on the television
show. It was more like a resembling miniature
Bowie’d had specially manufactured for his five year-old son.
I could never roam
the wilderness unafraid with that
thing! The wilderness would have laughed
haughtily in my face.
To this day, I do not own an “actual-size” Bowie knife. (Does that inspire you to go “Awww….”?)
Although, as a questionably appropriate Major Dad Christmas present, I did
receive an official “K-Bar” Marine knife from the show’s star Gerald McRaney,
which I publicly winced at, but quietly appreciated.
FLASH FORWARD
I am visiting my bodywork specialist who I call “The Horse
Doctor” because he works three days a week on people, and also applies his prodigious talents three days a week
to horses.
“The Horse Doctor” – who reminds my physically of Modern Family’s Ed O’Neil if Ed O’Neil were a bodybuilder – enjoys a
colorful biography. He spent his
formative years as a street gang member in New Jersey. He studied English Literature on a wrestling
scholarship at UCLÅ. He worked ten years for the LAPD (for whom he continues to teach a
“self-defense” class), he’s been a stunt coordinator for TV shows and movies,
and has served as a “facilitator” in the business arena where his no-nonsense
demeanor persuaded the “other side” to “listen to reason.”
(He is also one of the sweetest guys I have ever met. I will never forget the look of unguarded
affection I was greeted with when I returned for my first treatment after
recovering from heart surgery.)
Did I mention – I do not believe I did – that the man also has
a collection of more than eight hundred different types of knives? (He always proudly shows me his most recent
acquisition, and I am always genuinely enthralled.)
It was not surprising in this context that I told “The Horse
Doctor” between “adjustments” that I had always wanted a Bowie knife.
Though it was a
surprise when he said he would get me
one!
(It was not clear whether this was a gift or a procurement I
would have to pay for. Both are problematic
for me. I am not comfortable with
uni-directional gift-giving. And what if
the bill for the Bowie knife was astronomical?)
Since his promise to deliver a Bowie knife, I have received
two treatments from “The Horse Doctor.”
During the first one, there was no mention of a Bowie knife. On the second visit, he said he had it ready
to bring to me, but had forgotten it at home.
I considered that progress – from totally oblivious to “I remembered but
I forgot.”
Suffice it to say, I myself did not press the subject of the
Bowie knife, willing to show no hint of impatience or ingratitude. Nor did I have any interest in ruffling the
feathers of a former gang member and police officer.
Who has a collection of more than eight hundred different
types of knives.
I am aware that I still want it. How do I know? When he asked, “Do you still want it?”, I
immediately said,
“Yes!”
The situation has turned into a “cliff hanger”.
“Will Early P. ever receive his coveted Bowie knife?”
Stay tuned.
Though I am not sure I can explain why, I have always had an
irresistible attraction to weaponry.
As a preadolescent youngster, I accumulated an arsenal of
cap guns, ranging from Peter Gun-carrying
snub-nosed 38’s to a variety of replicas of western “six-guns”, pinnacled by
the magnificent “Stallion ‘45”, in which a individual cap was tamped down into each
of the six replica cartridges, the weapon was fired, and then the exploded caps
were laboriously dug out prior to reloading, a process that in total took
twenty minutes, ten seconds of which
involved actually firing the cap gun.
We are talking about weapons of zero destruction here. In
other words, toys. My interest in owning
a real gun is entirely
non-existent. Knowing the difference
between a plaything and “the genuine article”, I prefer the innocuous accompanying
word “Pow!’ to screaming, as they do regularly on Law & Order SVU – “We need a bus!”
Since my interest in fake weaponry never extended beyond
what you could pack into a shoulder holster or fit menacingly into your
low-slung holster strapped to your leg with a stabilizing sinew of rawhide – no
missiles, no drones, or their 1950’s equivalents – I assume that I was
identifying less with terminal lethality than with my cowboy and “Private Eye”
heroes on television, those intrepid lone wolves who fought injustice wherever
they encountered it, be it the Old West or The
Streets of San Francisco.
It came as no shock therefore when one day, when my Uncle
Irving, the surrogate gift-giver for my late father, asked me what I wanted for
my, I can’t remember, eleventh or twelfth birthday, I immediately exclaimed, “A
Bowie knife!” (It could not have been my thirteenth birthday, as even I
would not have had to audacity to ask for a Bowie knife for my Bar Mitzvah.)
Anyway, the day came, and I received my Bowie knife.
And I was really disappointed. (Though I pretended for my Uncle Irving’s
sake that I wasn’t.)
It was a Bowie knife all right, with its patented sharpened
edge on both the top of the knife and the bottom. Unfortunately, my gift bore no resemblance
to the gargantuan proportions of the knife I had seen wielded on the television
show. It was more like a resembling miniature
Bowie’d had specially manufactured for his five year-old son.
There was no way I could roam the wilderness unafraid with that thing! The wilderness would laugh haughtily in my
face.
To this day, I do not own an “actual-size” Bowie knife. (Does that inspire you to go “Awww….”?)
Although, as a questionably appropriate Major Dad Christmas present, I did
receive an official “K-Bar” Marine knife from the show’s star Gerald McRaney,
which I publicly winced at, but quietly appreciated.
FLASH FORWARD
I am visiting my bodywork specialist who I call “The Horse
Doctor” because he works three days a week on people, and also applies his prodigious talents three days a week
to horses.
“The Horse Doctor” – who looks a little like Modern Family’s Ed O’Neil if Ed O’Neil were a bodybuilder – enjoys a
colorful biography. He spent his
formative years as a street gang member in New Jersey. He studied English Literature on a wrestling
scholarship at UCLÅ. He worked ten years for the LAPD (for whom he continues to teach a
“self-defense” class), he’s been a stunt coordinator for TV shows and movies,
and has served as a “facilitator” in the business arena where his no-nonsense
demeanor persuaded the “other side” to “listen to reason.”
(He is also one of the sweetest guys I have ever met. I will never forget the look of unguarded
affection I was greeted with when I returned for my first treatment after
recovering from heart surgery.)
Did I mention – I do not believe I did – that the man also has
a collection of more than eight hundred different types of knives? (He always proudly shows me his most recent
acquisition, and I am always geniunely enthralled.)
It was not surprising in this context that I told “The Horse
Doctor” between “adjustments” that I had always wanted a Bowie knife.
Though it was a
surprise when he said he would get me
one!
(It was not clear whether this was a gift or a procurement I
would have to pay for. Both are problematic
for me. I am not comfortable with
uni-directional gift-giving. And what if
the bill for the Bowie knife was astronomical?)
Since his promise to deliver a Bowie knife, I have received
two treatments from “The Horse Doctor.”
During the first one, there was no mention of a Bowie knife. On the second visit, he said he had it ready
to bring to me, but had forgotten it at home.
I considered that progress – from totally oblivious to “I remembered but
I forgot.”
Suffice it to say, I myself did not press the subject of the
Bowie knife, willing to show no hint of impatience or ingratitude. Nor did I have any interest in ruffling the
feathers of a former gang member and police officer.
Who has a collection of more than eight hundred different
types of knives.
I am aware that I still want it. How do I know? When he asked, “Do you still want it?”, I
immediately said,
“Yes!”
The situation has turned into a “cliff hanger”.
“Will Early P. ever receive his coveted Bowie knife?”
Stay tuned.
(Warning: Do
not send me any Bowie knives yourselves.
I have no necessity for two of them.)
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