Hanging out with the Mafia

                   Hanging Out With The Mafia

Maybe we didn’t rub shoulders with the infamous crime family, but we had a great vacation trip to Sicily, and we might have set right next to a Mafia don at the next table. But my story about Sicily has very little to do with the Mafia. Sicily is a wonderful vacation spot.

In early October we took a direct flight to Zurich, Switzerland to rest up from our overseas flight for a couple of days. Zurich has great hotels in the center of the city on the Bahnhofstrasse, a great shopping street. After a couple of days, we boarded Swiss Air to Catania, Sicily, and after renting a tiny Fiat, we headed south, and a couple of hours later, we arrived in Ragusa.

We had good directions to our hotel in Ragusa, and, I told Vertis, “We shouldn’t have a problem.” Boy, was I wrong. As we entered Ragusa, it was obvious that unless you were a native, understanding Upper Ragusa and Lower Ragusa and that combined with Old Ragusa, which also had an Old Upper Ragusa and a New Upper Ragusa, you were going to have driving problems.

Ragusa is an ancient town that is hanging on the two walls of a steep canyon, which compounds the driving situation, and makes for dead-end streets, and of course the Old Lower Ragusa streets are centuries old and on some streets when we met a pedestrian, he or she would have to step into a doorway to let you pass. But we ventured deep into to Lower Ragusa, then back to Upper Old Ragusa and then back to New Ragusa, and of course, I don’t ask directions, but finally I gave up when I  ended up in a dead end alley, and I had to back up for a hundred yards. That’s when I thought of a way to find our hotel.

“Vertis, let’s take a taxi.”

“What? We can’t leave the car.”

“We’re not. I’m going to hire a taxi, and tell him that we are going to follow him to the hotel.”

The taxi driver understood, and then it was off to the races.  Well, we careened down into Lower Old Ragusa like we were going to a fire, and then the taxi pulled over, and with a bit of English he told us the road was closed because of a festival, but if we walked straight down the street, we couldn’t miss the hotel.

“Hotel will come get car tomorrow,” he promised.

“Surely, you aren’t going to leave our bags and the car on the sidewalk, are you?” Vertis asked.

Yes, the car was on the sidewalk, but I just mumbled, “Yeah, get your purse.”

Down into Lower Old Ragusa we walked, and after about what I estimated to be a half mile, I spotted crowds of people, and lo and behold, the hotel. Well, the receptionist was nice and soon we were checked in. Then as she started to leave she said, “St George is coming!”

Well, I looked at Vertis and said, “Let’s go see St. George.”

We walked a couple of blocks to a very large plaza that was packed with people, bands, food, and drink. After an hour or so, a group of trumpet players from the church steps started up and everyone began crowding around the upper end of the plaza.  Then with a roar from the huge crowd, and more music, trumpets and singers than you would believe, a bigger than life St George on a white horse killing a dragon came out of a side street. It was a huge float carried by at least 30 men. It was a sight to behold. St. George is the patron saint of Ragusa and this was St George’s Day.

Wow, what a start to our Sicily trip! We spent several nights in Ragusa meeting some of the friendliest folks and eating the best food you can imagine, and then it was off to what was billed as a small inn between several towns we wanted to visit. This time directions were from the inn’s owner, and they seemed very good until we turned off the main highway, and according to the directions there would be another road in two miles where I would make a right turn. I slowed down to see if there was a road, when a car pulled out and stopped.

“I’ll ask directions,” I told Vertis. She laughed.

However, before I could get out of the car, the man walked over and asked, “Are you the Masons?”

We were surprised, but he said, “I’m Enrico, the owner. Just follow me.”

We drove through the vineyard to a rustic looking large manor house where we settled in. It turned out we were the only guests for the next several nights, and with a chef-waiter from Bangladesh, who did wonderful things in the kitchen, we were treated royally. The chef-waiter, wearing a white smock, stood about six feet away as we dined, and just a nod brought whatever we wanted.

Enrico couldn’t have been more charming and accommodating, and when we told him we owned a small executive inn, Union Square Guest Quarters, he checked it out on the internet and promised to visit. During the conversation, he commented that we should go see the caverns, which puzzled us, but the next day, off we went, and about an hour later, we stopped at the site. But as we walked into a wooded area, we realized he meant, “Columns” and I expected to see some ruins, but we were shocked. It was an open quarry where the columns for major ancient buildings were chiseled out of solid rock to be taken and put in place at temples. The workers had the exact measurements to make them fit. But what was an eye-opener, were the half-finished ones still partly in solid rock. It seems a Mr. Hannibal from North Africa, showed up and work stopped.

The next day it was on to Agrigento a small town located an easy driving distance to several major Greek ruins. (By the way, Agrigento is one of Dr. Steve Jones of El Dorado favorite vacation spots.) The best ruins were in an area called the Valley of the Temples where we spent the day touring several major Greek ruins. There’s not a valley, but a string of major temples, all within a five mile area. They are the most spectacular Greek ruins of any I’ve ever seen.

Eight house later, Vertis said, “I’ve seen enough Roman ruins to last a life-time…”

“They were Greek, Vertis.”

“Whatever!”

Then it was on to Palermo where we dined at an excellent restaurant. We were well into our meal when I noticed four men walk in. Two of them stopped at the door, and two continued on into the restaurant. Wow, it was as if President Trump had walked into Wood’s Place in Camden. The waiters, manager, and even the chef suddenly appeared to welcome them and usher them to a choice table.

I asked out waiter. “Who are these men?”

“They are very important people,” he replied….”Would you care for a desert?”

Hummmm!

Hogskin County

                               Hogskin County

            It seems columnists, and I’m one of them, like to write about people and places. So this week the name out of the hat is Hogskin County. Well, if you’re not from L. A. (Lower Arkansas) you probably don’t have a clue about Hogskin County, so let me enlighten you. Back in the early settlement days of the state, Hogskin County had some bad hombres, and as the story goes, they would come over to Union County and rustle hogs. Well, the hog rustlers, would shoot the hogs, and running from the law, would haul them back across the Ouachita River to skin and dress them. So, I think you get my drift. That’s when we Union County folks started calling Calhoun County, ****Hog Skinning County, which became Hogskin County. Well, associating Calhoun County with hog rustling is a touchy subject over across the river, so in this column, I’m going to go with Calhoun.

            But Calhoun County is more than a place where hog rustlers hightailed it to in order to escape the law in Union County, and skin their swiped hogs. Actually, I’ve spent a lot of days in the County, and it’s high on my list of favorite Arkansas places to visit, and I’m not a hog rustler. Two of my top places to fish and hunt are in Hogskin…opps, Calhoun County, and I have spent many hours paddling up Champanolle Creek weaving around big cypress trees, flipping a cricket in a fishy looking spot. Champanolle Creek is truly one of the hidden gems that lives up to the Natural State moto.  The first time I fished at Cooks Lake, which is just a wide spot in the creek, I remember asking the old feller who was running the boat camp, “Where’s the Lake?”

 “Son, you’s a-looking at it.”

‘Uh, well that’s the creek,” I replied.

“Well son, guess the folks who named it couldn’t tell a creek from a lake.”

I would rent a boat at what was called Cooks Lake Landing at Champanolle Creek, and after pushing off and paddling for 50 yards or so, I slowly drifted into total solitude. Most of the time I wouldn’t see or hear anything but sounds of nature. Years later, I can still visualize my boat moving slowly up the creek. The other fishing spot I frequented was Long Lake, which is fairly close to Cooks Lake, but across the creek, which entailed a circle of five miles to reach the lake, a bend cutoff of the creek. But there was a lot more than fishing in Champanolle Creek or Long Lake that kept me coming back.

 Champanolle Creek and the cotton fields near the Creek drew me back time after time because the area around the so called lake and creek was once a large Indian village, and based on my finding, it was one of the largest villages in south Arkansas. I spent hours walking the cotton field rows picking up arrowheads, and I remember finding 23 perfect ones in one afternoon. On another trip I found, washed out on the bank of the creek, a perfect flint knife. The camp was a pre-Caddo tribe because of the absence of pottery and the presence of a large mound called Boones Mound.  Supposedly, either Daniel Boone or one of his son’s camped on the mound.

However, all my Calhoun County memories aren’t rosy. After a big spring rain, I headed for Cooks Lake to hunt arrowheads, and just before I got there I had to drive across a slough that had backed up from the big rain. The jeep, my dad had bought me when I was a senior, flooded out, and I had to wade out and hitchhike home. When my dad and I returned the next morning only the top of the jeep was above water. I had to swim out to tie the pullout chain on the bumper. We drained the oil and gasoline, but it never ran the same.

Of course, there’s more to Calhoun County than good places to hunt, fish, and look for arrowheads. It’s the former home of the Minkeye Saloon. Of course, with a name like that there is a story behind it. Back in 1902 an OK Corral type gunfight took place on the courthouse square in downtown El Dorado. There were three killed and three wounded; the same as the OK Corral Gunfight in Tombstone. City Marshal James Guy Tucker, who was wounded in the gunfight, recovered and continued as Marshal.

A year after the gunfight, Marshal Tucker met another Parnell brother on Main Street, and after what was described as a heated argument, Marshal Tucker pulled his gun and shot him. He was tried for murder, but acquitted. Said he thought the Parnell brother, who was unarmed, was reaching for a gun. However, he lost his job as City Marshal and moved across the Ouachita River from Champanolle Landing and ran the Minkeye Salon. We assume the Minkeye was a rather shabby added on log cabin, which served hog rustlers, riverboat passengers, and featured the same riverboat whisky, a golden tequila called El Dorado Tequila, the namesake of the town.

However, the feud caught up with the former marshal when he and his son crossed the Ouachita River on horseback to get their mail at Champanolle Landing. Before the locks, the river could be waded across during the summer. After picking up the mail, he was ambushed and severely wounded but his son proudly proclaimed, “I’ve still got all the mail, daddy.” Marshal Tucker lost an arm, and decided to leave south Arkansas. He moved to Little Rock and was elected to several public offices. His grandson is former governor Jim Guy Tucker. Today, the Minkeye lives on in downtown El Dorado, as The Minkeye, An Arkansaw Pub. The Gunfight on the Square is re-enacted several times each summer and former Governor Tucker has frequently attended. One of the last times he was in town, he walked into the Minkeye, slammed his hand down on the bar and yelled, “Gimme a whisky!”

Several decades back the state put the population rank of each county on everyone’s license plate. Little Rock legislators are suspect for wanting to have a # 1 on their license plates. Of course, Calhoun County was number 75. I guess that’s not all bad, since they have been keeping social distancing since the 1860s, and they have 0 coronavirus cases. With only a little more than 5000 people in the county, that’s 10 people per square mile. Well, we may see some of the rich and famous folks start leaving New York City flocking to Hogskin County, (sorry that just slipped out)   to get away from the virus hot spots

I remember Calhoun County rather vividly from when I was in school at the University.  I would ride to south Arkansas with my roommate who was from Banks, and when he turned toward Banks, he would let me off at Jack’s Liquor store in downtown Hampton. Vertis would drive over from Smackover to meet me, and sometimes we would get nearly back to El Dorado before we would stop to talk,

thenorphletpaperboy: Rememberng Charlie Murphy

thenorphletpaperboy: Rememberng Charlie Murphy:           Remembering Charlie Murphy During my sophomore year at the University, after my father was killed in a drunk driving accide...

Rememberng Charlie Murphy

          Remembering Charlie Murphy

During my sophomore year at the University, after my father was killed in a drunk driving accident---he was the drunk driver, Charlie Murphy, of Murphy Oil and I had a number of talks, and I began to depend on him for advice. Right before I got married, I went for another talk, and he recommended I get a second degree or a master’s degree to go with my B. S. in geology. Vertis was going to enter the University as a freshman, and I would be in graduate school.

We took his advice. However, with Vertis in school, and even with me doing part time work, we ran out of money as the school year ended.  Vertis was going to work full time that fall, but if I didn’t get a good summer job, I couldn’t finish my Master’s Degree. That summer when I desperately searched for a job is so vivid, I can remember it as if it were yesterday.

                                                             &                                              

May 24^th, 1960

It has been a week, and I’ve been to 17 companies applying for a job; without any luck, and I’m desperate. As I rack my brain trying to come up with another company to interview, I think about what I have to do. If I can’t save at least a $1000 during the summer, even with my part time jobs and Vertis working; we can’t make it.

Finally, in desperation, I decide to go see Charlie Murphy, I know Murphy doesn’t have any summer jobs in their home office, but since my father died, he’s been a mentor to me during my undergraduate time at the University. I 'm hoping he might know of some company that is hiring. I've just hung up the phone after talking with Charlie’s secretary, and I have an appointment with him tomorrow.

As I ride the elevator up to Charlie’s office, I’m thinking about what I’m going to tell him, and as soon as I walk in his office, I start rattling like a magpie going over my situation.

“Charlie, I can’t go back to college, if I don’t get a summer job.”

“Have you been to Lion Oil and Wheeling Pipeline?’

“Yes, sir, and fifteen other companies in town.”

Charlie is shaking his head, and I’m getting a sick feeling. It seems to me, I’ll spend the summer doing odd jobs, and not have enough money to return to college. I don’t want to even think about what my situation will be if that happens. I’m standing up to leave, but before I can turn around Charlie says, “Oh, I forgot about ODECO.  I think they’re hiring a roustabout crew for the summer.”

I know Murphy Oil Corporation owns 50% of Ocean Drilling and Exploration Company, an offshore drilling company located in New Orleans, and I’m holding my breath.

“Would you mind working offshore for several weeks at a time and driving back and forth to south Louisiana?”

 “No, sir! Who do I need to talk to and where is their office?”

            Charlie is writing down the Personal Manager’s name and the company address, and as he hands it to me. I thank him, and head home to make plans to leave for New Orleans the next morning.                                                           

                                                                           &

It’s not even daylight, and I’m driving south toward New Orleans in my old 1950 Ford. Six hours later, it’s 11:00 o’clock, and I’m parking in front of the building where ODECO’s offices are located. I check the building directory, step in the elevator, and seconds later I’m walking into the ODECO office. There’s a secretary sitting in the outer office, and I smile and walk up to her desk.

“Good morning; I’m Richard Mason from El Dorado, Arkansas, and I’d like to see Tom Lewis the Personal Manager.”

“Just a moment, Mr. Mason. I’ll see if he’s available.”

In a couple of minutes, I see Mr. Lewis coming to the receptionist’s desk.

“Mr. Lewis, I just drove in from El Dorado to apply for a summer job as a roustabout.”

He’d shaking his head, and I’m getting a sinking feeling.

“Son, we don’t have anything.”

I’m standing in front of the reception desk wondering why Charlie let me drive to New Orleans when ODECO isn't hiring.

Mr. Lewis is starting to walk back to his office, and I’m sick at my stomach. As I’m about to leave, he stops and asks, “Why did you drive down here from El Dorado to apply for a job?”

            I’m giving up now, but I manage to say, “Well, Mr. Murphy told me you might be hiring.”

“Mr. Murphy? Mr. Charlie Murphy?”

 “Yes, sir, he said he’d heard ODECO is going to hire a summer roustabout crew.”

            “Just a minute, son, I’ll be right back.”

 Mr. Lewis is walking back to his office, and I’m wondering what’s going on.

He’s back now and he’s smiling.

“I’d forgotten all about that roustabout crew. Mr. Murphy was right. When can you go to work?”

 I want to work every hour I can, so I say, “Monday morning”.

“All right, come on back, we’ll fill out some paper work, and send you out to get a physical.”

                                                                   &

It’s Sunday night about nine o’clock, and after kissing Vertis goodbye, I’m back in the old, green Ford driving south toward Louisiana, and seven hours later, I’m pulling into the parking lot marked on my map Mr. Lewis gave me. It’s a little after three A. M., but I’m afraid to try and get some sleep---what if I oversleep---so I’m just going to sit in the car until 4:30.

My gosh the minutes seem to drag by, but it’s finally 4:30, and I’m walking over to the boat dock at Cocodrie, swatting mosquitoes as I wait on the crew boat to arrive. I’ve been given instructions to board the crew boat at 5 o’clock, and it will take me to the offshore rig where I’ll be working. The crew boat is right on time.

There’s a man with a list of workers. He looking at me and asks, “You Mason?”

“Yeah.”

“Throw your stuff in the back and take a seat.”

There are two benches in the lower part of the crew boat, and I take a seat on the end of one of them. Ten minutes later another 8 men have come on board, and they are sprawling out leaning back again the side of the boat trying to get a little more sleep. The smell of beer and cigarettes is overwhelming.

The crew boat pulls away from the dock, and it a smooth ride while we are in the inner-coastal canal, but now we’re heading for the open Gulf. Wow, the crew boat is banging into four to six foot swells, and I’m gripping the seat trying to hold on.  Its been four hours now, and, yuck, two of the men have just thrown up and vomit is sloshing around on the floor. It’s not bothering anyone but me.

Finally, the is boat pulling up to the ODECO’s offshore rig, the El Dorado, (Named after El Dorado.), and I’m stepping into a lift net. My college-saving-summer-job is starting.

An Arkansas Call of the Wild,

               An Arkansas “Call of the Wild”

        My love for the outdoors started in the Norphlet High School Library, where I developed an unquenchable thirst for the written word. Jack London’s Stories of the North Woods, Fang, and of course, Call of the Wild pulled me in, and just the excitement I felt while reading those books became an irresistible pull that directed my life as a teenager.

             After I read about the north woods trappers in one of Jack London’s novels, I was determined to have a trap line, and after I found out we had a fur buyer in Norphlet, Mr. Tommy Benton, I started buying steel traps. That next Christmas Santa moved my trap numbers up to 10, and with my paper route money, I had 15 traps. That was enough to set up a trap line in the woods along Flat Creek. My December days started with the paper route at five o’clock, and when I finished the route, I headed for the woods to run my traps.

            I could see dollar signs because mink were selling for a dollar an inch, and I figured those traps set along Flat Creek would sooner or later come up with a lot of mink. I found out it was going to be later, because my trap line was catching mainly possums and a coon now and then.  But after a month, I had things figured out, and sometimes I would catch as many as three possums and a coon a night. I would skin my catch and put the skins on a board to dry. After drying, I took them to Mr. Benton. Possums brought fifty cents and coons were as much a $3.50 because of Davy Crockett. Davy wore a coonskin cap with the tail hanging down in back. The furs didn’t bring in much money, but I did sell the skinned possum’s and coon’s carcasses for another 50 cents each. I left one foot on each so the buyer would know it wasn’t some little dog.

            My trapping did produce a couple of very interesting stories, and the first one was catching a mink on Christmas Eve. My one and only mink was a big one, 17 inches long and with the seventeen dollars from Mr. Benton, I headed to El Dorado Christmas shopping. 

The other incident was a little different. I baited my traps with chicken parts, which attracted a variety of animals. I caught a gray fox, several coons, and a bunch of possums. However, one morning when I walked up to one of my traps, which I had covered with chicken feathers, I had caught a big hawk. It was a red-tail hawk that we called a chicken hawk.

I had read in the school library about nomads in Asia who tamed eagles to fly off their arm and catch wild game, and as I stood there staring at that hawk, I decided to give the art of falconry a try. The trap had just caught the hawk by one foot, and hadn’t caused any damage. I always carried a tow sack to put my catch in so I put it over the hawk and unsnapped the trap, and I had a big, angry hawk in a tow sack.

            When I got back to my house, I worked almost all day to get a hood for the hawk’s head, and leather straps to tie the hawk to a perch in one of our chicken house that wasn’t being used. I built a perch, put on some heavy work gloves, and proceeded to try and tie a leather strap on one of the hawk’s feet and put a hood over the hawk’s head. Finally, after getting pecked and clawed until I almost gave up, I had the hawk’s head covered, which slowed things down. Then, after I tied a leather strap around one foot and tied the other end to the perch where I had placed the hawk, I pulled off the hood. Well, of course the hawk tried to fly, but ended up hanging upside down. It took the rest of the day to make the hawk understand it couldn’t fly off, but finally it would stay perched when I took off its hood. I figured it was hungry since it had gotten caught in the trap, so I tried to feed it a mouse from one of the many mouse and rat traps in and around our chicken house. At first the hawk would just glare and screech at me, but the next day when I took off the hood and held up a big rat it grabbed the rat and began to rip it up to eat.

            That went on for a couple of weeks, and after a few more days the hawk would welcome me, and I didn’t have to worry about getting clawed or hooked with its beak. Then according to one of the books I had read, it was time to get the hawk to fly off his perch and land on my arm. That actually went better than I thought it would because the hawk was now considering me the one who brought food, and when I held up my arm holding a dead mouse it would fly off its perch and land on my arm. Of course, I had some thick padding to keep those claws from digging into my arm.

            Then it was time for my next step, which was to put the hawk outside, set his perch up and tie a long leather strap on its leg and have it fly about ten feet to land on my arm and grab the rat or mouse. That went off without a hitch, so I made the leather strap on the hawk’s leg longer and longer until the hawk would fly about 10 yards to land on my arm. After I did that for several days, I knew it was time to take off the leather strap and let the hawk fly across the yard to my arm. Yes, the hawk did it perfectly, and now I was ready to use the hawk to hunt with, but then, when I re-read about how the people in the deserts of Asia used eagles, I knew I had a big problem. The places where eagles where used to hunt with were barren almost deserts, and I was in Arkansas, which is full of trees. It would never work around here.

            I went to bed that night wondering what to do, and finally I had a plan. The next afternoon when took the hawk outside, I pulled off its hood, but instead of holding up a mouse for the hawk to come get, I just turned my back and walked away. It took a few minutes until the hawk decided to fly, and then when it did, it tried to fly to me, but I dropped my arm down and it did a circle and another one and then with a loud screech it flew over our house and back toward the woods.

I had decided hawks should live in the wild and not cooped up in a chicken house.

thenorphletpaperboy: Mother Nature's Way

thenorphletpaperboy: Mother Nature's Way:                 Mother Nature’s Way             I was recently flipping channels, and I came across an interesting story. A fair size...

Mother Nature's Way

                Mother Nature’s Way

            I was recently flipping channels, and I came across an interesting story. A fair size Canadian town near the Rocky Mountains had an unusual problem. Someone had released several pet bunnies, and wow, pretty soon there were rabbits everywhere.

Well. I know about rabbits first hand.  When I was about 15, I took some of my hard earned paper route money and bought a pair of rabbits, a doe and a buck. For us rabbit raisers, that’s a male and female rabbit. The man who sold them to me said, “You’ll have a litter of rabbits every thirty days. Let ‘em get ‘bout six weeks old, dress ‘em, and you can sell ‘em for a buck apiece.” I swallowed the spiel hook, line, and sinker. It was one of my early get rich schemes. 

My dad and I built a rabbit hutch, I bought a sack of rabbit pellets for food, and I was in business. When my doe had 8 kits, I could[1]  see dollar signs. Six weeks later I skinned 7 of those little rabbits and sold them for a dollar each, and the money kept rolling in, ‘cause my first female rabbit had another big litter, and a week later the female I kept from the first litter had a litter, and that was the start of my rabbit raising.

In only a couple of more months I had four females each having a litter every thirty days, and daddy and I had to build another hutch. Well, I was becoming almost a full time rabbit skinner and door to door rabbit hawker, and for about a couple of months it went pretty good, but you know, Norphlet ain’t very big, and not everyone likes fried rabbit, and even some of my best customers started telling me they had eaten enough rabbit to last a lifetime. It kinda came to a head at the supper table, when I announced, “Guess what? I had three litters of rabbits born today...twenty-seven in all.”

Well, my daddy looked at me and said, “What are you going to do with another twenty-seven rabbits? You haven’t sold all of the last three litters?”

Yeah, that was a real tough question, but I had the answer.

“I’m going to cut the price to fifty cents.” I said, and I did, and sales picked up, but then I had another four litters about the time the last three litters were big enough to sell, and I couldn’t sell them even at fifty cents. Finally daddy stepped in and after separating the bucks from the does, it slowed down what was about to become a huge rabbit problem, but I found out in about two weeks that five does were already pregnant ‘cause that week I had another 32 more rabbits to get rid of.

It took me nearly two months to get rid of all those rabbits, and momma threatened to switch me if I brought another one to cook. It got to where my former customers wouldn’t even take a free dressed rabbit, and some wouldn’t even open the door when I knocked. It finally got down to give ‘em away, and I even paid some of my paper route money for a kid to take the last two. Yeah, I know that’s is probably more than you want to know about my rabbit raising, so let’s get back to the Canadian town and their rabbit problem.

                                                         &

Pretty soon there were rabbits everywhere in that Canadian town, and these were big tame rabbits that would take up residence in your yard just like a dog, and as more and more rabbits popped up folks started talking about trying to get rid of them, and that caused a problem because a lot of folks thought they were cute. But Mother Nature came to the rescue, and big, slow-moving tame bunnies started becoming lynx, fox, and coyote food. They were a lot easier to catch than wild game, and that really reduced the town’s rabbit problem.

            Well, what does that have to do with Arkansas? Think, instead of bunnies, insert feral hogs. Will Mother Nature come to our rescue? Yes, if we will just let her. Back when I did the cougar survey, I received a call from a Canadian, who is one of North American’s cougar experts. He said and I quote, “Of course you have cougars in Arkansas. They are coming along the Arkansas River from the Rockies because you have abundant prey; whitetail deer and feral hogs.”

            As you might remember, using the sighting from around the state, I estimated 125 cougars in 35 counties are roaming the woods in Arkansas. Just this week California, which has an estimated 200 cougars, put a moratorium on cougars. You can’t shoot a cougar in California even if it carrying off little Fluffy. I know, here in Arkansas we don’t just jump at following California politics, but this is one time we should follow their lead. The Arkansas Game and Fish Commission should put a moratorium on cougars in Arkansas. That is if we want some help in controlling the runaway feral hog problem, the Chronic Wasting Decease (CWD) in deer, which is spreading like wildfire in Northwest Arkansas, and bring back the quail. Introducing predators will help.

Arkansas’s apex predators were eliminated by the Game and Fish Commission starting in the 1920s when they put a $10 bounty on wolves, cougars, and bobcats. The last wolf was killed in 1962 and the cougars were eliminated about the same time. The cougars in our woods today are new comers, and if we want to ever see Arkansas’s ecosystem return to a balance, where we don’t have feral hogs by the millions, a deer herd without chronic wasting disease, have bobwhite quail to hunt, and see a 50% uptick in the wild turkey population (yes feral hogs destroy turkey nests), there is only one way to do it, and that is to protect the predators still here and restock predators into our ecosystem. The United States Wildlife Service has designated parts of the Ozark and Ouachita National Forest as excellent habitat for the restocking of the red wolf, and Game and Fish should be the first in line to restock red wolves. (Contact me for a “Bring back the Wolf” bumper sticker)

            Anyone who looks closely at our broken ecosystem, will understand that our wildlife management mistakes in the early settlement of our state has heavily contributed to the problems we have today. Sure, Game and Fish has been doing a great job in our state; they have restored the deer herd, built hundreds of boat landings, and creating some of the best fishing in the Mid-south. However, today, we have dark shadows over several parts of our game management, and those shadows could eventually destroy our deer herd and shrink our turkey population just as it has disseminated our quail.

We can continue to plod along doing the same wildlife management as we have been doing since the 1920s, or turn the page and follow the example of California by putting a moratorium on apex predators and restocking the red wolf.

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thenorphletpaperboy: Life in Isolation

thenorphletpaperboy: Life in Isolation:                     Life in Isolation               Trapped like rats in the belly of a sinking ship, we huddle in our own nest of...

Life in Isolation

                    Life in Isolation  

            Trapped like rats in the belly of a sinking ship, we huddle in our own nest of self-pity whining about how terrible things are, when in fact, we should take this time to access our life with goals to improve our well-being. Well, we have plenty of time to do that, if we’ll just press the TVs off button.

            The first thing we should do is list the priorities in our life. The individuals who live the best lives have their priorities in the proper place, and if you first priority is six to eight hours of mindless TV, you probably need some major priority adjustments. This downtime we are going through is a good time to evaluate whether we have our priorities in proper order, and be honest about what is important. That will give us a place to start.

The goal of course is very easy to see, and that is to live the best and most productive life possible. It may seem that best and productive really don’t go together, but let’s look closely at why they do. [1]  I don’t think you can live the best possible life unless you are a productive person. Being a productive individual is, very simply, to produce something, and it may be goods, satisfaction, or inner peace. All of which are a combination of physical and mental activities that are critical to living a great life.

            First let’s look at the purely physical aspect to see how that will help us be productive. All humans have physical similarities, but genetically there are huge differences. We can’t all be NBA All-Stars, but we can develop our physical body to where it functions appropriately for any given age. For some people this seems to come easy, and they look to have won the physical lottery. However,[2]  many times, it’s not the person’s genetic makeup, it is the mind-set and determination to achieve, which creates that person’s physical appearance. But producing a physically fit body is only part of a productive individual’s life. We all know someone who obsess over their physical appearance to the detriment of other important parts of what makes a complete truly successful, life-style person. But let’s be brutally honest about our physical wellbeing. Completely ignoring your body physically can impede you mentally as well as inhibit you from enjoying certain parts of life. So, as you do a life assessment you can’t reach the quality life we all desire, if you don’t have a physically fit body. That is just a statement of physics. I don’t have to tell you how to eat, drink, or exercise. You live in the Information Age. But I will say this about our diets. We live in age of processed, over-fertilized, and sanitized food. I believe there are nutrients that are absent from our normal fast food diet and taking dietary supplements compliments physical well-being.

            Okay, let’s check off being physically fit off our list, and look at something that sound very vague; actually being productive. Our country leads the world primarily because an American individual produces more goods in a normal workday than workers in other countries. It’s that simple. I have traveled in numerous developing countries, and it is obvious the goods produced by citizens of those countries pale when compared to our workers. The reasons are many, but the results equal higher productivity, which equates to a higher standard of living.

Now, let’s look at your productivity. How do you stack up? Are you productive? Everyone has the same number of hour in a day, it’s what we do with those hours that makes us productive or not. I have come home from work many days shaking my head and grumbling, “I didn’t accomplish much today.” Obviously, I didn’t have much of a productive day.

            Productivity is producing more goods with the same effort, and our technology gives us the tools to do just that. If we ignore new technology, we lose productive and that translates to quality of life.  If you are productive you produce goods. The bricklayers in downtown El Dorado last week produced an 8’x50’ replacement brick wall. That’s being productive. However, being productive is more than physical labor, and the results may be a brick wall or a sense of satisfaction that comes from a smart, well researched stock market buy. In other words, being productive not only produces items of value, but a deep inward sense of satisfaction and well-being, which can’t be found any other way. We all have certain abilities or talents that contribute to our well-being if we develop them. Only the individuals, who strive to polish those abilities will reach their best life possible. When you look at being productive consider that everything rotates around productivity, and if that flower bed get planted, you are going to be the one who makes it happen. Remember, being productive is a very personal thing, and a Bill Gates sense of satisfaction in his life is no greater than a person who looks at the work they did on that flower bed with satisfaction.

            In our search to live the most satisfying life, we have touched on the mental aspect, but now let’s look deeper into how a person’s mental health can make or break the wellbeing of an individual. It can be as simple as a runner, after a good workout, feeling a good physical and mental “burn”. Or a teacher, who is well prepared and delivers a lecture to an attentive class. It seems very simple, but developing a positive mental attitude is sometimes one of the most difficult things a person can do. However, a great mental attitude is no different than working to get yourself physically fit. You must work on your mental condition just as you work to reduce that belly hanging over your belt. But if we work to become more productive and physically fit our mental fitness also improves. It is extremely difficultly to have a healthy mind and be grossly overweight or to essentially be a couch potato. Another way to have a healthy productive mind is to surround yourself with friends who are positive and exude productivity. Of course, we should endeavor to exercise our minds just like we exercise the rest of our bodies. Hobbies such as hunting and fishing or even stamp collecting will give you a shaper mind and a better since of wellbeing.

            However, I would be amiss if I didn’t mention the spiritual enhancement available. Since the beginning of recorded history humans have felt a need to connect with a supreme being, and today we are no different. I believe a vibrant spiritual life builds a positive mental condition that brightens your life. I have been active in my church for years, and I feel it has an extremely positive effect on my life.

            I guess, to sum up the keys to a successful life, we must once again return to the basics, and that is whether it is physical, mental, or spiritual, being a productive and involved individual is the key to living the good life. So quit sitting around feeling sorry for yourself, and do something productive.

           

           

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