You're Not Lost if You Can Still See the Truck

by Bill Heavey

  Global warming—which scientists have definitively traced to the carbon dioxide in sodas—is on the rise. By 2050, according to National Geographic, CO2 levels will have increased by 200 parts per million, potentially threatening “one-fourth of the world’s plant and vertebrate animal species with extinction.” I blame the Chinese and the iPhone. This is because the Chinese people assembling them work twelve hours a day, six days a week. It’s hot and thirsty work. And when they start popping open cans, it’s over. The resulting environmental changes will be both good and bad. If you own a beachfront home, for example, you need to caulk it and register it with the Coast Guard. On the other hand, the prospect of hunting walrus in the Texas panhandle is kind of intriguing. (You have to figure that a hunt for a two-ton critter with thirty-inch tusks close to home will be by lottery. Write if you know where I can preregister.)

  There will be some losers in the plant community. We know this from an experiment in North Carolina in which plots were subjected to 2050-level CO2. Many plants, such as pine trees, started strong but then faded. But the study singled out one plant that took off running and never looked back. It recorded sustained growth rates 75 to 150 percent above normal. That plant was Toxicodendron radicans, or poison ivy. The Godzilla poison ivy wasn’t just more “muscular” (one scientist’s description). It also produced urushiol—the “poison” in poison ivy—at levels 153 percent higher than in the control plants. “That was a bit of a surprise,” one scientist remarked.

  “A bit of a surprise”? Pearl Harbor was a bit of a surprise. Urushiol two and a half times stronger than it is now could spell the end of outdoor human life as we know it. We need stronger urushiol like we need asbestos T-shirts. The stuff is so potent that it takes one-billionth of a gram to induce a serious rash. A quarter of an ounce could give poison ivy to every person on earth. Forget nuclear terrorism. If Iran gets hold of some weaponized urushiol, we’ll all itch to death.

  I’ve always been susceptible to the current stuff. Back at Camp Yonahnoka, contact was virtually unavoidable. And a boy’s hands are in frequent contact with the other parts of his body. This is especially true when peeing, which is both a biological necessity and a competitive activity among boys. I usually developed an epic rash the first week of camp. This meant I got sent to the infirmary, where a woman my mother’s age with freezing-cold hands examined the relevant area, which was then bandaged in Caladryl-soaked gauze that had to be changed thrice daily. My bunkmates, models of discretion, greeted my return with joy. “Hey! Aren’t you Richard Rash?” one yelled. “Mind if I call you ‘Dick’?” His mirth was such that he lost his balance and fell to the ground. This turned out to be the joke of the summer. The experience led me to cease urination entirely from the age of twelve to fifteen.

  If you’re one of those smug people who are “immune” to poison ivy, scratch on this: Just because you’ve never had it doesn’t mean you never will. Get exposed enough times, the experts say, and nine out of ten people will succumb. For those of us who are already susceptible, it is possible to go from bad to worse. Last year, just as my girlfriend, Michelle, and I were headed to the airport, a localized case—the only kind I’d ever had—went systemic. I had it everywhere, even behind my ears. We stopped at an urgent-care place on the way to the airport. A physician took one look, ordered up syringes of prednisone and Benadryl, and stopped speaking to me entirely. “You said you’re flying right after this—he the pilot?” Michelle said we were flying commercially. “Good. This may make him loopy,” she said. “Don’t let him drive, and keep an eye on him.” As I was rolling up my sleeve, the doctor said, “Uh-uh. These are the other kind.” I sighed. There was no give in her voice. I undid my belt and assumed the position. Michelle whipped out her iPhone to capture the moment. It felt like someone was shooting chilled Gorilla Glue into my butt.

  Michelle later reported that I’d been so out of it by the time we got to airport security that they’d nearly sent me through on the conveyor belt. The next thing I remember, we were in Louisiana.

  I used to think single-issue voters were morons. Maybe poison ivy turns you into one. So be it. All I know is this: The guy who’s toughest on poison ivy gets my vote in November.

  UNHOLY MACKEREL

  Michelle, my girlfriend, and I spent spring break in Cedar Key, on Florida’s Gulf Coast, where we hoped to forget that some bass lures now cost $150 and to rekindle the kids’ interest in hopelessly primitive hook-and-bobber fishing.

  Emma, twelve, had shown promise as an angler until she discovered the Twilight book series and her interest shifted to teenage vampires in love. Fishing-wise, I figured Jack, Michelle’s nine-year-old, as the linchpin. I had helped Jack catch his first fish, but in the year since he had fished exclusively on a Nintendo Wii. To him, this was a no-brainer. Real fishing involved endless waiting, no guarantee of success, and whatever weather came along. Digital fishing offered nonstop action and fifty species of trophy fish at a constant 70 degrees. What concerned me was that Jack spoke of his Wii catches—the 310-pound Warsaw grouper, the 463-pound giant sea bass, etc.—as if they were real.

  If Jack got the fever again, however, Emma would follow along. And if Emma went, so would Cole, five. (Cole, who had yet to show an interest in fishing, was a mystery. Highly intelligent, immune to self-doubt, he recognizes no external authority. He will end up a Navy SEAL, the president of GM, or a fugitive in Paraguay.)

  On our second day, I hired a wonderful guide, Bill Roberts. He took us out a couple of miles to fish the flats for sea trout. After holding a rod for four minutes—or nine Wii years—Jack gave up and went forward to sulk. Michelle gave me a shrug, signaling that she was open for suggestions. I tried to give Jack my next hookup to reel in, but he wasn’t biting. Having paid a guide, found fish, and even hooked fish, I felt that the best way to improve Jack’s attitude would be to grind him up and use him as chum. But you can’t say this to a boy’s mother, so I just smiled and shrugged back.

  Cole played with a Gulp! shrimp for a while. Then he wanted to throw the anchor overboard. This was counterproductive to fishing, but Bill humored him. Meanwhile, Emma had gone to stand on the bow, spreading her arms dramatically and acting out the famous scene from Titanic. The best fishing hours lay ahead of us, but the kids were done.

  On our last morning, we fished from a seawall in Cedar Key. I was throwing squid on an ounce of lead with Emma’s pink Shakespeare Ladies’ Spincast Combo—she had lost interest again and was daring Cole to eat ants—when I snagged what I thought was a chunk of oysters. I pumped and reeled, hoping to save the rig. When a sea turtle’s head appeared fifteen yards out, I freaked. If a child were to see me harming a sea turtle—accidentally or not—I’d be labeled an evil man who deserved to have his blood sucked out by vampires. Fortunately, the turtle threw the hook. Five minutes later, Michelle handed me her rod, which had a small but muscular stingray on the other end. When I finally slid it ashore, a local man appeared, stood on the tail behind the barb, and twisted the hook free. “C’mon,” I said to Michelle. “Let’s go before one of us hooks a baby harp seal.”

  We drove to Jacksonville that night for a 7 a.m. flight the next day. We had found a great hotel deal on the airport’s grounds. This was because it was under renovation. We were its only guests. While this meant no lifeguard at the pool, it also meant nobody to tell me I couldn’t fish the lagoon behind it. With the sun setting, Michelle watched the kids at the pool while I picked up the pink Shakespeare, now carrying a three-inch white twister tail. At the water’s edge, I cast and a fourteen-inch largemouth nailed the lure almost as it hit the water. It was pretty sporty fishing on that little rig. As I lifted the bass in the fading light, I realized how I’d missed being able to stick my thumb in a fish’s mouth with the expectation of getting most of it back.

  “Can I hold it?” came a small voice from behind me. I turned to find Cole, in his bathing suit, rapt at the sight of the fish.
He must have been watching the whole time. His eyes were ablaze. The fishing gods had just blown fire into his soul. “Can I?” he repeated. As usual, I had totally misread the situation. It was Cole, the dark horse, who had broken from the pack in the final stretch and confirmed my hope for the future.

  “Yes,” I said, dropping the pole, my thumb still in the fish’s mouth as I presented it to him. “You can absolutely hold this fish.”

  SON OF A GUN

  My grandfather and namesake died when I was sixteen, still too young to be curious about old men. I do remember that as early as age nine, going over to my grandparents’ apartment for brunch after church was the best part of Sunday. After ushering in the rest of the family, he would take me aside, lower his voice conspiratorially, and say, “My little .22’s waiting in the closet for you.” And off I would scamper to get the single-shot, bolt-action rifle, dry-firing it endlessly, mostly prone on the big Oriental rug in the living room.

  It was a Ranger M34. I’ve since found out that it was likely made by Marlin for Sears, Roebuck. I studied that rifle. Its lines. It was unlike anything in my nine years of experience. It bespoke intention and consequence. It mattered. It was all purpose, simplicity, and restraint. There was nothing nonessential to that gun. Except for the slight fluting at the end of the forestock. And then I saw that even that curve was functional, preventing a sweaty hand from sliding forward off the stock.

  I loved shooting that gun—the solid lock of the bolt, how the bead settled into the notch like the moon setting between two hills, the crisp click of the trigger. It was a bond I had with my grandfather. He had gotten the gun for my father and uncle John when they were boys and the family lived in the Canal Zone. With this gun and when he was scarcely older than me, Granddad said, my father had killed a fer-de-lance that he encountered in his tree house. And he told me that the gun would be mine one day.

  By the time the .22 came into my possession, I was living in the city. I kept it at a friend’s farm, where it became the official groundhog gun for about thirty years.

  “I know it’s nothing fancy,” my buddy told me. “But that little .22’s the most accurate gun down there.” I wasn’t surprised. I’d sensed its accuracy long before I ever sent a live round down the barrel. What surprised me was how much those words meant to me. As though they confirmed something about the three generations of Heavey men who knew that firearm.

  I didn’t realize Granddad had any other guns until Uncle John died. I was at the house near Annapolis while his wife was going through his papers. Lying on the piano stool were a Winchester Model 94 .30/30 and a Colt .380 hammerless stamped u.s. property. When I asked Aunt Joan her intentions for the guns, she said, “I’m going to throw them in the Severn River. I don’t like guns.”

  I didn’t say anything but my mind was doing wind sprints. The Severn River, I knew, didn’t care one way or another about those guns. Whereas I wanted them badly. I needed them. “Tell you what,” I said casually. “I’m headed back that way. I’ll throw them in the river for you.”

  The .30/30 handled wonderfully and would put a bullet inside an inch at a hundred yards. I knew that millions of deer had fallen to such lever-action guns and had tried hunting with it. But the top-ejection means it won’t take a scope, and the iron sights go dark half an hour before the end of legal light. After watching a few deer disappear into darkness when I shouldered the rifle to shoot, I went back to a scoped .270. The smart move would have been to sell it. I didn’t.

  At first I’d thought the Colt was Uncle John’s sidearm from the air force. But some digging revealed that such pistols were issued only to brigadiers and above during World War II. That meant it was Granddad’s. All I knew about his war record was that it was a tough act to follow. My father chose the Naval Academy instead. Granddad had headed the Army Corps of Engineers 2nd Engineers Special Brigade, 400 officers and 7,000 men engaged in the evolving science of amphibious warfare in the Pacific. The 2nd ESB made eighty-two combat landings and engaged in the longest stretch of continuous combat operations of any unit in the military during the war. I came across a photo of Granddad from the time. He’d never been a big man, five foot seven might have been a stretch. But you don’t notice that in the photo. You saw a man who was all sinew and willpower, even standing at attention in some sandy wasteland. The caption read: Leyte, Philippines. 12 March 1945. Gen. Heavey with Aide, Lt. Williams, at ceremony to present Presidential Citation to Co. A, 542 EBSR. Coconut trees in background cut by artillery fire on day of landing.

  Collectors pay thousands for these military pistols. Granddad’s is staying oiled and cased in my gun safe. I check on it every so often. I heft it in my hand and somehow feel connected to my co-conspirator at Sunday brunch so long ago, the old man who would lower his voice and tell me that his little .22 was waiting for me in the closet.

  THE OLD WARRIOR

  I was recently ambushed by a quotation that sang in my ear all night like a whippoorwill. “A warrior must learn to make every act count,” it went, “since he is only going to be in this world a short while, too short to witness all the marvels in it.” I didn’t like these words. They made me anxious and unable to sleep. That’s how I knew they were true.

  I was still hearing them on a rainy afternoon in southeast Baltimore.

  I hadn’t wanted to visit A-1 Taxidermy. My girlfriend made me. “Joe Thomas is the last taxidermist in the city,” Michelle had said. She’d photographed him once for a news story. “Old-school. I just think you should see it.” She and the boys had errands nearby. They’d meet me there later and we’d go duckpin bowling. At my knock an old guy in a camo shirt and ball cap padded over. Inside was a little shop that had itself been taxidermied, stuffed with fiberglass and old-style skin mounts. Thomas was eighty-four, with watery eyes made bigger by his glasses. He sat down and started talking. His words didn’t always follow a straight line.

  He’d opened the shop in 1954 and although his pension from forty-two years working in Baltimore’s steel mills was more than he needed, he still keeps the place open to stay busy. At thirteen he’d started working every day after school and all day Saturday, had been working ever since. He gave his paychecks to his mother, even after he got drafted in 1945. The army sent him to Newfoundland, where he saw a beautiful mount of a snowy owl and got the yen to learn taxidermy. His wife, Lucille, who died in 2000, minded the shop during his shifts at the mill. He seemed a harmless old coot, but I was sneaking looks at my watch.

  Over the years, he’d seen it all walk through the door: uncountable deer and fish, a stillborn lama, a mouse walking a cat on a leash. Then there was the millionaire with two owls and a hawk who offered ten thousand dollars for mounts. Thomas told him that required a federal permit. The guy said only the two of them would know. Ten grand, he repeated. Finally, Thomas relented, but on one condition. “I said, ‘I want the natural resources guy here when you pick ’em up.’ And the fella says, ‘Why? What’s he gonna do?’ And I said, ‘He’s gonna arrest you!’ He got all red in the face and flew out of here.” He shakes his head, amused. Rich guys. Some of them can’t quite wrap their heads around the idea that not everything is for sale.

  Michelle’s two boys bust in, dripping wet. The younger finds a coonskin cap and a skunk tail, puts the cap on his head, the tail down his pants, and starts jumping around, announcing, “Look! I’m a crazy skunk!” The older runs his hands over the meticulously mounted animals, ignoring do not touch signs. Thomas doesn’t even bat an eye at these transgressions. If anything, he seems amused. Michelle starts to rein the boys in, but he stops her. “They’re fine,” he says. They talk a while, then he tells the boys. “Got something for you.” From his pocket he produces a handful of coins and counts five silver dollars into each boy’s hand.

  I’m stunned. Although I recognize this gesture, I’d almost forgotten that certain men of my grandfather’s era would give kids money for no partic
ular reason. (Try picturing Bill Gates handing children pieces of silver. You can’t.) Joe Thomas knows that we enter and leave this world with nothing. And that he is therefore free to be generous in the interim. But there’s something else going on here besides a transfer of money. Maybe one way a boy learns generosity is by receiving it.

  I’m still taking this in when he tells Michelle he has already prepaid his own funeral, picked out the casket, even got in it and had the salesman snap his photo. “I shut my eyes like I was dead, you know, but with one hand holding out my handkerchief. It’s for the kids to cry on. We joke about it all the time.” Those big, watery eyes turn, take me in, see my confusion. “To make it easier for them when I go,” he explains softly. “So it won’t be so hard on them.” His words shoot through me like an arrow and my throat gets tight. I’ve been sitting here arrogant, judgmental, and utterly blind. This windy, shuffling old geezer is in fact a warrior—impeccable, selfless, and unflinching. This is a man who knows his time on earth is short and decided long ago to make every action count.

  We say our goodbyes. Hours later, at the bowling alley, each boy will press two silver coins into my hand. “Here,” they’ll say. “You should get some, too.”

  Acknowledgments

  So many people helped me commit this book that I can’t pretend to implicate all of them.

  Jean McKenna, who edits my column for Field & Stream, deserves special thanks. She has put up with me—with my difficulty in meeting deadlines, my incessant changes to copy after those deadlines, my general contrariness, etc.—for well over a decade.

  My soon-to-be wife, Michelle Gienow, spent countless hours reading the manuscript and calling my attention to all sorts of errors so obvious that I couldn’t possibly be expected to have found them myself. She provided advice, support, and encouragement.