Autumn, Durfee and Buck Hill

I haven’t written much in a while. I suppose that’s due to work and running out of subjects that charm me.



Fall is here in spades though. In the past few days I’ve been seeing more V formations of geese heading out of here. One time a while back I saw them flying at night which I thought they never did. That night I heard that honking noise, I looked up and saw the under lit bellies of the birds flying south. Observing nature can be improved by city light pollution! I’ve been told they “fly south” for the winter but where in the South? Probably some golf course in Hilton Head?


Here’s a thought that just popped into my head about autumn. I used to hunt with a friend a long, long time ago up in northwestern RI. We used to go for pheasant and anything else that moved. We weren’t seasoned hunters by a long shot. We were city boys who managed to pass the State’s Hunter Safety course and didn’t get lost in the wilds.


Our first “hunt” was at a place called Durfee Hill management area in Glocester. After we signed in to DEM’s hunting station, another hunter passed us who asked: “Do you have dogs?” Mark and I answered no and the guy told us we weren’t getting anything whatsoever. He didn’t have a dog to sniff and scare out the pheasants and warned us we were about to waste our time. Mark and I didn’t listen. This was our first hunt and we were ready to go.


We spent about four hours by the marshes watching those with dogs bag bird after bird. All I got was frosted fingers and muddy feet. I suggested to Mark we hike up into the deeper woods to find out if there was anything up there. We found nothing.


So, we became bored and hunted trees for a bit.


We were both itching to fire Mark’s shotguns. Both were 12 gauges. One was cheap with a steel butt plate, the other a hoity-toity Remington 870 with a fat recoil pad. Mark, being the generous prick that he was, lent me the cheap one. If you’ve never fired a light weight 12 gauge, the entire recoil hit travels right into your shoulder. If you want a comparison, just have some one ball up their fist and punch you in that shoulder pocket where you would place the butt of the gun.


I burned off a box of 25 Remington Nitro Express shotshells. We both were blasting bark off of trees and I noticed that my entire shoulder was becoming pretty sore. When I got home, I found it was bruised.


When you check into DEM’s hunting station, you’re also supposed to check out and fess up to what you bagged. We go in and this officer asks us did we get anything. I tell him no, nothing at all due to not having trained beagles to find the quarry. He then mentions he heard a lot of firing a mile east on the ridge and asks again. I tell him we “missed.” He then, in disgust, stamps the book and sends us on our way.


We “hunted” for one season only. The only things I managed to get was guff from local Burrilville hunters who regarded us Pawtucket city boys as carpetbaggers and a nice little autumn tour of the hills of RI. Oh, and we both bagged a bevy of oak trees.

Damaged Goods

“Wanna do an Irish Scotch?” the hot little cutie asks.


“no…NO!” I say in shock as I pull away from her.


My accumulated prudence has shown me that loading up quickly on high power alcohol will lead me to no good end. Plus, I don’t like being out of control.


She, on the other hand, was still young enough to think she can control it all.


It wasn’t an invitation to drink, it was an invitation to hang out and get to know one another better. But she might have well as said, “Hey, wanna hang out and mainline some heroin with me?”


She was pretty and younger. Nineteen years younger than me that is. The age difference wouldn’t have been such a big deal BUT she’s also a psycho.


I had heard enough about her past from others, from her own mouth and just generally studying her to know she’s dangerous. Not in an evil way mind you, just one bad decision after another type of dangerousness. She can barely keep her life’s canoe upright and dry.


If I had been much younger, these facts wouldn’t have stopped me. I would’ve easily invited her into my life. She would’ve satisfied my demands quickly. Cute, adorable and READY. And in, oh I’d say, 3 weeks time been I’d be regretting it all. But I turned down a very easy mark last night, and a cute one to boot. Within 20 minutes of my denial she was sitting on the hood of her Kia making out with, what looked like, a short and fat neo-Nazi/biker wannabe.


What is happening to me?


Now I have set up my own desk, a few chairs and interview women. “Can I see your resume? Are you currently employed? Are you a skilled or non-skilled worker? Do you careen your life from wall to wall, barely missing lethal obstacles all along the way? How many kids do you have? Are you a gold digging bitch?”


I do this in my head as I talk to women. I rate them on the FUCKED UP scale. And the little Miss I was enamored with last night scored “Outstanding” on FU scale!


And the older I get, the higher I set that bar. If you wish to apply for the position of knowing me well, please…please know how to at least live you life with some common sense!



Irish Scotch:


1 oz Jameson’s Irish Whiskey

1 oz Johnnie Walker Black Label


Pour over ice, strain and fill shot glass. Chuck it into your mouth, swallow. In two minutes, experience the “Technicolor yawn” as it all comes back up.

Small Piece of Heaven

There is a tree not too far from my home that’s the first to turn fiery red before all the others. For years it always has anticipated the colder days that creep in. Though it’s strange to see it turn color in late September when there are still days in the 80’s. That tree is too eager.



I like autumn. I like it because the swamp humidity of summer finally abates. The humidity can be so thick that all night long, the skies bloom with a pinkish orange glow from the thousands of street lights here. With fall, the skies clear and the stars can show through. A real black sky for once.


I’m not the type to go on foliage tours but I can be sometimes awed by the splash of color some trees have while driving around. The closest I’ve "toured" may be the woods that begin in earnest on the Massachusetts border about a mile away from here. I used to go off into the woods by myself chiefly to avoid humanity, and then I’d notice the colors of the trees. Yes, I do have an on gain/off again misanthropic steak in me! Jean Paul Satre once said, “Other people, are Hell.” Boy, he is right!


If you’ve spent anytime by yourself in the woods you cannot be entertained or distracted by cell phones, texting, radios or anything else for that matter. You are left to your own devices to busy yourself, and usually that’s your own thoughts. Your day to day life teaches you to discount the trees, fields, streams and other things in nature that have NO bearing on your attempts to make a living, or get to the dentist. But stand away from that busyness, and you’ll notice your brain will fill itself up with that need to be occupied by looking around you at the details of the woods.


It’s nice really, just being concerned about the trails, oak and the startling quacking of ducks tucked away in some impenetrable stand of cat tails. Oh, and then there is the fiery foliage. After an hour or more you forget your hustling city life.


When I’ve had enough (more likely: I have to get back) another thing will happen. As I walk back to my home, I’ll hear the rising commotion of the city as I approach it. The highway, traffic and the bustle of “getting it done yesterday” remind me I’m still part of society and there are things I have to get done.