F
Field Ethos
Guest
By J. Bakes
I am fortunate to have spent my life around a group of great men. Not when they are wearing their corporate camouflage or dutiful husband veneer, but the hard-partying, up early, outside all day, doing the things they love true selves.
My dad is always in motion. Nicknamed Boss Man, his highest praise is “not bad.” By age 4 I was his ever-present sidekick. It was only after becoming a father myself that I realized the discrete decision this was. Lesser men would have said “when you’re older” and deferred the effort requires to teach, to be patient, and to support.
Because of him, many of my best friends are 30 years my senior. These are not the people who were conspirators in the dangers of youth or the ones I hit the town with to see what the night held. This collection of my father’s college friends, and various characters added along the way, unintentionally taught me about life and my place in the world.
While accepted, I was the low man on the totem pole. With that came responsibilities, a lot of yes sirs, and a fair share of shit. Our “lodge” was a double wide purchased in 1988 for $400. I think it cost more to transport the trailer to the hunting property than they paid for it. Lottery tickets, beer cans, empty packs of Camels, and the unforgettable mouse piss stench are what stand out of my first entrance to the trailer 36 years later. We put in the work and turned it into a respectable place to retreat to after a long day hunting.
There was no running water, so when the 5-gallon jugs were kicked it was my job to fill them up. This required a quarter mile walk to the milk barn where the landowner did what you do twice a day to a heard of daily cows. Navigating by flashlight through the labyrinth, I had to find the closet that the insulated winter tap was in. Fearing the things a 9 year old’s imagination produces, the jugs were filled.
Five gallons is 40 pounds of awkward, sloshing mass. I was not undersized, but hauling those back one-by-one was work. I knew the sentiment of “fuck this” before I knew the words, but I also knew the hell that would come my way if I gave up.
A few years later, one of the guys got tired of making his own drinks and figured he’d put me to use. He summoned me over and gave a quick lesson on the proper way to make a Manhattan. Not the bullshit overdone mixologist version my generation has burdened us with today, but the classic—whiskey on hand, dash of bitters, slug of sweet vermouth, splash of cherry juice, over ice, stir with your finger. He showed me how and told me to try it. “They should always taste like that.” From that day forward I’ve made his drinks. Whenever I’d make a good one, he’d give me a sip.
In the field some feedback was direct. A never-ending refinement of my flagging technique or when to take ‘em and when to wait for the next pass. Usually, it was subtle. Mindlessly walking into the woods one morning with my dad I was stopped by an arm grab and given a look. Not a word was said, but the message was clear—move slowly and be quiet in the woods. Since that day I’ve made a conscious decision, the hunt starts first step off from the truck.
Delegating such work and facilitating an early relationship with cocktails may be shunned by many, but only because their sheltered selves don’t understand the potential effect of such experiences. Putting your head down and doing the task in front of you without complaining has served me well in jobs from working in a slaughterhouse to framing houses and even now in corporate America. Demystifying booze at an early age just may have saved me from a bad decision that could have had lifelong impacts. Being conscious of the environment and intentional about my influence in that space has made me good in a room.
Exposure leads to experience, which results in growth.
These men taught by example. I was always watching. I am grateful that I grew into the man I am today with their influence upon the threads of my character.
The post A Well Spent Youth appeared first on Field Ethos.
Continue reading...
I am fortunate to have spent my life around a group of great men. Not when they are wearing their corporate camouflage or dutiful husband veneer, but the hard-partying, up early, outside all day, doing the things they love true selves.
My dad is always in motion. Nicknamed Boss Man, his highest praise is “not bad.” By age 4 I was his ever-present sidekick. It was only after becoming a father myself that I realized the discrete decision this was. Lesser men would have said “when you’re older” and deferred the effort requires to teach, to be patient, and to support.
Because of him, many of my best friends are 30 years my senior. These are not the people who were conspirators in the dangers of youth or the ones I hit the town with to see what the night held. This collection of my father’s college friends, and various characters added along the way, unintentionally taught me about life and my place in the world.
Locker Room Lessons
While accepted, I was the low man on the totem pole. With that came responsibilities, a lot of yes sirs, and a fair share of shit. Our “lodge” was a double wide purchased in 1988 for $400. I think it cost more to transport the trailer to the hunting property than they paid for it. Lottery tickets, beer cans, empty packs of Camels, and the unforgettable mouse piss stench are what stand out of my first entrance to the trailer 36 years later. We put in the work and turned it into a respectable place to retreat to after a long day hunting.
There was no running water, so when the 5-gallon jugs were kicked it was my job to fill them up. This required a quarter mile walk to the milk barn where the landowner did what you do twice a day to a heard of daily cows. Navigating by flashlight through the labyrinth, I had to find the closet that the insulated winter tap was in. Fearing the things a 9 year old’s imagination produces, the jugs were filled.
Five gallons is 40 pounds of awkward, sloshing mass. I was not undersized, but hauling those back one-by-one was work. I knew the sentiment of “fuck this” before I knew the words, but I also knew the hell that would come my way if I gave up.
A few years later, one of the guys got tired of making his own drinks and figured he’d put me to use. He summoned me over and gave a quick lesson on the proper way to make a Manhattan. Not the bullshit overdone mixologist version my generation has burdened us with today, but the classic—whiskey on hand, dash of bitters, slug of sweet vermouth, splash of cherry juice, over ice, stir with your finger. He showed me how and told me to try it. “They should always taste like that.” From that day forward I’ve made his drinks. Whenever I’d make a good one, he’d give me a sip.
Making Men Afield
In the field some feedback was direct. A never-ending refinement of my flagging technique or when to take ‘em and when to wait for the next pass. Usually, it was subtle. Mindlessly walking into the woods one morning with my dad I was stopped by an arm grab and given a look. Not a word was said, but the message was clear—move slowly and be quiet in the woods. Since that day I’ve made a conscious decision, the hunt starts first step off from the truck.
Delegating such work and facilitating an early relationship with cocktails may be shunned by many, but only because their sheltered selves don’t understand the potential effect of such experiences. Putting your head down and doing the task in front of you without complaining has served me well in jobs from working in a slaughterhouse to framing houses and even now in corporate America. Demystifying booze at an early age just may have saved me from a bad decision that could have had lifelong impacts. Being conscious of the environment and intentional about my influence in that space has made me good in a room.
Exposure leads to experience, which results in growth.
These men taught by example. I was always watching. I am grateful that I grew into the man I am today with their influence upon the threads of my character.
The post A Well Spent Youth appeared first on Field Ethos.
Continue reading...
