Following are comments from the original short-story after it was posted on Upland Journal Magazine...
I think I need a drink after reading that! No wait, make it a double. Hell of story MB.
You might have had a hand in it, but something tells me there were many, many hands in it, and that the problems started a LONG time ago. I've been hearing about problems with QU for more than a decade.
You know, if you'd of just smacked that yuppie in the beginning, things would have gone OK after that; so much for constraint DowntownBang My guess is they orchestrated their own demise. But still a good story.
Moe -- That is a helluva story. Don't know if smacking the yuppie would've helped save QU, but knocking the pi$$ out of Rocky Evans would have.
A good story indeed, though had you just knocked him out back then, you would have felt lots better then, and you would still be feeling pretty good about it as you look back with a smile!
Gives me a hang over just reading that. I agree with HazelNut. Should have found Rocky to knock around.
You post a story and I'll read it. Real life is always more interesting than fiction. FP
While it seems that you had more than your share of alcoholic folly - such follies don't bring down major organizations. As Linda noted, what brought down QU was that a couple of guys who founded the organization seem to have done so more as a way to make themselves a lot of money and to hobknob with celebrities than to help Quail.
I can guarantee you that had there been any indication that QU was really helping turn quail numbers around - it would be a healthy and thriving organization. Unfortunately, despite all of the hard work and money raised by members and volunteers for decades. QU has made little if any difference at all to quail numbers. Mismanagement, unprofessionalism, and a lack of financial integrity are what finally did QU in.
Your stories just provide some comic relief to what is otherwise a great conservation tragedy.
As a fitting reminder to how stupid it was to go fishing in 50 mph winds last week, when I’d opened my trucks door the wind caught and hyper-extended it buckling the front quarter panel; with an audible “pop”!? Followed immediately with an audible:
“Mother #x&@….” from yours truly
…Now, as I make short trips to and from the local market I’m reminded of the fruitless day when we ventured after bloody catch-and-release trout during a phenomenal midge hatch, where I couldn’t even get the line to land in the water; by the deafening wind sounds entering my truck’s cab and drowning out the radio because of a permanently ruined seal of my driver’s side door?!
When the cursing at myself becomes too much, Suzie will sit-up in the passenger seat, cock her little head, and reach over and lay her paw on my forearm; which always has a calming effect on me and I apologize to both her and Mocha - assuring them: “it’s not you who I’m cursing at, but myself?”
This seems to work and they lay back down and I’ll tune in a better song and crank it up louder than the wind and that damned cold draft hitting the left side of my stupid assed head which is empty because I went to try and catch a mother #x&@……
Then Suzie will sit up again and we’ll go thru this scenario a half-dozen times until we get home.
Her gesture is about the kindest thing you’ve ever seen. It’s a mixture of an old trick of “high-five” I taught her as a puppy and whatever else goes on in that cute little head of hers when she wants me to calm down while I’m driving her around doing 70 miles per-hour and cursing at myself.
…Because of this I have refused to go fishing until the wind dies down a bit, the bite picks up considerably, …and am making far fewer trips locally just the same.