Stay Strong

Since my diagnosis with cat sores, one of the most common things people tell me is “Stay strong.” It’s advice that I embrace. Words that I want to hear. Words that I chant to myself. I tell myself that I can do this. I can grind my teeth through pain. I can overcome hardship. I can fight back from weakness. I want to mark my face with war paint, grab a spear, and charge into this battle screaming ready to pierce through the cancer that stands in my way.

I hear the words “Stay Strong” perhaps most from my father, Stan Fischer, a man that has always been a great role model for strength - both in his words and in his actions. As a kid, I was awed by the ease in which he could hit a towering pop fly as my little league coach. I was inspired by his stories of his courage and strength in serving in the army. I respected his firm discipline and knew that "getting his belt" didn't mean that his pants were too loose. I loved that he seemed to have the imagination, talent, and strength to fix anything. His firm handshakes with his calloused hands were regular reminders of how he didn't shy away from hard work.

But, I’m not my dad. And, I have often questioned my strength. Even in my late twenties, I remember thinking that I had become a sissy, a softy, a skirt, a sally. At that time, I had an amazing girlfriend (who would later be my wife), terrific friends, a great job, but something was missing - something that kept me from true peace of mind, something keeping me from being the guy that I wanted to be, the son that my dad must have wanted, a characteristic that I thought would just come with age, but simply hadn’t. I was missing my toughness. I was missing my manliness.

The outdoors had become an intimidating enemy of mine, mocking me everywhere I looked. Equipped with a chainsaw and ax, I was still an unworthy opponent to a dying old tree that would laugh with arrogance at the thought of facing me in dual. Armed with a shotgun and shells, I would still be the long shot with a confrontation with a rabbit. Unfortunately, my shortcomings were not confined to the outdoors. I approached all indoor projects that involved construction, electrical work, or plumbing with the same tool every time – my wallet. I had become a miserable failure. I had become a deplorable, all-thumbed, white-collared, tender-hearted, clean-shaven, soft-handed flunky with no skills or experience with life’s raw, primitive tasks.

I felt that I needed some test, some right of passage to prove to myself and others that I was a man. So, when my dad talked about going on a rabbit hunting trip to northern Missouri with a couple friends, I surprised both him and myself by asking if I could go along. I remember Dad chuckling at first, but then asking “Are you serious?” I convinced him that I was and he genuinely seemed pleased to have me join them. Dad explained to me that he had an old Army friend, named Kenny, that owned a farm that apparently had “lots of rabbits.” I really never questioned the motive or my father’s rationale for driving ten hours to hunt for rabbits, which were quite plentiful throughout southern Indiana, even in his own backyard.

So, my journey into manhood started with an eight hour truck ride with my dad and his friend Gene Verkamp to the small town of Hatfield in northern Missouri, just south of the Iowa border. By the time we arrived, I found myself ending the lyrics to some of the country songs on the radio, even though I never heard them before. As I stepped out of the truck and was welcomed with the strong scent of fresh cow manure, I realized that I already missed the smell of beagles and deer jerky that had been trapped inside the small truck cabin for eight hours.

After having several beers and listening to old army stories from my dad and Kenny, we decided to go to bed to get well rested for the big hunt the next day. Kenny showed me to the couch in the basement where I would be sleeping. Next to the couch, was a large metal container. At first I thought it was very convenient for me to have my own mini bar right beside me. As we got closer to the container, I realized it wasn’t a normal refrigerator. Seeing my inquisitive gaze at the container, Kenny stated bluntly, “Dat’s where we keep the frozen bull semen.”

“How convenient,” I thought. If I should get the urge for a bull sperm popsicle, I wouldn’t have far to walk. Seeing my expression, Kenny asked… “Haven’t ya ever seen onna dese before?”

I was going to try to cover my inexperience with bull semen by saying something like, “Of course I have… I just usually keep my chilled in ice for twenty minutes before serving.” Instead, I shook my head admitting this was a first for me. Kenny proceeded to pull one of the tubes out showing it to me. Foolishly, I asked, “How do you get the semen from the bull?”

Kenny laughed. “Well, he don’t mail it to us.” He explained the role of the “collector.” “Ya try to catch the bull at a good time, like when he’s on cow or somethin’, and then ya put a glass container over him and just let him do the work,” he said in a straight-forward manner, even adding hand gestures, to help educate me on the process.

I couldn’t help but giggle like a 12-year-old boy. Trying to make my childish laugh feel more fitting, I joked, “Well, I’m sure the bull appreciates it nonetheless.”

Kenny gave a polite laugh with a puzzled look on his face. And then, broke the awkward moment by saying, “Well, I better let ya get some rest.”

I awoke the next morning to the sound of the other men rustling through their hunting gear. Seeing me awake, Gene asked, “Are you ready to go huntin’?”

“Hell no!” I thought. I’m tired, sore from sleeping on the couch, cold from the 65 degree basement, a bit hungover, still a little scared of the bull semen, not much of an outdoorsman, not good at shooting, and generally uninterested in hunting. Instead I muttered trying to muster up as much enthusiasm as possible, “You bet.”

Dad was also downstairs with Gene beginning to get dressed. Following the lead of the other men, I slid on my camouflage coveralls, laced up my boots, slid into an orange vest, and put on my orange stocking hat and camouflage gloves. I giggled for a moment at the irony of wearing camouflage and orange at the same time. I was going to comment or question the logic of the inconsistency of the attire, but then reminded myself not to say anything stupid that could cause them to question having me with them with a loaded gun. Also, I still regretted asking about the bull semen.

One by one we filed into the pickup truck, waited for the engine to warm for a moment, and then pulled out of the drive of the old farmhouse. My eyes shut for a moment and then I found ourselves stopping again. With the truck idling, Gene and Dad jumped out of the truck waiting for me to follow. As I exited the truck, I could hear the loud barking of the beagles in the nearby shed. The three dogs, each in their own tone, roared; the result almost sounded like a bad chorus of Row, Row, Row Your Boat. The deeper voiced beagle would start with “Aroroar”, a second would follow with “Roar”, and the third would chime in as the tenor with a higher-pitched “Arrrr”, and then it would repeat…. “Aroroar, roar, arrr. Aroroar, roar, arr.” I wanted to sing along adding, “Gently down the stream.”

Dad, Gene, and I entered the shed where the beagles’ singing echoed inside a small cattle trailer. As the dogs howled, Dad responded as if he understood every request. “Yes, I know…” He said sympathetically, “We’ll let you stretch your legs in a bit.” Carefully he released the latch of the gate - still holding the unlocked gate shut. He allowed the dark black nose of a beagle to emerge. As he continued slowly to open the gate, the snout of the beagle appeared followed quickly by his head. Dad promptly grabbed a leash and clipped it on the collar of the beagle and then allowed the gate to fully open only until the first beagle leaped to the ground and then shut it again quickly. Dad handed me the leash and ordered, “Here, take Bluegill out to walk around.”

Chuckling at the dog’s name that would clearly make him think he was a fish, I grabbed the leash and continued laughing from watching his animated movement successfully tangle up the leash. I began to bend down to untangle the leash when suddenly Bluegill dashed quickly around my leg, making me part of the entanglement. I took a moment to free myself and the beagle from the puzzle then looked back to the trailer to see Buster and Lucky make similar exits with excitement.

I watched Buster and Lucky dash back and forth with their nose on the ground leading their momentum. After admiring the enthusiasm of the other two beagles, I looked back at Bluegill. Bluegill stood still with one leg pointed outward beside a bucket that was removed from the back of the trailer. Before I could react, I could see Bluegill’s urine pouring down the side of the bucket. Dad glanced over and said sharply, “Brad, take him somewhere else to piss!” Embarrassed, I pulled Bluegill away and walked him away to the open field.

Bluegill, Buster, and Lucky all seemed to enjoy what they knew would be the short-lived freedom. Instinctively, by having the leash attached, they seemed to know that it wasn’t quite time to start the hunt. They meandered around for a while marking their territory every few feet until, acceptingly, they allowed Gene and Dad to put them in the small pen in the back of the truck. As they closed the pen on the beagles, Buster gave two quick silent howls. Again, Dad, as if he understood the bark perfectly, responded to the curious beagle, “We’re about there. Just a few more minutes.” As I closed the tailgate, the beagles barked again. This time, I responded, “I know… I’m eager too.” Dad and I glanced at each other exchanging smiles.

As we drove a few miles to our hunting destination, I admired the vast “nothingness.” The small farm houses were separated by several miles of rolling fields filled with prairie grass. Glancing out the window, I was amazed with how far I could see. There wasn’t hardly any buildings and few trees to obstruct my vision. It certainly was peaceful.

My moment of meditation was interrupted as the truck came to a stop in the middle of a field beside an electric fence. As the truck stopped, the beagles immediately started in with their familiar chorus: “Aroroar, roar, arrr.” I hopped out of the truck and walked toward the three vocalist following Dad and Gene. One by one the beagles made their exit, this time without being restricted by the leashes. The dogs wasted no time in beginning their pursuit. Their noses immediately dropped to the cold ground pulling their body forwards as we could hear them sniff.

I grabbed a 12-gauge shotgun and some shotgun shells from the back of the pickup. Although I had shot the gun various times at targets when I was younger, it had been several years since I had used a gun. I glanced at the other men hoping I could copy their movements in loading the gun. I saw them each slide a shell into their shotgun and press a lever to chamber it. “Ahh, yes,” I thought, “now I remember.” I grabbed the shells feigning confidence and began chambering shells one-by-one. I slid the fourth shell into the loading slot and slid the lever to chamber it as I had the others. In doing so, a shell flew from the release chamber landing beside the foot of my dad, coldly reminding me that the gun only holds three shells. My Dad glanced at me with a combination of bewilderment and pity. Trying not to draw attention to the fact that I had faltered with the weapon, I quickly picked up the extra shell and slid it into my pocket.

I pulled my orange hat down to cover my ears from the cold air and began walking with the other men and beagles. The beagles continued moving quickly forward along a small creek. Each of their tails swung from side to side showing their intensity and thrill of finding the scent that they were born to trace. With Buster in the lead their tails disappeared into the heavy brush.

I glanced at my gun and verified that the safety was on. I reminded myself of the most important rules of the hunt: 1) Don’t shoot any of the beagles, 2) Don’t shoot the other hunters, and 3) Don’t shoot myself. In watching the men train and talk to the beagles, I also realized that if I broke rule #1, I also would need to break rule #3 or my hunting partners would break rule #2. It was clear that the beagles were like royalty. We were each peasants along during their hunt to help in any way possible. Seeing the dogs’ devotion to the task at hand, I vowed not to let the kings down.

As we walked through the woods, my previous thoughts of feeling like Elmer Fudd faded. Instead, I felt like a warrior ready for battle. “Bring me a rabbit,” I whispered to the beagles with impatience and excitement. Only fifteen or twenty minutes had elapsed and already I had the urge to pull the trigger. Now all I needed was the furry little head of that wascally wabbit. (OK, the Elmer thoughts hadn’t fully faded.)

The quiet rustle of us walking through the brush was abruptly interrupted by a quick, single “Aroroar” from Buster. I stood silent wondering if I had only imagined the howl. Again, Buster howled “Aroroar.” My pulse quickened and I tightened the grip of the gun in my hand. His tail began swinging side-to-side even quicker. Upon hearing his howl, Bluegill and Lucky stopped their pursuit and began snorting the ground next to Buster. After a few sniffs, Lucky make a quick one syllable outburst: Roar. Lucky, too, followed with a single “Arrr.”

My eyes glared at the three wagging tails in the brush moving quickly forward. From within the brush a quick repetitive iteration of howls filled the peaceful surroundings. “Aroroar, Roar, Arr, Aroroar, Roar, Arr.” Hearing the excitement the beagles’ voices, my heart began to race.

“Get ready,” Dad ordered. “Brad, cover that field,” he said like a general commanding his troops.

“Aye, aye, sergeant.” I thought quickly manning my post. The beagles’ voices continued to repeat with shortened intervals. Their voices grew quieter, not because of their intensity, but because of their increased distance from me.

I heard a rustle in the bushes on the other side of sharp decline in the terrain. Obstructed by a collection of trees, I moved diagonally towards the noise wondering if one of the beagles had not followed the others. On my second step towards the rustle, suddenly a RABBIT appeared in mid air above the brush – leaping from his hideout. The image was momentary but was unmistakable! With my gun resting on my shoulder, the rabbit seemed to look at me with mockery in his eyes. In the flash of fur that flew above the brush, I’m certain the rabbit had his middle finger extended – affirming his arrogance of his bold move.

I flipped the shotgun off my shoulder and caught the barrel with my left hand. As I raised the stock of the gun against my right shoulder, I slid the safety to the off position and moved the sites of the gun left and right, looking for the enemy. The varmint had vanished.

As if I was a general calling for backup, I yelled to the other men and beagles exclaiming that I had spotted a rabbit. The beagles continued to move away from my location uninterested. I continued to scurry my surroundings hoping that I would catch another glimpse of the furry-headed villain. I began kicking nearby logs and brushes hoping to scare the coward out of his hole. I walked several yards back and forth, rustling through the thick brush. Nothing. The rabbit had clearly escaped. Since the beagles and the men continued moving forward, I realized that I must abort this mission and join them in their pursuit. I left the area feeling as if I had lost the battle; however, I was even more prepared for the war.

Buster, Lucky, and Bluegill continued with their howling. For a moment, I questioned their instinctive pursuit. After all, they clearly hadn’t traced the scent of the rabbit that had flashed before my eyes. However, as their howling became more intense and I saw their repetitive tails beat against the bushes, I became convinced that they knew what they were doing.

I positioned myself in an open field with tall grass and watched the beagles to continue to work inside the brush. Their howling became more intense and animated. Their tails swatted the brush with such fury that I could see the tips of their tails had turned red with blood. Their noses seemed to pull the rest of their body. Their howling became so repeated that their three howls started to merge into a single harmony. “Aroroar, Roar, Arr, Aroroar, Roar, Arr” turned into single repetitive “Ararrr, Ararr.” Seeing and hearing them was absolutely beautiful.

This time I would not let the beagles down. I would be ready. I slid the safety to the off position and held the gun outward waiting for the rabbit. The beagles had disappeared into the brush. Their voices grew louder and louder as they advanced towards me. I could tell that they were in hot pursuit and that I stood in the perfect position for the kill.

And then it happened. The rabbit emerged from the brush with a sideways leap, scurrying to escape the raucous of the three howlers. I aimed at the rabbit as he made a second leap in the opposite direction. I gripped the gun tightly and squeezed the trigger. “POW!” The gun shouted in my ear as it recoiled into my shoulder. I continued to look at the target and watched the rabbit make a 90 degree leap in the opposite direction dodging the spray of bee-bees momentarily disappearing into the tall grass. Clearly this was a skilled rabbit - one with Matrix-like escape tactics capable of evading my accurate shot. I remained focused and determined.

The rabbit appeared again in a leap above the grass. I aimed again and fired. “POW!” The rabbit dropped into the grass disappearing again. I approached carefully still taking aim. As I grew closer I saw the rabbit lying peacefully on his side, motionless, and lifeless. It almost seemed surreal. I had shot and killed my first rabbit!

I stood above the rabbit with both a mixture of reverence for the life I had taken and a swelling of pride in actually hitting my target. The beagles continued to howl finally arriving at the crime scene. They sniffed at that rabbit almost looking a bit surprised - either not recognizing the very thing that had them howling for the last 30 minutes or perhaps doubting the likelihood that I hit the target. I picked up the rabbit by the back two legs high above the ground, out of reach from the beagles. The beagles then seemed to understand. They howled with excitement and began leaping up on my legs continuing to bark celebrating with me. I patted their heads and told them how masterful they were as they barked with pride. I wanted to howl with them. I felt like a star basketball player who had hit the winning shot.

I slid the rabbit into a plastic bag and into my hunting vest. I bent down to give the beagles a final congratulatory comment. As I did so, my dad approached me with a large smile on his face. Hearing my praises of the dogs, he patted me on the back and said, “I think they’re congratulating you.”

He was right. And, not just about the beagles congratulating me. He was right about the hunt, about the adventure, about hunting. This was fun. I also realized that I was wrong. Not just wrong in thinking that I wouldn’t enjoy hunting, but wrong in what I thought made my Dad such a great man. I was wrong about strength.

As I stood next to him as an adult in those fields, I began to see him differently. I started to realize that the fly balls that he hit me as my little league coach really weren’t that high, but his devotion to his players reached beyond the clouds. His service in the military wasn't about his hatred for the enemy or unmatched courage or desire to kill, but about his love for his country. His firm discipline and using his belt wasn't guided by anger but instead by his endless belief in me and knowing I could make better choices. He wasn’t necessarily naturally gifted at fixing things as I assumed; he was just persistent in his tinkering and solving problems because he wanted to help our family and others. Even his firm handshakes didn't just remind me of the strength in his hands, but always showed me the warmth in his heart. And, driving 10 hours to go rabbit hunting in Missouri with old army friends had little to do with the quantity or size of Missouri rabbits, but everything to do with the bond he had with these men.

Over the last 10-15 years I have gotten a little better at using a drill and a hammer. I take pride in seeing my hands get dirty when I change the oil in my mower. I even impress my wife by showing a little man crack when replacing a faucet. But, what I’ve realized is that ultimately none of this is really what makes me strong. None of this makes me a man. In fact, what made and continues to make my Dad a great man and incredible father isn’t his strength. It’s his tenderness.

More importantly, what my Dad taught me is that the source of strength for any struggle or suffering isn’t unmatched mental toughness or extraordinary physical stamina. It’s love. It is love that makes me want to fight to endure the physical pain of cat sores, to shake away the weakness. It is love that makes me want to wipe away that look of sorrow from my wife’s face and freeze those smiles on my kids’ faces. It is love that makes me know that I am not fighting this alone, but I have others lifting me up every time I feel I want to fall. It is love that makes me feel that I still have more to give of myself to others, that my work here surely isn’t done.

Alone, I am weak. But, because of others, because of love, I will stay strong.