I was born in San Jose, California, to a sailor in the Navy and a WAVE. Both are proud Vietnam vets. When I was one, we moved to Norfolk, Virginia. My brother was born two years later, both of us having been conceived during the Thanksgiving week while my dad was back from sea. That same year we moved to Patuxtent River, Maryland where we lived for four more years. In 1980, my dad retired and we moved to Gassaway, West Virginia, to a 120 year old farm house on 76 acres, in the middle of nowhere. a perfect place for a young boy and his little brother. We had no running water for two years, took our bathes in a wash tub, no.3, if i recall correctly, and had an outhouse for a bathroom. My dad spent most of the first year we were there back in Maryland, finishing his tour. My mom ran the place. My mom was born in upstate New York, and grew up in Glendora, California. She had no idea about the mountains. She cut up firewood with a circular saw. We had horses from the previous owner that she chased away with a lawn mower. It was a brave new world. We lived on my father's retirement check, about 1000 dollars give or take, a month. He didn't have a job, none there if he wanted one. We hunted during hunting season, I didn't taste beef for almost twelve years while living there. We had about two acres of garden, we raised sheep, pigs, chickens. Our neighbors, from day one, treated us as family, taught us everything to survive. My dad got two lambs from them the second winter, he named them Bos'n and the Chief. He and my mom raised them from a bottle. They slept in our house. One spring, my dad let them sleep outside. He and I awoke at almost the same time and went outside to check on them. We found them in the middle of our road, dead, their throats torn out by wild dogs. The first of only two times I ever saw my dad cry. But we found out, that was life.
We were given a puppy from the same neighbors, a Collie puppy. My mom named it Woodstock, I'm still not sure if it was for the place she wasn't allowed to go, or if it was from Snoopy's friend. The most beautiful dog in the world, the smartest for sure. He was about six months old when he killed his first dog, a German Shepherd, a wild dog in a pack that had come through our holler. A large black Labrador had stopped and started growling at my dad on the porch. He went in and got his gun and laid that one down. Woodie took off after the Shepherd and snapped its neck. After a few months the dogs quit visiting.
I was seven when I first saw a cow being slaughtered. It still haunts me today. I know though, how to kill, skin and butcher any animal if ever the need arises. I've killed and eaten more squirrels, deer and rabbit from necessity, though. We couldn't afford it any other way. Woody helped me kill my first squirrel with a bb gun. And I damn near lost the tip of my thumb over that. I've seen pigs dropped in the back of a pickup from a .22 in the skull, helped to peel the hide off of them, held the still warm heart and liver. It's a knowledge born from environment and lifestyle. It's not a sport.
We lived that way until 1985. Then we moved to New Jersey. Real culture shock. I was a proud hillbilly by then and spoke like one. Didn't go well. Fought almost everyday until 1987. My dad finally got tired of being a civil servant and we moved back. Learned everything all over again. In the meantime we had given Woody away to a family with a fair amount of property. About six months back, we got a call. They called the neighbors actually, we didn't have a phone, my parents still don't, and my dad and I went all the way back up to get Woody, because they were about to move into a smaller place. We pulled into the drive and he jumped right in. Ready to go home. He rode the entire trip down looking out the windshield, with his head between the front seats, occassionally looking at one of us. He was my mother's dog though, saved her life before we left for New Jersey. She and he went up the hill one day, looking for blackberries for a cobbler or just for eating. He used to eat them off the blackberry briars when he went with mom. Well, this time, on the way back down to the house, my mom almost stepped on a copperhead snake. Woody jumped in front of her, took the bite and killed the snake. Mom ran home, grabbed dad's .22 and ran back to kill the already dead snake. She dropped the gun,broke the stock and had to carry Woody home. After getting the neighbor to look at him , he told her to feed him milk and eggs and not touch the bite area. He would either live or die. After about a week the swelling went down and he was fine. Had a hell of a scar, but made him a vicious enemy of any snake that came near. He was an awesome dog!
He lived a good life until 1990. He and our other dog, Odie, chased a mountain cat into the hills. It apparently got the best of him and tore Odie up pretty good, damn near took his nose off. Woody died a fighter. We never could have put him to sleep if our lives depended on it. We found two more mountain cats that year, one in a chestnut tree and one that had fallen in our well.