Read Online Call Me Joe by Steven J Patrick - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Steven J Patrick
Ads: Link
profusion of ferns that covered the ground over almost all of Washington except for the desert areas around Hanford.
It's probably impossible to live in Washington, Oregon, Montana or Idaho, if you have any degree of passion for the outdoors, without becoming a conservationist of some stripe. Living back East, I used to shake my head at the radical types in the Northwest who chained themselves to trees or spiked them to tear up loggers' chain saws. I figured they were just the generic lunatics that you find in any part of America, waging fierce, quixotic battles against perceived evils that the rest of us, preoccupied as we are with trivialities like paying mortgages and raising kids, assign minimal or no priority.
Instead, I found that they are my neighbors: doctors, accountants, teachers, convenience store owners, corporate managers, housewives, and coaches of peanut league football teams.
I've never hugged a tree or stood my ground before a bulldozer—probably never will--but my own view has changed just as radically…or maybe it hasn't. Maybe, if I'd ever been confronted with the question, I'd have said the same in Carolina or even back in my Virginia mountain birthplace. All I know is that the very statements, "I own this piece of land," "this is my dog," "these trees belong to me," represent the height of man's arrogance and ignorance.
I hold deeds to several pieces of land. It gives me legal rights, for the moment, as long as I or the U.S.A. exist. But, in the larger scheme of things, I'm nothing but a caretaker, and a pretty bad one at that. I don't "own" Clyde. At most Clyde is my best friend who graciously allows me to share his life and his infinite good nature. And with the trees, I have an even more tenuous connection: 99 out of 100 things I can do with them will cause actual harm.
It's childishly obvious to me that, while trees and land and animals were put here to enjoy and make our lives possible, we are, in many ways, only a passing shadow in their lives. I think it behooves us to understand our place in the earth's grand scheme and practice the humility that understanding demands. In simplest terms, we're parasites. We take an amazing amount and give almost nothing, so, the bottom line should be, I think, that old doctors' adage: First, do no harm.
And, as I get older, it sorta pisses me off that so many people don't feel that way…a vital part of my favorite working theory: The world really is all about me.
Me was getting a sore butt as we pulled into the actual town of Colville, so we stopped at a cheery little diner to get the taste of the barbecue out of our mouths and stretch our legs.
Jack was looking at the ground with a thoughtful expression as we entered the diner. He excused himself abruptly and told me to order for him before vanishing around the corner of the building.
The menu was surprisingly adventurous but I played it safe and went for the Cascade burger with steak fries, burgers done medium. The young waitress gave me a dazzling smile and, unless it was just a touch of middle-aged crazy, laid on a bit more swish as she walked away.
It may be rusted and covered with duct tape but I've still got it.
Jack returned with two large boxes. He slid one onto the seat beside me and settled into the other side of the booth.
"What's this?" I asked.
"Boots," Jack smiled. "It occurred to me that I forgot mine and that those Reeboks you're wearing definitely won't cut it, so…hope I guessed right on the size."
"12D," I nodded, looking at the label. "Good guess."
"Same as mine," Jack shrugged. "Wasn't hard to figure out."
"What do I owe you?" I asked. I knew the brand. These puppies run about four hundred a pop—the very reason I don't own a pair.
"On me," Jack said, with a dismissive waive of his hand.
"Like shit," I replied.
"Look," he said mildly. "I'm worth about 4 billion dollars. What these boots cost is
It's probably impossible to live in Washington, Oregon, Montana or Idaho, if you have any degree of passion for the outdoors, without becoming a conservationist of some stripe. Living back East, I used to shake my head at the radical types in the Northwest who chained themselves to trees or spiked them to tear up loggers' chain saws. I figured they were just the generic lunatics that you find in any part of America, waging fierce, quixotic battles against perceived evils that the rest of us, preoccupied as we are with trivialities like paying mortgages and raising kids, assign minimal or no priority.
Instead, I found that they are my neighbors: doctors, accountants, teachers, convenience store owners, corporate managers, housewives, and coaches of peanut league football teams.
I've never hugged a tree or stood my ground before a bulldozer—probably never will--but my own view has changed just as radically…or maybe it hasn't. Maybe, if I'd ever been confronted with the question, I'd have said the same in Carolina or even back in my Virginia mountain birthplace. All I know is that the very statements, "I own this piece of land," "this is my dog," "these trees belong to me," represent the height of man's arrogance and ignorance.
I hold deeds to several pieces of land. It gives me legal rights, for the moment, as long as I or the U.S.A. exist. But, in the larger scheme of things, I'm nothing but a caretaker, and a pretty bad one at that. I don't "own" Clyde. At most Clyde is my best friend who graciously allows me to share his life and his infinite good nature. And with the trees, I have an even more tenuous connection: 99 out of 100 things I can do with them will cause actual harm.
It's childishly obvious to me that, while trees and land and animals were put here to enjoy and make our lives possible, we are, in many ways, only a passing shadow in their lives. I think it behooves us to understand our place in the earth's grand scheme and practice the humility that understanding demands. In simplest terms, we're parasites. We take an amazing amount and give almost nothing, so, the bottom line should be, I think, that old doctors' adage: First, do no harm.
And, as I get older, it sorta pisses me off that so many people don't feel that way…a vital part of my favorite working theory: The world really is all about me.
Me was getting a sore butt as we pulled into the actual town of Colville, so we stopped at a cheery little diner to get the taste of the barbecue out of our mouths and stretch our legs.
Jack was looking at the ground with a thoughtful expression as we entered the diner. He excused himself abruptly and told me to order for him before vanishing around the corner of the building.
The menu was surprisingly adventurous but I played it safe and went for the Cascade burger with steak fries, burgers done medium. The young waitress gave me a dazzling smile and, unless it was just a touch of middle-aged crazy, laid on a bit more swish as she walked away.
It may be rusted and covered with duct tape but I've still got it.
Jack returned with two large boxes. He slid one onto the seat beside me and settled into the other side of the booth.
"What's this?" I asked.
"Boots," Jack smiled. "It occurred to me that I forgot mine and that those Reeboks you're wearing definitely won't cut it, so…hope I guessed right on the size."
"12D," I nodded, looking at the label. "Good guess."
"Same as mine," Jack shrugged. "Wasn't hard to figure out."
"What do I owe you?" I asked. I knew the brand. These puppies run about four hundred a pop—the very reason I don't own a pair.
"On me," Jack said, with a dismissive waive of his hand.
"Like shit," I replied.
"Look," he said mildly. "I'm worth about 4 billion dollars. What these boots cost is
Similar Books
