Law Letters

My Thoughts On the Missouri Rodeo Clown

If you haven’t already heard, a Missouri rodeo clown is in deep doo-doo over his poor choice of words in the rodeo arena last Saturday. But that’s really what it was, a poor choice of words, because everything else had been done before.  That’s right, this wasn’t the first time a mask of an American president was put on a dummy in a rodeo arena.  Initially this wasn’t about race, or politics, even though it could be made to be so by the media.  Which they did, of course.

That’s right, it wasn’t about race until a few locals and the media attention dug into the sensitivities that already exist over President Obama being black. It’s not about him being a Democrat, or a liberal, or that Missouri is predominantly a Red State. To prove my point, put a mask of President Bill Clinton on a rodeo dummy and do the same act, and you’ll see most people, including the media, shrug it off.  Oh yes, it’s been done before, so the point is easily proven.

So why was it a poor choice of words?  Because this “sensitivity” is well-known in America today.  It is also well-known that among Red State Conservatives, President Obama is disliked more than any other President than I’ve ever heard about.  I know this because I am a native Missourian, I live in Missouri now, and have for most of my adult life. I hear it first-hand, from people I know and don’t know, who are very vocal about their dire dislike and distrust of President Obama. Sadly, I’ve heard them reference his race in their disdain for his policies and politics. This was low hanging fruit for the liberal media (who know of these references) to take this situation and further spread their influence over political correctness.

Was the rodeo routine done in bad taste? Probably so, but ask yourself the same question when it’s done with any other President.  That’s the point I want to make. This is where “race” is made an issue, and it now becomes “politics” and they don’t care who they hurt. Because when it’s all said and done, who is going to win in this deal?  Was President Obama hurt in this situation?  Well, I guess you’d have to ask him.  I’d like to hear his response. I’d like to hear him say, “I’m no more offended by this than Bill Clinton was or would be, or Ronald Regan, or Jimmy Carter, or George H. or George W. Bush would have been when the joke was on them.”  But will he say that?  I doubt he will, because he is first and foremost a politician. It's probably just another one of those moments for "calm reflection".

My thought is that it was in bad taste when it was done with any or every American President, now or in the past.  My thought is that it is also offensive that anyone involved in that rodeo, besides the rodeo clown or whoever was in charge of scripting that entertainment segment, face any sort of serious sanction, such as the loss of their jobs because of their association with the rodeo company, simply because of the elevated sensitivity of the race of our current American President.  And I am not just talking about rodeo jobs, I am talking about the rodeo announcer, who is also a school superintendent, and may have lost that job because of his close association with the event.

Oh yes... the Secret Service also got involved, too.

But, this happening will be used to make an example out of these folks, and I would say that because of the “sensitivities” involved here, that it will never happen again, with any President, Senator, or high ranking official, in any American rodeo arena in any state.

Now we can score one for Political Correctness, and the continued ability for the media to use race as an issue.  Score another one for lessons in sensitivity, not just to those rodeo folks, but to an overly sensitive segment of our American culture.  Now slap the hands of those who need to find better ways to entertain their audiences, and for not recognizing the trouble that could get them into.  Right or wrong, they could have avoided that.  I don’t think anyone involved in crafting that act intended to martyr themselves or the welfare of their family, they were just trying to be funny. Well, that certainly came back to slap them in the Presidential mask, because now I don’t hear of anyone laughing.

Once Again, The Problem Is Not the ‘Gun'

I am proud of my fellow Americans today.  Though I do realize it’s just a poll, I was very pleased that nearly eighty percent disagreed with Bob Costas and Jason Whitlock in their assessment of the Kansas City Chief’s player, Jovan Belcher, and his weapon of choice in a murder/suicide. When I originally heard about what Costas said, and that he was quoting Whitlock, I had this immediate insecurity that way too many people would agree with him, and I was so glad that I was wrong.

Though I would like to go into a rant similar to what many other fellow Americans are doing, I will refrain, because I think they are doing a good enough job with it (it has gone seriously viral), and since Costas has had a chance to respond, the controversy has taken a different turn.  Yes, I do think Bob Costas and Jason Whitlock should both be fired.  My opinion has nothing to do with free speech, this is about using their powerful positions as “SPORTS COMMENTATOR” and “SPORTS COLUMNIST” to exploit personal propaganda. They interjected their personal feelings into a situation that was inappropriate. That is despite the fact that they had no idea what they were talking about, and anyone who agrees with them are as ignorant to the facts as they are.

Costas followed up with a comment that he regretted using the forum that he did, and that people misunderstood him.  So, he regrets the forum, because he knows that was wrong, but as for people misunderstanding him, I don’t think nearly eighty percent of viewers/listeners misunderstood him. On the contrary, we heard him loud and clear. Then comes the follow-up by TV news reporters, who in some cases have defended him, citing that he was referring to changes needed in the “gun culture.”

As I see it, there are two gun cultures: lawful and unlawful. We don’t ever hear about the lawful culture, because they are not doing anything wrong.  But when someone busts a brain cell or two and goes off on a shooting rampage, the lawful take the heat.

What certain urbanites and news pundits do not realize is that there are law abiding citizens who own guns. There are generations of men and women who have learned to respect firearms, their purpose, and their dangers, and they do not take them for granted.  The ignorant don’t realize that people can own guns without evil thoughts in their minds… that they don’t pack a Glock 9 mm with the sole purpose of popping a cap in someone’s a**.  No, most people I know who have guns own them legally and use them lawfully and respectfully.

I remember when I was a boy how strict my father was when it came to learning how to handle a firearm.  Holding it, carrying it, using the safety button, and to make careful decisions before shooting.  We had to be conscious of what was within range anywhere near where we were shooting.  We never shot toward a house or structure.  There were also laws that dictated how much ammunition a gun could hold, such as a shotgun, which had a plug, etc.  These are things we respected and abided by, and the culture that Costas and Whitlock, and twenty-two percent of the poll, obviously know nothing about.

What concerns me most about these controversial comments is how badly it has distracted people from the real issue. Jovan Belcher (allegedly) murdered his girlfriend, then killed himself, because he was mentally ill.  How do I know?  Well, I will go out on a limb on this one and say that I imagine that most doctors, psychologists, and law enforcement officers would agree with me.  What would possess someone to do something like that?  It’s the epitome of narcissism and control, the latter of which he didn’t have, so he gained it by using violence. Violence, in this case, which involved a firearm, so naturally people who don’t know anything about guns want to blame the gun.

This is a terrible distraction, because we all know (at least seventy-eight percent of us know) the gun didn’t cause this problem.  The tragedy here is that two people lost their lives.  Regardless of how hard someone tried to reach Jovan Belcher and help him through his ordeal, no one was there to protect his girlfriend. Remember, Whitlock said, “If Jovan Belcher didn't possess a gun, he and Kasandra Perkins would both be alive today.”  Would it have been so wrong if she would have been armed so that she could have protected herself?  Because if she had, with proper training, then it is possible that one less person would be dead right now.  Doesn’t that make more sense than what Whitlock said?

Let’s just say that Belcher didn’t have a gun, and that he grabbed a butcher knife.  Then his girlfriend pulls her .38 and says, “Put the knife down, Jovan.”  If he’s not too far gone in the head, then he puts the knife down and two lives are saved.  If he charges her with the knife, then there’s a chance she can protect herself.  Does the gun exacerbate the situation? No, it minimizes the risk, especially if the victim has proper training in using the gun and defending herself.

We could go on and on with different scenarios, but I’m sure you get my point.  The best thing to do at this point is to forget about what is not the problem, and go back further to what is the problem, which was Belcher’s mental state.  Professionals in this field like to talk about “tracing the problem.”  This is not like doing math, it’s more about evaluation of people, their history, and their lifestyle, and trying to understand where this behavior comes from.  I am not about to judge Belcher or his life because I don’t know anything about it (something Costas and Whitlock should consider before opening their mouths).  What I do know is that something(s) in his life led him to the point where he made the decision that he did. 

It could be a number of things, and there is no perfect solution. But what could anyone have done?  We are all guilty of being too busy, too preoccupied, with whatever it is in our lives that consumes us.  Work, commuting to and fro, kid’s activities, our activities.  Too much of what we do is about “me” and not about others.  We say we don’t have time for it, but I can assure you if quite a few Kansas City Chiefs players had a crystal ball and knew what was going to happen before it happened, they would have made time for it. 

Well, now is the time to prepare, because it’s going to happen again.  Next time it may not be someone you know, then again it might.  But just remember, people problems are not gun problems, and football is not the problem either. Guys like Bob Costas and Jason Whitlock … they are an entirely different problem.  They, and people like them, should use a personal forum to spout off their ignorance, and not the veins of mass media that empowers them, or was entrusted to them.

Steven Law is the author of Yuma Gold (Berkley, 2011) and The True Father (Goldminds, 2008). Visit his website at www.stevenlaw.com.

The Power Of An Empty Chair

Long before Clint Eastwood delivered his controversial improv at the Republican National Convention, or the buzz of “Eastwooding” began, there has been and empty chair in my house that is much more than just a “conversation” piece, and the former inhabitants more than just imaginative.

Most of my readers know that my pen name, Law, came from my maternal grandmother. When my grandmother was only five years-old, her own mother passed away, and since her father didn’t feel he could provide proper care for her and her two siblings, they were left to be raised by her grandparents. Her grandfather had a chair that she loved to sit in, and God only knows the things she learned or thought about while sitting in that chair, but more so, I am confident that my great-great-grandfather read some fantastic news stories while reading his newspaper in it.

It is possible that in that chair he learned of the panic in 1929 that began the Great Depression, something that would have affected them greatly since they owned and operated a general store. He likely listened to Roosevelt on the radio, maybe the comedy of Amos and Andy, or the Big Band music of Artie Shaw.

My grandma’s uncle Otis was the first to inherit the chair, and the picture I have here is of him sitting in it, in his favorite spot next to his radio. The little girl in the picture is one of my mother’s first cousins, which would date this photo in the early 1950s. Having learned about Otis and his interests, I’m quite certain that he listened to a lot of baseball games on that radio while sitting in the chair—perhaps he heard the play by play of the St. Louis Cardinals and Stan Musial as they won the 1942 World Series.

Otis died in 1963, and though I’m not sure how it worked out precisely, somehow my grandma Law inherited the chair. As a child I remember seeing the chair in the old farmhouse.  Not considered an antique, but a regular part of the living room furniture, it was used for family and company. Though I can’t remember specifically my grandmother reading to me in this chair, I’m quite sure it was in the same room when she did.

My grandma died in 1983, and several years after that my grandfather gave the chair to my mother.  To her it was an heirloom and an antique, and was very proud of it. The cushion had been recovered from its original leather to a gold tweed upholstery, and it was part of my mom’s decorative furniture for several years—never used, but sat empty and only to be admired by its appearance.

I loved the chair, for its style, appearance, and nostalgia, so I was very pleased when my mother gave it to me. I never intended to use it, only for it to sit empty and to decorate my home. But it was in bad need of a new finish, and I wanted to recover the cushion back to leather. My mom agreed to help me, and so before taking it to my home we stripped and refinished it ourselves, and my mom reupholstered the cushion. When done I couldn’t have been more pleased with the results.

But in my house it sat, an empty chair, except when one of my cats or my dog took the notion to lay in it for a nap. On occasion, when my parents would visit, my mom would sit in the chair, maybe to absorb some of that nostalgic energy, or more likely to admire our work of restoration. I certainly loved having the chair for all those reasons.

Not long ago I was reading about Louis L’Amour’s claim that he “could write anywhere with his typewriter balanced on his knees.” I thought I should try to do something similar, and when passing through my living room I saw the chair and it hit me: I should write a novel in that chair.

After all, I write under my grandmother’s name, and it belonged to her family.  What another great tribute, I thought, and it would also give that particular book a special, personal contribution.  So I committed to it, and when I started writing The Bitter Road, it was with my laptop balanced on my knees, in that once empty chair.  Though I am still working on the novel as I write this, I can assure you that every single word has, and will be written in that chair. 

And yes, even this blog post is being written in that chair. 

One might wonder if it’s comfortable, and I am amazed at just how comfortable it is. It’s really no different than my office chair, which is designed after the old style wooden office chairs on caster wheels. Though I’m not convinced it’s something I would want to write in full time, it’s definitely fun to do as a tribute.

Now as for having conversations with this empty chair, that has never happened. I do think, however, that sometimes the chair talks to me.  Not literally, of course, but spiritually.  Five generations of my family have owned this chair, and it’s my belief that it is on an incredible journey, and my contribution may only be a short chapter of where it has been and what is yet to come, but before my time is up, I may have to do some Eastwooding of my own. That’s right, I can’t bear the thought of saying goodbye to the chair without having a nice talk. We might even talk about politics.

Steven Law is the author of Yuma Gold (Berkley, 2011) and The True Father (Goldminds, 2008). Visit his website at www.stevenlaw.com.

Ze Men at Ze Campfire

I was reared in southern Iowa, just a few miles from the Missouri state line, an area abundant with all sorts of wildlife. My dad was an avid pheasant and quail hunter, and raised registered Brittany Spaniels trained for bird hunting. I was in my early teens before we started hunting other game, such as ducks and geese, and ultimately deer.

     Deer hunting in Iowa is a little different than other states because we have to use shotguns with slug loads. The shotgun slug is as deadly as any other chunk of lead, but as I used to say, it’s like hunting with a high-powered sling shot. Regardless, I killed my first deer with a shotgun slug, and it wasn’t long before the buck fever took a hold of me.

     Being that Missouri wasn’t too far away, and all my family lived there, we visited frequently. When it came to hunting, Missouri seemed like another world: the world of the high powered rifle. I remember many days suffering from frozen toes hunting coyotes with my grandfather, or raccoons with my uncles. No one in my family deer hunted, but the interest took hold in the late 1980’s when my family and I moved to Kansas City and became Missouri residents.

     I borrowed a Model 94 Winchester (.30-30) from my uncle, and went on my first Missouri deer hunt on family land. My dad already had a .270 Remington, equipped with a scope, so we were both well set. My dad talked his brothers and a few of my cousins into joining us, and little did we know we were to begin an event that would forever addict us to the sport of deer hunting: the annual gathering of deer camp.

Each year when I arrive at deer camp, I am more amazed at how much things have changed since it all began back in the late 80s. Then all we had was a very small cabin and an outhouse, no heat, electricity or running water, and everyone congregated around the campfire.

     I’ll never forget how cold it was trying to sleep on the floor of the unheated cabin, and how much of a task it was to cook a simple meal. One year I realized that it would be warmer to sleep outside next to the campfire than it would in the unheated cabin. Ironically that year it had snowed quite a bit, and snow was all around me, but I cleaned a spot next to the fire and I was much warmer.

     Also, back then, it was just a few family members that gathered. Maybe ten or twelve of us. Today there’s as many as thirty, some friends of family members or friends of friends. Today, almost thirty years later, our cabin has doubled in size, with sleeping bunks, propane heat, electricity and running water. We also have a new and rather large metal barn, with sleeping quarters, a shower and toilet, a kitchen and a congregating room built in half of it. It has a TV with satellite connection, DVD player, pool table and electronic dart board.

     Things have also changed drastically in the field.

     Being severely farsighted, and usually hunting inside a timber, I still hunt with the .30-30 and don’t use a scope. But that doesn’t mean I don’t buy in to all of the tricks. I have a set of rattling antlers, a buck grunt and growl call, a doe in estrus bleat call, and a scent drag that drags both buck urine and doe estrus. Honestly, I don’t know how well it works, but it is fun to do.

Even more fun is bow hunting. I haven’t bow hunted long, but once I discovered it, I was hooked. Anyone can shoot a deer out of a stand with a rifle. Bow hunting requires more of a cunning skill and more patience. It is a more intimate time in the outdoors, getting up close and personal with the deer. Even if I don’t see that prize buck, quite often I will sit for hours and watch yearlings, does and spike bucks forage around my stand.

One time, for almost thirty minutes, I watched a really handsome spike buck rub his antlers and gland on a sapling. I literally could have spit on him he was so close to me. A hunter only interested in the kill wouldn’t appreciate that moment, but a hunter who also loves and respects nature, appreciates getting that close to an animal that knows no other enemy more dangerous than man.

Getting an antlered buck that close, however, is a greater challenge. He’ll wander into the general area, attracted by all the tricks of the game, but getting him at a shooting distance requires a good mixture of patience and luck. He hears that doe bleat and buck grunt, but he doesn’t see it.

I am a believer in human scent reduction when deer hunting. In bow hunting it is crucial, and I don’t think anyone can be overly eccentric in making sure their clothes are kept in a scent free environment, or that their body is free from natural human scents. I keep my clothes in a plastic bag, after having washed them in scent free detergent. I use scent free underarm deodorant, shampoo and soap, and I get dressed outdoors.

I don’t cook bacon or any fried foods for breakfast, nor do I make hot coffee. I avoid campfires in the a.m., and if I’m near a campfire in the p.m., I certainly don’t have my hunting clothes anywhere near it. Deer camp isn’t deer camp without a campfire, but it certainly can be counterproductive when it comes to getting that deer to lick estrus off your toes.

Now scent reduction during gun season is not a bad idea, but I don’t think it’s as imperative as during bow season. In fact, this year during rifle season I climbed into the stand on opening day with a cup of steaming hot coffee. Thirty minutes later, 60 yards away, I shot a nine point buck. I have family members who smoke in the stand, and still bag nice bucks with envious racks.

Another plus, which has changed considerably for us over the years, is how we retrieve our downed deer. In the beginning, we had each other and a lot of strong backs. But gradually over the years we introduced two-wheel drive ATVs, four-wheel drive ATVs, and now the four-wheel drive utility vehicle, such as my dad’s John Deere Gator. It’s awesome to see all the big four-wheel drive pickups pull in to camp with their trailers toting these vehicles. And deer retrieval has never been so sophisticated.

     All in all, the hunt is a lot of fun, but when I go to deer camp I look forward to one thing the most, and that’s seeing my uncles and cousins. The way our faces light up when we first see each other, exchange those manly hugs and start catching up from where we last left off, is to me the highlight of the gathering.

      Sure, there’s the eventual deer slaughter that takes place. The recaps of how so and so first saw his deer and gunned it down. The trip to town to check in the deer and look over what others had brought in. It’s the hunter’s dream land, for those that live and sleep hunting.

     But when I’m out hunting, my thoughts are not always as driven towards the trophy buck as the others. I’m more intrigued by nature itself, and at times find myself drifting into thoughts of my work, or something else in my life of more importance. But when that buck does come near, it’s a special moment that I try not to take for granted.

     It’s when I’m back at the campfire at night that I truly draw the added satisfaction out of deer camp. The stories, good and bad jokes, sharing of ideas or just simply harassing each other for fun, is a memorable time each year.

     I remember one time in particular, in the early 80’s, when we were all gathered around the campfire and my dad asked me to write something about that year’s camp. I told him then that I wouldn’t know what to write.

     A friend of our family that was visiting camp that year had brought with him a German foreign exchange student that he was hosting. I can’t remember the student’s name, but I certainly will not forget how observant he was to this bit of American culture called “deer camp” that was taking place.

     I’ll not forget the look in his eyes when my uncle and I tore the hide off of a deer, cut the back strap out and within minutes had small pieces of meat battered and deep-frying in oil. And the fearful expression on his face was even more memorable when he gingerly bit into his first piece of venison.

     Later at the campfire the student paid close attention to all our conversations, and responded to my dad’s writing request by saying, "You can title it 'Ze Men at Ze Campfire.'"

     We were all quite amused by his idea, as well as his German accent. But the truth is, outside of all the hunting action, and stories that went along with it, he understood, for us, what the gathering was all about.

     Though deer camp has experienced a lot of changes in our accommodations, one thing that never changes is the revival of our family bond. I live in south Missouri now, and if it wasn’t for that reunion I would find deer to hunt closer to home. The hunting is great, but it’s “ze men at ze campfire” that makes it all worth while.

Steven Law is founder and president of the ReadWest Foundation (www.readwestfoundation.org), and the author of the novels Yuma Gold (Berkley 2011), The True Father (Goldminds 2008), and The Legend of Old Blue. Visit his Web site at www.stevenlaw.com.