Monday, April 28, 2014

The Courtship of Hawkeye



The Deerslayer is a 'prequel' to James Fenimore Cooper's more famous work, The Last of the Mohicans, telling the story of the character who would later become Hawkeye but who, in this book, hasn't yet earned his nom de guerre, and is called Deerslayer by his Delaware Indian friends for his skill in hunting.

In this scene Judith, a young woman of uncommon wit and exceptional beauty, who has spent her life living alone on a lake in the wilderness with her reclusive foster-father and simple-minded sister, has been trying to steer the conversation toward marriage with the young woodsman, for whom she has been developing feelings throughout the book. But Deerslayer's natural modesty and humility, as well as his high regard for Judith's person and charms, have blinded him to all her attempts to show her feelings by the usual circuitous route taken by members of the fair sex.

"This is not talking as becomes either of us, Deerslayer; for whatever is said on such a subject, between man and woman, should be said seriously, and in sincerity of heart. Forgetting the shame that ought to keep girls silent, until spoken to, in most cases, I will deal with you frankly as I know one of your generous nature will most like to be dealt by. Can you--do you think, Deerslayer, that you could be happy with a wife such as a woman like myself would make?"
"A woman like you, Judith! But where's the sense in trifling about such a thing? A woman like you, that is handsome enough to be a captain's lady, and fine enough, and, so far as I know, edication enough, would be little apt to think of becoming my wife. I suppose young gals that feel themselves to be smart, and know themselves to be handsome, find a sartain satisfaction in passing their jokes ag'in them that's neither, like a poor Delaware hunter."
This was said good-naturedly, but not without a betrayal of feeling which showed that something like mortified sensibility was blended with the reply. Nothing could have occurred more likely to awaken all Judith's generous regrets, or to aid her in her purpose, by adding the stimulant of a disinterested desire to atone, to her other impulses, and clothing all under a guise so winning and natural, as greatly to lessen the unpleasant feature of a forwardness unbecoming the sex.
"You do me injustice if you suppose I have any such thought or wish," she answered, earnestly. "Never was I more serious in my life, or more willing to abide by any agreement that we may make to-night. I have had many suitors, Deerslayer--nay, scarce an unmarried trapper or hunter has been in at the lake these four years, who has not offered to take me away with him, and I fear some that were married, too--"
"Aye, I'll warrant that!" interrupted the other; "I'll warrant all that! Take 'em as a body, Judith, 'arth don't hold a set of men more given to theirselves, and less given to God and the law."
"Not one of them would I--could  I listen to; happily for myself, perhaps, has it been that such was the case. There have been well-looking youths among them, too, as you may have seen in your acquaintance, Henry March."
"Yes, Harry is sightly to the eye, though, to my idees, less so to the judgment. I thought, at first, you meant to have him, Judith, I did; but, afore he went, it was easy enough to verify that the same lodge wouldn't be big enough for you both."
"You have done me justice in that, at least, Deerslayer. Hurry is a man I could never marry, though he were ten times more comely to the eye, and a hundred times more stout of heart than he really is."
"Why not, Judith--why not? I own I'm cur'ous to know why a youth like Hurry shouldn't find favor with a maiden like you."
"Then you shall know, Deerslayer," returned the girl, gladly availing herself of the opportunity of extolling the qualities which had so strongly interested her in her listener; hoping by these means covertly to approach the subject nearest her heart. "In the first place, looks in a man are of no importance with a woman, provided he is manly, and not disfigured or deformed."
"There I can't altogether agree with you," returned the other thoughtfully, for he had a very humble opinion of his own personal appearance; "I have noticed that the comeliest warriors commonly get the best-looking maidens of the tribe for wives; and the Sarpent, yonder, who is sometimes wonderful in his paint, is a gin'ral favorite with all the Delaware young women, though he takes to Hist, himself, as if she was the only beauty on 'arth."
"It may be so with Indians, but it is different with white girls. So long as a young man has a straight and manly frame, that promises to make him able to protect a woman, and to keep want from the door, it is all they ask of the figure. Giants like Hurry may do for grenadiers, but are of little account as lovers. Then as to the face, an honest look, one that answers for the heart within, is of more value than any shape, or color, or eyes, or teeth, or trifles like them. The last may do for girls but who thinks of them at all, in a hunter, or a warrior, or a husband! If there are women so silly, Judith's not among them."
"Well, this is wonderful! I always thought that handsome liked handsome, as riches love riches!"
"It may be so with you men, Deerslayer, but it is not always so with us women. We like stout-hearted men, but we wish to see them modest; sure on a hunt, or the warpath, ready to die for the right and unwilling to yield to the wrong. Above all, we wish for honesty--tongues that are not used to say what the mind does not mean, and hearts that feel a little for others as well as for themselves. A true-hearted girl could die for such a husband!"

Friday, April 25, 2014

Twenty-Nine Years Later

Today is the 29th anniversary of the day I joined the Army. Shipped out the next day (on my mother's birthday) and spent the next 14 weeks at Fort Knox, Kentucky learning to be a soldier and a man.






I'm on the left. That's my brother, James with me.

My official Army photo from basic training.

The only picture I've got of myself in BDUs. And my first car: I'd previously only owned a motorcycle.

On a special recon mission with Bill Gabbert from my platoon in Germany. My platoon received orders one morning to dress warmly in civilian clothes, then was divided into two-man teams and given maps and coordinates with a course covering several waypoints and many miles. When we reached the last waypoint, we found that it was a Gasthaus with our Platoon Leader and NCOs waiting inside with free hot food and cold beer for all. Those were the days.

Off-duty.

Me in Germany, with a glass in my hand and a cross around my neck. Iconic.

I have many regrets, one of the chief among them being that I was forced out due to medical issues and couldn't finish my full career. But, although it was hard and at many times unpleasant and downright miserable, I don't regret joining the Army. Rather, I shall always see it as one of the best things I've ever done.

The Secret Thread

“You may have noticed that the books you really love are bound together by a secret thread. You know very well what is the common quality that makes you love them, though you cannot put it into words: but most of your friends do not see it at all, and often wonder why, liking this, you should also like that. Again, you have stood before some landscape, which seems to embody what you have been looking for all your life; and then turned to the friend at your side who appears to be seeing what you saw -- but at the first words a gulf yawns between you, and you realise that this landscape means something totally different to him, that he is pursuing an alien vision and cares nothing for the ineffable suggestion by which you are transported. Even in your hobbies, has there not always been some secret attraction which the others are curiously ignorant of -- something, not to be identified with, but always on the verge of breaking through, the smell of cut wood in the workshop or the clap-clap of water against the boat's side? Are not all lifelong friendships born at the moment when at last you meet another human being who has some inkling (but faint and uncertain even in the best) of that something which you were born desiring, and which, beneath the flux of other desires and in all the momentary silences between the louder passions, night and day, year by year, from childhood to old age, you are looking for, watching for, listening for? You have never had it. All the things that have ever deeply possessed your soul have been but hints of it -- tantalising glimpses, promises never quite fulfilled, echoes that died away just as they caught your ear. But if it should really become manifest -- if there ever came an echo that did not die away but swelled into the sound itself -- you would know it. Beyond all possibility of doubt you would say "Here at last is the thing I was made for". We cannot tell each other about it. It is the secret signature of each soul, the incommunicable and unappeasable want, the thing we desired before we met our wives or made our friends or chose our work, and which we shall still desire on our deathbeds, when the mind no longer knows wife or friend or work. While we are, this is. If we lose this, we lose all.” -- C.S. Lewis, The Problem of Pain

The truly tragic thing is when you find that rarest person, with whom you share that secret thread, but, through fear, misunderstanding, the interference of others or, as usual in my case, through trying too hard, fail to establish a real and lasting connection with them. It's like finding an oasis in the desert and then not being permitted to drink.

Wednesday, April 23, 2014

Fun with Books

I came across this site while researching books, and am afraid I've quickly become addicted.

Goodreads | Michael Du pré - The United States (93 books)

Bibliophiles, beware. Or, join me in listing, rating, reviewing, and cataloging every single book we've ever read (it's going to take a while). Come on; it will be fun, in a nerdy, obsessive-compulsive kind of way.

Friday, April 18, 2014

Brother Walid



Walid is my friend from Syria. We met through a mutual friend on facebook a while back. He was disillusioned with Islam and searching for something better, and began to ask me about Christianity. A year or so ago, Walid courageously gave his life to Christ (apostasy from Islam is a capital crime), and though I tried to get him connected with a local church and offered to send him an Arabic Bible, he was very concerned with security and the best I was able to do at the time was get him an electronic version of the Scriptures in Arabic.

Despite the danger, however, it wasn't long before Walid had a growing group of new believers around him...the Gospel has its own power. I've been praying for him and for them ever since, and was very touched and gratified today to see him in this photo: at church for Good Friday! Praise be to God!

Saturday, April 5, 2014

Wednesday, April 2, 2014

Orlando

Old friends made my stay in Orlando fun despite its marking the end of my walk.

 Brian 'Zoid' Kelly and me at the "Get the Led Out" concert
 Pastor Ray and Helen Reynolds. He was my pastor in Belgium when I was in high school, with...
 Ruthie Reynolds Delk
 Get the Led Out. Awesome Zep cover band
Brian and me at the Irish pub
 
Brian and me at the German gasthaus. Are you beginning to see a theme?

And I don't have any pictures, but most of my time was spent with lovely Jessica Eve, who opened her home and her heart to me for almost two weeks. Why don't I have any pictures of Jessica?

Tuesday, April 1, 2014

"A full life will be full of pain. But the only alternative is not to live fully or not to live at all." -- M. Scott Peck, 'The Road Less Travelled'

Comin' Home


Isms

I thought I had coined the use of the term 'isms' to describe the limited kind of thinking that only sees in terms of camps and categories. But it turns out that C.S. Lewis used it back in 1946 in his introduction to 'George MacDonald: an Anthology'.

"I will attempt no historical or theological classification of MacDonald's thought, partly because I have not the learning to do so, still more because I am no great friend to such pigeonholing. One very effective way of silencing the voice of conscience is to impound in an Ism the teacher through whom it speaks: the trumpet no longer seriously dusturbs our rest when we have murmured 'Thomist,' 'Barthian,' or 'Existentialist'."