The thought crosses our minds daily. It is a burden. Business owners can’t avoid it while many folks take it for granted. It grew slowly but then starved for more. It spurted from adolescence to adulthood.
Now it languishes on our couch unwelcome obese and slovenly. It breaks down the springs and soils the material with its filth. It drags mud into our homes under its shoes.
It is the dregs of a social system gone to pot – taxes.
The first man that uttered the thought, “There are two things that are inevitable – death and taxes,” was not a free man. He was a politician, a lawyer, or a bureaucrat. Free men don’t rise every morning concerned whether their actions or belongings are taxable. They glower when others tout politicized Ponzi schemes and perceived services.
Nevertheless, population growth does impact social practices while base humanity’s loves and dislikes remain the same. Not so long ago life was simple. Homespun genius was a common lauded norm. The last record of it was during the days of wood smoke, flour sack dresses, Castor Oil, Meat Clubs, kerosene lanterns, outhouses, and when almost everyone went to church on Sunday.
Uncle Munroe Kuhn was Grandma Laura Brune’s younger brother.
She was born in 1898 putting Munroe’s birthdate in the early 1900’s.
As late as 1960 Uncle Munroe and Aunt Lydia lived in a log cabin in Shaw’s Bend. It had a lean-to built off the back making it a two-room abode. He packed an 1873 Winchester, 38-40, or a double-barrel 12 gauge hammer gun when hunting.
Folks hadn’t graduated to tractors and he labored the entirety of his life atop a horse or behind a mule. He spoke of digging and hauling gravel at the Lorraine Gravel Pit with a mule and a slip and aided Grandpa Brune with building barns. Uncle Munroe also helped fill and grade the roads. The state highway system was incomplete and Highway 71 did not exist. Shaw’s Bend was part of the road from Columbus north to Austin. Each family was responsible for maintaining the public thoroughfare that crossed their property. Then understand the time consumed and labor in caring for livestock and the related equipment.
Also, parts for machinery were sometimes manufactured either by the local blacksmith or in a farmer’s shop. One other clue to Uncle Munroe’s life was that he didn’t believe in Squares or Levels when putting up a smokehouse, barn, or later setting a cattle guard. In his estimation, a good cattle guard was like a doorbell when company came over.
It was supposed to rattle.
Mostly Uncle Munroe was a storyteller. There were no texting, emails, zoom, skype, Twitter, Instagram or other phony “twice-removed from reality” forms of communication. Folks looked each other in the eye and spoke to each other. This was done at a kitch- en table, around a campfire, or at Sunday family gatherings. It was during the gatherings that Uncle Munroe shined. All the men were capable but Uncle Munroe’s stories had a particular snark and swagger.
He spits a long stream of Beechnut tobacco juice and says, “Yep. Richard Everson was hunting with me and Man (Grandpa Herman Brune).
We met at noon and talked about whether to stay or go home. About that time an armadillo came rooting along and Richard pointed at it. We hadn’t seen any deer and I told him: I’m going to kick that critter in the rear end and blow its head off.” Of course, one of the men in the circle asked whether he was successful.
“Well, why in the hell would I tell the story unless I did what I said?”
On a later date, Uncle Munroe confided in me. "You know some of that stuff I talk about was foolishness. But, here’s what I believe.
Folks ought not pay money to hunt and other folks ought not charge them for hunting. Me and Man hunted in the Brushy woods and around Kessler’s Lake. Then we coon hunted all over the county. They shut down the music one night at the Hill Crest Dance Hall so the folks could listen to Man’s hounds sing. We always took friends and kinfolks with us. People shouldn’t put a monetary value on hunting! It’s more than that!” Uncle Munroe was demeaning my Dad and also decrying a changing world. Arthur Brune Sr. sold the original Brune home place to Hugh Roy Cullen. Grandpa died and Dad was no hunter so he leased the Brushy land to Arthur Jr. Likewise, he leased more of Uncle Munroe’s former stomping grounds to Forrest Girndt. Now, Uncle Munroe was the last of the old crowd and he was left behind – and I was the only one there to care.
My determination was to share my camp whenever possible.
Years passed and Montana’s Bob Marshal Wilderness beckoned. The hunts were inexpensive, but the only way for me to be there was to guide for outfitters. It is the wildest coun try in the lower 48 states. There are deer, elk, moose, black bears, grizzlies, Big Horn Sheep, Mountain Goats, and the Blackfeet Reservation. The Dearborn, Flathead, Sun, Blackfoot, and Two Medicine Rivers carouse from the surrounding mountain ranges. At night the Northern Lights amp and illuminate the deep skies. The people that went with us reveled in the solitude, the grandeur, and the high country’s nearness to God. Hunting was a glorious afterthought. Taking home wild meat and antlers was the bonus.
The last camp, in Wyoming, is different. It’s the most expensive. Hunters come, shoot their elk, and leave. Snowy peaks with ample game define its trademark. Con cerns for overhunting are neglected. Hunters are jammed in the valley. It showcases the economic squabble and headaches Uncle Munroe warned me about.
The world continues to change, but people don’t. There are no tax collectors in Heaven. There shouldn’t be any in hunting camp.
