 | The
Bow & Arrow
Haircut |
You might believe by the title,  this story has something to do with shooting
an apple off someone's head. Far from the truth. It deals with a young
boy with limited income and parents who had great insight about bringing up
children.
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In my home town of Barrackville, Boy Scouts was the special club and most
boys belonged. They wore uniforms and owned pen knives with several
different utensils: knives, spoons, forks, screw drivers and many others.
My knife had one blade and I never did become a member of the Scouts.
However, I had a good neighbor, Ronnie, who because of his lack of physical
skills had joined the Scouts and was more than willing to teach me some of
the various knots they learned to tie and on occasion let me whittle with
his knife. Most of the guys in my neighborhood looked up to Ronnie because
other than being a nice guy, he owned a tent, shot a bow and arrow and got
his hair cut at Mike's Barber Shop.
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It was the Barber Shop thing which leads me to tell this story. He was a
local guy.......one of the town drunks, who made his own bows and arrows.
If you got your hair cut at his place, he would let you pull the string on
his home made 75 pounder. There were many days when I pretended to be
getting a hair cut just so I could set in his barber shop and look at that
bow. I listened to the stories about how good that bow could shoot and day
dream about having one just like it. Then when it was about my turn to get a
hair cut, I would make up some kind of excuse and leave.
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 Bow making became an infatuation. Bows were made from my neighbor's hedges
and my father's fruit tree sprouts. As my bow making progressed, I got the
great idea to make one from my dad's sassafras bean poles. The bean poles
were generally eight feet in length before being trimmed. I gently
retrieved one from the bean patch, making sure to balance the two remaining
poles with rocks and proceeded to make the ultimate bow.
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After several trial and error attempts to find a string strong enough, I
finally settled on a piece of my mothers best clothes line. It seemed
logical to me the best bow ever made should have the best string ever made.
Things went along fairly smooth for several days until wash day when my
mother found her clothes line had been severed. When my mother ask me what
had happened to it, I had to tell the truth. I recall even though I might
get punished for the deed, the punishment was not severe because I was
truthful. Truth was looked at like a beacon of light shining from heaven.
When I told the truth, my parents always commended me and then explained to
me the problem with what I had done.
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My bow was complete, the ‘Long Bowmen of King Arthur's Round Table' would
have drooled over it's dynamics. The bow stood nearly seven feet tall and
had a natural camouflage of natural bark. I day- dreamed how I would look
in the woods hunting a deer. I would be the best hunter ever to set foot in
the woods, making no noise and never being seen even by the best of
foe.
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I shot some pretty big arrows with that bow. I started shooting 12 inch
arrows and ended up with 3 foot lengths. As the bow got broke in, the more
the bow would remain bowed. So it was a continuous progression of making
longer arrows for the bow. I spent many afternoons striping bark off
saplings and shaping those special arrows.
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My dad recognized while I was making arrows I was also staying away from
other troubling influences. The expense of a clothes line rope was well
worth the cost. I should say at this time I never did match Mike's 75
pounder but I must have spent weeks working on my bow and enjoyed its
arrow-sling power.
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Oh yes, the other thing about Mike's Barber Shop was Frank Gatski, the local
Hall of Fame Pro-football star got his hair cut there too. Gatski was said to
shoot the 75 pound bow at 100 yards and hit the bull's eye.
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My bow was home made and did not have the spring power of the laminated
types. If I aimed at the moon, my arrow might get within 10 feet of the
target. By association, getting your hair cut at Mike's kind of made you a
celebrity.
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Knowing my mother's soft heart, I pleaded and begged her to let me get my
hair cut at Mike's place. Pulling the bow string, the strongest bow known
to mankind and used by Frank Gadsky would give me bragging rights like my
neighbor Ronnie. After several days of this nagging, my mother finally
scraped up a dollar for the hair cut. I remember how excited I was that
day. I hugged and kissed her and danced around holding her hands. Over
and over again I thanked her and told her how much it meant to me.
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The next morning I ran all of the way to Mike's shop to find he was not
open. Like a well trained pup, I set by his door for three hours until he
came to work, sometime after twelve o'clock. Things just were not going
well this day. Getting into his chair, I noticed the big bow was not on the
wall. My heart seemed to drop right out of my chest and at the same time,
Mike's breath smelled like beer. Yes, this was the day I had waited for,
dreamed of, and as it turned out, there was no bow to pull. In addition,
his hair clippers gave me a terrible skinning. You guessed it, Mike was as
drunk as a skunk. Gatski was suppose to be out shooting his bow and had
not brought it back. How disappointed I felt as I walked home: Hair cut
cost a dollar, no bow to pull, and no bragging rights. This had to have
been the worst day of my entire life. I thought, what am I going to tell my
dad.
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My dad worked the day shift at the local coal mine and didn't get home until
about 4:30 PM. Even though my mother tried to comfort me, that afternoon
was undoubtedly the longest afternoon of my life. The problem with the
haircut was my dad normally cut my hair and did a good job of it. Then it
happened, a car door slammed outside and I knew it was my dad.
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Like clock work, my dad always came into the house, gave my mother a kiss,
sat down and drank a cup of coffee. Today for some mysterious reason, he
came out of the house, yelled for me and then gave a big whistle. The yell
I thought, as I hid on top of the chicken house was OK, but it was the
whistle that made the hair on my neck stand straight up. I just knew I was
in big, big trouble. Then came the second whistle. I had no choice. I had
to come. I stood up and yelled with the innocence of new born baby, "Here I
am." I then slid down the adjoining plum tree and ran to him, giving him a
big hug and kiss. He then rubbed my head and began to laugh. "Oh my, what
a hair cut," he said. "Did your mother do this to you?" "No daddy," I
said. "Mike the
barber cut it."
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My dad had a good sense of humor and laughed a lot and today being no
different he laughed and continued to laugh. When he stopped laughing he
told me that Mike had given me a ‘lick and a promise.' That lick and a
promise meant several deep irregular gouges called ‘cow licks' had been cut
all over my head.
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My dad never did anything without having a good reason. Today, he sat me
down on a chair on the back concrete porch, wrapped a sheet around me and
left me to swelter in 95 degrees. I remember he drank an extra cup of
coffee before he came out to cut my hair. It was hard enough for this
wiggly, squiggly little boy to sit still for one hair cut; two hair cuts the
same day was definitely on the extreme side of things. I remember he drew
the sheet a little tighter around my neck that day and then proceeded to
drive his point home as he reshaped my hair. I recall he never stopped
talking to me about the importance of a dollar and how hard it was to earn
it. I believe he started back when he first came over on the boat from
Italy with his mother and continued to bring me up to date.
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My dad's explanations were always long, very detailed and very interesting.
He explained, once in his life as a young man, he had to walk nine miles to
and from work each day. His shoes had fallen apart so he had to walk and
work in bedroom slippers in the coal mine. He explained how his feet would
bleed from the rough coal mine floor and how grateful he would have been if
he had just a dollar in his pocket. He made the point that Mike was a
non-union barber and people like him had hustled poor people for every
dollar in their pockets.
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So I learned at the age of nine there were other things to consider.....when
and where you spend your dollar. I can still recall to this day how the
sweat poured off me and how the loose hair caused me to itch like a young
 pup loaded with fleas. When dad was through cutting my hair, he took off
the sheet, dusted me with powder and gave me a big kiss. Smiling he said,
"Now you look like my little boy. Go shoot that big bow of your's and bring
me home a rabbit to put in the spaghetti sauce."
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My dad had driven his point home and left me feeling good. I was so happy
with his attitude towards me, I immediately went over to John Ice's field
next to the barn and shot my first rabbit.  Toting the rabbit home was a
momentous occasion, my dad held it high in the air for my neighbors Carl,
Whitey, and Ralph to see.
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My dad was so proud of me. The very next payday, he took me to town and
bought me a genuine bow and arrow set from the Ace Auto Store. The glory
days were just beginning for me, for now I could go to the archery course
and shoot with the likes of the Great Gatski and my neighbor Ronnie. On one
occasion I shot an arrow that hit the bull eye and split Gatski's arrow
right down the middle. My life was complete, what else could a nine year
old have wanted. Well there was one more thing. After I split Mr. Gatski's
arrow, he let me shoot the 75 pounder. As for the arrow I shot, we never
did find it! |
| The
Bow & Arrow
Haircut |
