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I'll just call him "Pete", one name's as good as another and so for the purpose of entertainment and to "protect the guilty" I'll just call him "Pete". Since I was raised on the mission field I was familiar with culture shock. We'd see it in the lives of newly arrived missionaries. Shucks, we'd even see it in folks who'd been around for a while. We'd also experience it when returning to the US to visit our family's supporting congregations. My folks were direct support missionaries so we'd return to the US every few years to report directly to the churches there about the work that they were doing and future plans other such "stuff". So each time we'd head north there was a period of adjustment as we settled into a foreign (to us) culture. It was amusing to me to see folks undergo the same culture shock that we experienced - within their own country. Indeed, most americans don't seem to realize that there are many different cultures within their own borders - and so they experience culture shock as they try to fit into a new place, only without realizing it. And that's what happened to Pete. He was raised in Kalifornia but moved to Missouri to attend a seminary there. Somehow or other (probably because he lived across the dorm hall from me) he attached himself to me - little suspecting that he was in for some interesting times. You see, I was raised as a "redneck" and he was pure city slicker. Hanging out with a redneck can be "an experience" - if you've been sheltered all your life in the city. Here's a couple of anecdotes from his experience for your entertainment. One day we were driving down through "Snob Hill". It was a good shortcut to get from the western edge of town where we'd been (I can't recall what we'd been doing over there) to the seminary grounds. We were enjoying a nice spring day with the windows rolled down on my old '68 Fairlane. The Lord only knows what Pete was talking about when I happened to see a squirrel. Now there's few things in life finer than wild game when it comes to eatin' time and squirrel is one of nature's most prolific sources of protein. And this squirrel, grown fat from the abundant food set out by thoughtful keepers of urban bird feeders, had grown careless. He was sitting there contemplating his next bird feeder raid or whatever it is that squirrels contemplate while sitting in the middle of a street - and his back was turned towards us. Pete's monologue was forgotten as I concentrated on the furry piece of a future culinary experience. The front license plate on the Fairlane hung down smack dab in the middle of the front bumper - and I was sure it was low enough to smack the lil' birdfeeder raider right in his hairy noggin. It might not kill him but it'd sure 'nough give me a chance to stop and hightail it back to put him out permanent prior to joining us for the rest of the ride home. I stepped on the accelerator and adjusted my trajectory so that I'd take Mr. Squirrel right down the middle of the car. There's nothing worse than trying to skin out flattened squirrel and I sure didn't want to make a mess of this one. As the car sped up Pete suddenly saw the squirrel. It took about 1/100th of a second to register and then he screamed! I've never been up close to a wild panther but from what I've heard folks tell that's what ol' Pete sounded like in the close confines of the car. That broke my concentration and caused me to swerve from the surprise and we went sailing right over Mr. Squirrel - messing up his hairdo from the turbulence of the zooming vehicle. "What's the matter?!?!" I asked. "You almost hit that squirrel!" was the near hysterical reply. Pete never could get it into his head that someone would actually consider eating one of the little nutcrackers. Spring was bad enough but only squirrels were in season. Then came the fall. Missouri had a ten day deer season and doe tags were by drawing only in those far back times. Another friend and I took off one weekend for a Missouri deer hunt in an area where he'd drawn a doe tag. Through hard work and determination we were able to get a nice fat doe, hauled her out to the VW Bug and headed back to school. My buddy took half of the deer over to a married student's trailer to cut it up for freezing and left the other half in the tub in the bathroom with a steady stream of cool water from the tap (turned way low) to keep it cool until he could come back for it. This was a simple and convenient way to keep the meat cool and was no problem since none of the guys used the tub anyway. Then along came Pete, carrying his towel, heading for the showers to wash away the grime from work, all unsuspecting and innocent and looking forward to an evening's relaxation. As he stepped into the communal bathroom he heard the faint sounds of running water and stepped to the door of the tub's stall to see why the water was running. And there it was. The bloody carcass half. All Pete saw was raw flesh about the length of a human's body, none of the other physical traits stood out - just the raw, skinless flesh. All the horror movies put out by his home state's propaganda machine (Hollyweird) came crashing into his mind. The answer to the "What the...." question came flooding in like a burst dam - "We've got a psycho loose in the dorm!" Once more Pete's trademark vocalization echoed - this time through the dorm - sending chills quavering up my spine. Somehow things got smoothed over and my hunting buddy had to promise to never use the tub as a cooler again. Luckily Pete didn't work in the kitchen - or he'd have run the risk of freaking out again when someone else used the walk-in cooler as a handy place to store freshly harvested squirrels until they had enough for a Sunday lunch. |
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