Walking eagle

President BARACK OBAMA was invited to address a major gathering of the American Indian Nation two weeks ago in upstate New York.

He spoke for almost an hour about his plans for increasing every Native American’s present standard of living. He referred to his time as a U.S. Senator and how he had voted for every Native American issue that came to the floor of the Senate.

Although President Obama was vague about the details of his plans, he seemed most enthusiastic and spoke eloquently about his ideas for helping his “red sisters and brothers.”

At the conclusion of his speech, the Tribes presented Obama with a plaque inscribed with his new Indian name, “Walking Eagle.”

The proud President Obama accepted the plaque and then departed in his motorcade to a fundraiser, waving to the crowds.

A news reporter later asked the group of chiefs how they came to select the new name they had given to the President.


They explained that “Walking Eagle” is the name given to a bird so full of shit it can no longer fly.

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Charley Reese’s final column for the Orlando  Sentinel…
He has been a journalist for 49 years.
He is  retiring and this is HIS LAST COLUMN.

Be sure to read  the Tax List at the end.

This is about as clear and  easy to understand as it can be. The article below is  completely neutral, neither anti-republican or democrat.  Charlie Reese, a retired reporter for the Orlando Sentinel,  has hit the nail directly on the head, defining clearly who it  is that in the final analysis must assume responsibility for  the judgments made that impact each one of us every day. It’s  a short but good read. Worth the time. Worth  remembering!

545 vs. 300,000,000 People
-By  Charlie Reese

Politicians are the only people in  the world who create problems and then campaign against  them.

Have you ever wondered, if both the Democrats and  the Republicans are against deficits, WHY do we have  deficits?

Have you ever wondered, if all the  politicians are against inflation and high taxes, WHY do we  have inflation and high taxes?

You and I don’t propose  a federal budget. The President does.

You and I don’t  have the Constitutional authority to vote on appropriations.  The House of Representatives does.

You and I don’t  write the tax code, Congress does.

You and I don’t set  fiscal policy, Congress does.

You and I don’t control  monetary policy, the Federal Reserve Bank does.

One  hundred senators, 435 congressmen, one President, and nine  Supreme Court justices equates to 545 human beings out of the  300 million are directly, legally, morally, and individually  responsible for the domestic problems that plague this  country.

I excluded the members of the Federal Reserve  Board because that problem was created by the Congress. In  1913, Congress delegated its Constitutional duty to provide a  sound currency to a federally chartered, but private, central  bank.

I excluded all the special interests and  lobbyists for a sound reason. They have no legal authority.  They have no ability to coerce a senator, a congressman, or a  President to do one cotton-picking thing. I don’t care if they  offer a politician $1 million dollars in cash. The politician  has the power to accept or reject it. No matter what the  lobbyist promises, it is the legislator’s responsibility to  determine how he votes.

Those 545 human beings spend  much of their energy convincing you that what they did is not  their fault. They cooperate in this common con regardless of  party.

What separates a politician from a normal human  being is an excessive amount of gall. No normal human being  would have the gall of a Speaker, who stood up and criticized  the President for creating deficits. The President can only  propose a budget. He cannot force the Congress to accept  it.

The Constitution, which is the supreme law of the  land, gives sole responsibility to the House of  Representatives for originating and approving appropriations  and taxes. Who is the speaker of the House now? He is the leader of  the majority party. He and fellow House members, not the  President, can approve any budget they want. If the President  vetoes it, they can pass it over his veto if they agree  to.

It seems inconceivable to me that a nation of 300  million cannot replace 545 people who stand convicted — by  present facts — of incompetence and irresponsibility. I can’t  think of a single domestic problem that is not traceable  directly to those 545 people. When you fully grasp the plain  truth that 545 people exercise the power of the federal  government, then it must follow that what exists is what they  want to exist.

If the tax code is unfair, it’s because  they want it unfair.

If the budget is in the red, it’s  because they want it in the red.

If the Army &  Marines are in Iraq and Afghanistan it’s because they want  them in Iraq and Afghanistan …

If they do not receive  social security but are on an elite retirement plan not  available to the people, it’s because they want it that  way.

There are no insoluble government  problems.

Do not let these 545 people shift the blame  to bureaucrats, whom they hire and whose jobs they can  abolish; to lobbyists, whose gifts and advice they can reject;  to regulators, to whom they give the power to regulate and  from whom they can take this power. Above all, do not let them  con you into the belief that there exists disembodied mystical  forces like “the economy,” “inflation,” or “politics” that  prevent them from doing what they take an oath to  do.

Those 545 people, and they alone, are  responsible.

They, and they alone, have the  power.

They, and they alone, should be held accountable  by the people who are their bosses.  Provided the voters  have the gumption to manage their own employees…

We  should vote all of them out of office and clean up their  mess!

What you do  with this article now that you have read it… is up to  you.
This might be funny if it weren’t so true.
Be sure  to read all the way to the end:

Tax his land,
Tax  his bed,
Tax the table,
At which he’s fed.

Tax  his tractor,
Tax his mule,
Teach him taxes
Are the  rule.

Tax his work,
Tax his pay,
He works  for
peanuts anyway!

Tax his cow,
Tax his  goat,
Tax his pants,
Tax his coat.

Tax his  ties,
Tax his shirt,
Tax his work,
Tax his  dirt.

Tax his tobacco,
Tax his drink,
Tax him if  he
Tries to think.

Tax his cigars,
Tax his  beers,
If he cries
Tax his tears.

Tax his  car,
Tax his gas,
Find other ways
To tax his  ass.

Tax all he has
Then let him know
That you  won’t be done
Till he has no dough.

When he screams  and hollers;
Then tax him some more,
Tax him  till
He’s good and sore.

Then tax his coffin,
Tax  his grave,
Tax the sod in
Which he’s laid…

Put  these words
Upon his tomb,
‘Taxes drove me
to my  doom…’

When he’s gone,
Do not relax,
Its time  to apply
The inheritance tax.

Accounts Receivable  Tax
Building Permit Tax
CDL license Tax
Cigarette  Tax
Corporate Income Tax
Dog License Tax
Excise  Taxes
Federal Income Tax
Federal Unemployment Tax  (FUTA)
Fishing License Tax
Food License Tax
Fuel  Permit Tax
Gasoline Tax (currently 44.75 cents per  gallon)
Gross Receipts Tax
Hunting License  Tax
Inheritance Tax
Inventory Tax
IRS Interest  Charges IRS Penalties (tax on top of tax)
Liquor  Tax
Luxury Taxes
Marriage License Tax
Medicare  Tax
Personal Property Tax
Property Tax
Real Estate  Tax
Service Charge Tax
Social Security Tax
Road Usage  Tax
Recreational Vehicle Tax
Sales Tax
School  Tax
State Income Tax
State Unemployment Tax  (SUTA)
Telephone Federal Excise Tax
Telephone Federal  Universal Service Fee Tax
Telephone Federal, State and  Local Surcharge Taxes
Telephone Minimum Usage Surcharge  Tax
Telephone Recurring and Nonrecurring Charges  Tax
Telephone State and Local Tax
Telephone Usage Charge  Tax
Utility Taxes
Vehicle License Registration  Tax
Vehicle Sales Tax
Watercraft Registration  Tax
Well Permit Tax
Workers Compensation  Tax

Not one of these taxes  existed 100 years ago, & our nation was the most  prosperous in the world.
We had absolutely no national  debt, had the largest middle class in the world, and  Mom
, if  agreed, stayed home to raise  the kids.

What in the heck  happened? Can you spell ‘politicians?’

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Illegal aliens

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How I feel about the budget

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The next deer camp

Roaring Bayou hunting club was my first to be a full member of. It was either ’69 or ’70 when Lawrence, Bob Holland and some of the others decided to join the club on what is now Big Lake WMA. Back then there was a large oil and gas field and the land was owned by Chicago Mill and Lumber company. It was sectioned off and leased to clubs. Our part was along the west side of the bayou for which it was named. If you drive down the road from Big Lake you could fork off on the Linder camp road and it dead ended, at an oil well site, on the bank of the bayou. Our camp was across it and down about 1/4 mile or so. At night you could hear the old Wakesha engine on the well.

There was no electricity so the particle board and tin camp was built by hand using mostly a chain saw. Tar paper covered the outside. It had a porch on the bayou side and a small kitchen off the big main room. The men went to the G&T swap shop and got some surplus Army bunks, an old school house butane heater provided warmth. Lawrence had some big Caterpiller batteries and 12V lights rigged up.

Roaring Bayou was not a dog hunting club so we would have to employ a new tactic of stand hunting. To that end we built some 8 foot tall ladder or lean to stands. Lawrence had an old 50’s model Jeep and Bob had an old Scout. That was the hunting vehicles. There wasn’t a bridge at that time so we had to bring the jeep in from Skeeter set before season and just leave it all year. When season started we would park the jeep at the crossing, then wade or boat across to drive it to camp. We mostly walked to hunt using the Jeep to retrieve any game.

Just down river was the Earnest Reeves camp and upriver at the pipeline crossing was George Bartmus’ camp. We mostly hunted within a half mile of the bayou sometimes going as far west as Grassy Bayou. We started the season squirrel hunting and scouting deer sites.

That first year I was still using the old Savage 12 Ga. pump with buckshot. One morning Lawrence and I went over to the big North/South rode and then went south for a ways before leaving the Jeep to head back east toward the bayou. We were south and west on the Reeves camp. There on an old logging road was a big stump I was going to sit on. Lawrence had an old foot locker in the back of the jeep. Along with tools, chains and other hardware was a supply of Vienna sausage, potted meat, sardines, crackers and several cartons of C rations. Out of one of the C rations I got a snack can with fudge cookies, TP, gum, matches and took a canteen of water.

late in the morning I was eating a cookie when a large buck jumped the road. I was so startled I didn’t get my gun up in time. I slumped back down and to my dismay a forkhorn came out. Not knowing the ballistics of a load of O buckshot, at 75 yards, I fired and watched the water splash a good ten yards to the front. The deer left and in my ignorance I jumped up and ran to the spot. I was looking for “sign” not really knowing what to look for, just knowing that was what hunters were supposed to do.

I saw Lawrence coming and started to him. He stopped, turned and fired his shotgun into the bushes. When I go there he was standing over the forked horn deer. I was happy and sick to my stomach at the same time. As I said in my youth I judged a successful hunt by the deer killed. No matter how much fun being at camp was, if you didn’t have a deer tale for school on Monday you didn’t have success.

I loved that old camp. I would watch for the lights of Lawrence’s pickup on Friday night. I couldn’t wait to make the ritual stop at Donnell’s store before the drive into the woods. I would drool over the rifles, scopes and knives on display, vowing to own one of each in my life. Old Ed was usually working the counter as we got our eggs, bacon, bread and coffee. We would park the truck then carry the stuff over to the jeep. Then the long drive with the jeep in “Low Hole” granny gear. The ruts, in that gumbo mud, were so deep the jeep would steer itself. There was one old bayou crossing that we always got stuck in. it was us kids jobs to swamp the winch line.

There wasn’t any insulation, it wasn’t even, sealed and the ceiling was exposed rafters and tin so all the heat would rise. We had sleet and freezing rain one night and all the men, except Morris White, were playing cards. They kept turning that old heater up. Morris was on a top bunk. He first flung back the sleeping bag. Then he jumped down and ran outside in just his boxers. When he came back in he had that .38 and said “I’ll shoot the next S%B that touches that heater. There was nothing like the sound of rain or sleet on that tin roof.

We awoke one night to a terrible roar as Morris shot at a rat running on the rafter. Left a nice .38 hole in the tin.

I didn’t kill a deer that first year but I sure learned a lot that would stand me in good stead in coming years.

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Hunting camps I have known

Unfortunately I don’t have any photos of the old camps I have been a part of but I can share memories.

I had been in a lot of camps as a teenager but none of them were “deer” camps. That all changed when my sister married Lawrence Harrington from Clayton, La. Him and his best friends, Bob Holland and Morris White were in a club called Cross Bayou. It was between Jonesville and Ferriday on what is now Cocodrie NWR.

Straight behind Morris White’s house was an old trestle across the bayou, Just down river from it was the camp. It was an old school bus with a tin shack built off the back doors. No electricity or running water, just a wood heater made out of a 55 gallon drum. The old men slept close to the heater buy us yung’uns had to sleep to the front of the bus. I awoke to frost on the inside of the windows.

This was dog hunting times so we left camp at a civilized hour of daylight. I had listened to panther stories all night so every shadow was an imaginary cat. They loaded us all in the backs of jeeps and drove down a road to drop us standers at intervals. Then the dog handlers dropped the dogs in a likely place hoping to push a buck toward us. Sitting on an old tree stump or leaning against a tree, the old Savage 12 ga. shotgun loaded with buck shot I just knew a big buck was just coming right to me. We would stay out till picked up and go to camp. eat and rest till time for the evening hunt. Knowing that this trip would be the one. Freezing in old hand me down clothes and cotton underwear. Feet like ice in a pair of stove pipe gum rubber boots, an old thin field jacket, some leather gloves and a too big hat, shivering so hard I couldn’t have shot if given the chance. In all the trips I never once glimpsed a deer or even remember one being killed. It didn’t matter, I was at deer camp with the real men. I didn’t know it at the time but it wasn’t all about the killing of a deer. It would be many years before I realized it was about the fellowship, camaraderie, and the memories. Deer meat is consumed, antlers are lost or thrown away but memories live on. As long as one person, that hunted there, is alive so are all those old men and the memories

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10 years ago

When editing and posting to my blog it will sometimes show me suggestions for new posts. Today it suggested “10 years ago did you expect your  life to be what it is”

I can say assuredly NO

10 years ago I was married, had a good job and pretty good health. I had a great place to hunt all my brothers and brother in laws and my best friend were still alive. 9-11 had not changed the world. There was a republican in the white house. Life  was pretty good.

Then it started to fall apart. 9-11 forever changed things. I lost my best friend, had a heart attack, lost my job and one brother in law all in none year.

Since then I lost my marriage, finances, truck and a few other material things.

My health has went down, lost another brother in law and two brothers.

In 2001 I  surely never expected my life to be like this. I thought I was superman and invulnerable. I was on the upswing with a bright future.

Never expect things to turn out like you  envision.

For years hunting was an addiction and passion. I would lose sleep over it, I haven’t hunted in two seasons and guess what? It didn’t kill me. I don’t have a fancy truck and can’t hold a steady job but I am  still alive. Don’t put your future and hopes in material things.


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How quickly things change

A month ago my nephew was the picture of health, at least for a 53 year old. Low blood pressure, low cholesterol, nice slow heart rate not taking any medications.

Then he got down in his back, when we got him up we noticed his right leg was dragging. Then his right arm. We took him for tests and they found a spot on his lungs. Then an MRI revealed bleeding on the brain and a possible stroke.

When we got to the hospital, this morning, we found out he had a tumor on his brain. Then the Dr told us he had a mass on his lungs and two on his brain.

They will do a biopsy in the morning, of his lung. Then they will decide the best way to proceed. They will not do any surgery till next week.

Men go have those yearly check ups. Don’t be all macho and think it will heal itself. Especially if you are over 50. A tiny thing today can be a major one tomorrow

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40 years ago

Way back then I was looking forward to my junior year in high school. I had a summer job, working for the school. Most of the money I made($1.27/hr) went to help buy school clothes but $100 was saved for my one great pleasure. Paying my hunting club dues on Roaring Bayou hunting club. I had missed the season before, due to getting severely burned, and was eager to get back to camp.

After a recent visit with Bumpy Temple and Joe Ulmer, I got to thinking on the hunting camps I have shared. Some were outstanding and some were just a car parked on the side of the road. All of them had one thing in common. I was in the outdoors, with good friends enjoying the thing I loved most.

After I graduated high school, and joined the Navy, my brother-in-law, Lawrence got out of the club. He was hunting down around my mothers old home in Georgetown, with Uncle “Spot” ( not to be confused with my nephew “Spot”) We made several trips down there while I was still serving and then for several years after. Then Uncle Spot sold his place and we started tent camping and hunting various public lands.

One day around the middle of the 80’s a bunch of us decided to build another camp. This time on the bank of the Tensas river near Sharkey bridge. We had been hunting the Tensas River NWR for several years and thought that would be a way to be closer.

It started out to be a tin building but with some good luck we got some plywood to use for the walls. With the one room camp built we laid in a supply of firewood for the heater and had a good first year.

The next year we added a back porch and a bathroom using a big water trailer and a 12 volt pump to transfer water. We used it for several years before I took a night job and had to give up hunting.

During the mid 90’s my very good friend, Ricky Kenney, and I joined a club in Mississippi. We were hunting on Bald Hill hunting club with Tommie Martin.

We got a bass boat trailer from Charlie Franklin and built a poor mans airstream trailer on it. Just enough room for two bunks and a small kitchen. We pulled it over next to the main camp.

The next year the president let us move into the main camp so we sold the redneck camp. That was the last camp I was a member of. I have given up hunting and most of my exploits are distant memories but I will always remember all the “Camps” in my life, along with all the friends that made them special.

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Photos from the yard camping adventure

Hamburgers in the tree house

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