August, 1971

John Mark and I arrive home, pushing through the back door into the kitchen of our house. Practice this morning has both of us pretty knocked out. Mom greets us both with a kiss and she is cooking breakfast. This is the routine during two-a-days. We get up early, go to practice, get home around 10:00 and Mom is making this enormous meal. Today it is pancakes and fresh sausage. The aroma is enough to make you fall to your knees in gratitude. John and I jump on our plates like a couple of starving, well, animals. None of the Shelton boys have ever been what you would call picky eaters. That said, our mom is just about the best cook in the world. She can make anything, and is especially good with the Southern, East Texas, South Louisiana, what's the word, oh yeah, cuisine.

One thing everyone in Cranston knows about Elizabeth Ann Shelton is how much she loves her sons and husband. I have to admit it is an extraordinary feeling for us kids because she makes us think the sun rises and sets on us. That's not to say she doesn't keep us in line. Mom's never been one to say, "Wait until your father gets home." If an ass whipping is due, and Dad's not here, Mom has never been shy about administering said ass whipping. It's just how she looks at us, treats us, hugs us and kisses us all the time, sometimes to our great annoyance. But that is just her way and, really, we all love it.

I can remember when I was little, I thought my mother was the most beautiful woman in the world. I'm sure all kids think that of their mothers. But at 16, I haven't changed my opinion. My mom is a startlingly beautiful woman; blonde hair, blue eyes and just an angelic face. I have always thought she could've been an actress or a model. Some people say I look very much like her, but I don't see it. I mean, I am blonde and blue eyed, and maybe her kind of looks work better on a woman, but I don't see myself as any great shakes in the handsome department. Oh well, what can I say; she's just a great mom.

She sits and talks with us about football practice, small talk. She's always been fairly knowledgeable about the game; I guess she has to be considering she's had five boys who are crazy about it. As we eat, she reaches over and smoothes John Mark's hair and pats him on the cheek. Johnny is always telling me that I am her pet since I am the youngest and I guess that could be true. But what I think is that it's hard to tell with her. I think it is obvious she loves each one of us very much. Sometimes she will walk past us and stroke the backs of our heads and tell us how sweet that little feature of our anatomy is. The backs of our heads, who would've thought? I guess some parents are just so overwhelmed with the physical incarnation that is their children it's hard for them to keep their hands away, at least that is the way my mom seems to be. She is the same way with my dad. All of us know that he is everything to her and we also know he feels the same way about her.

After breakfast, I am full and logy. I tell my mom that I think I'm going to my room for a little nap. I also ask her to wake me at about 1:15 p.m.

"Why do you want to get up then?" Mom asks.

"There's a new kid on the football team, just moved here, and I thought I would go over to his house and then show him around town."

"Well, that sounds like a nice thing to do."

That would be me, a regular little angel, or maybe I'm a Good Samaritan, I forget which. I walk out of the kitchen, through the living room and on down the hall to my room. I draw the curtains, kick off my shoes, take off my shirt and lay down on my bed. I fall into a deep dreamless sleep in about two seconds.

I can hear someone calling my name from far away; I think it's my mom. Slowly I open my eyes. I'm on my back and my mom is looking at me.

"Luke, you asked me to wake you at 1:15. It's time to get up."

" Mmmm, okay."

Mom turns and moves away toward the door of my room.

I start to sit up and it feels like my whole body has seized. "Owwwww, dammit!" I shout.

My mom turns around and looks at me as if I've said the "F" word in her presence.

"Luke, I don't need to remind you not to use language like that."

"But mom, it hurts to move." I respond.

"Yes and if you say anything else like that I can make sure it hurts worse."

I attempt giving her a pitiful look, but she is not buying it. All she offers is, "Get up and go see about your new friend. And try not to use any profanity in front of his parents."

"Yes, ma'am."

Painfully, I roll out of bed and straighten my tortured body. Stiff legged, I move like an old man to the bathroom and close the door. I walk over to the toilet and take a leak, steadying myself with my hand against the facing wall. Then I move to the sink, wash my face, brush my teeth and comb my hair. By this time, it feels like my muscles are going to start cooperating and doing their part of the work. I go back to my room, moving a little easier. I choose a shirt from closet and put it on. I retrieve my tennis shoes from under the bed where I kicked them and head out of my room to find mom.

I find her in the living room, having a cup of coffee and reading the newspaper. "Mom, is it okay if I borrow your car?"

She nods her assent and points to her keys on the bar. I think she is giving me a little of the silent treatment because of my 'dammit' outburst. I get the keys off the bar and circle back to her chair behind the coffee table and give her a kiss on the cheek. She strokes the back of my head and returns the kiss with one to my forehead. "You be a good boy and be careful."

"Yes, ma'am. You know me, I'm always a good boy."

I drive out to the old Parker place. It is about 5 miles out of town on the highway to Stackford. The Parker home was built in the 1930's and it is a fairly large house. When you pull off the highway you are on a little dirt road that leads to the driveway. The driveway is about an 1/8th of a mile long, shaded by oak trees on either side. I pull up to Phillip's house, turn off the engine, get out and walk to the front door. I ring the doorbell and wait. Phillip opens the door and invites me in.

"Hey Luke, how's it going. Both of my parents are home," he says, "I'll introduce you to them."

Since it's a Thursday afternoon I think it's odd his dad is home, but what the heck.

We walk into the living room where his mom and dad are sitting. Phillip directs me over to his dad first. "Dad this is Luke Shelton. He plays football with me."

Phillip's dad stands and extends his hand introducing himself, "Nice to meet you Luke, Major Wesley Stecker." I shake his hand firmly; my dad always says make sure you have a firm handshake.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Major Stecker."

Major Stecker motions toward his wife and says, "This is my wife, Mary Helen." She rises and shakes my hand also and tells me how nice it is to meet me and how nice it is of me to offer to show Phillip around town.

"Well," I say, "It's absolutely no problem. I can imagine it's somewhat of a culture shock to move from Dallas to Cranston."

The major looks at Phillip, then at me and says, "It is probably safe to say Phillip does not appreciate what a nice town you have here. I think the city has a lot more opportunity for one to fall prey to bad influences."

My father has always told me it is an asset for a young person to be able to carry on an intelligent conversation with an adult, but I have to admit I was more than a little unsure what to say in response to his statement. "I think Phillip will be able to adjust to Cranston after he gets to know all of us on the football team and the rest of the kids in school, Major. By the way, what branch of the military are you in, sir?"

"Actually, son, I am retired from the Army. I served twenty-five years. I applied to the State of Texas to be the Agricultural Extension Agent for this county just recently and I have also bought the auto and farm implement parts store in town."

Phillip is standing behind his parents and appears to have found something of great interest on the ceiling. He slowly brings his gaze downward until he has eye contact with me and gives me a little shrug of the head toward the door.

I say, "Well, sir, it sounds like you will have your hands full. My great uncle was the Agricultural Extension Agent in Cranston for many years."

Mrs. Stecker glances at Phillip and then says, "You boys better go on and do your looking around. It will be time for practice soon enough."

I shake hands all around again, telling Phillip's parents how pleased I am to meet them, and he is practically pulling me out the door by my sleeve.

As we walk to the car Phillip rolls his eyes at me and says, "I'm sure they were impressed, you incredible suck up."

"What?" I say, "I didn't want them to think I was an idiot."

Phillip moves toward me and punches me in the upper arm. "Well not visibly and they should be convinced you aren't a 'bad influence'."

"Okay, I'll have to try harder then."

We get in the car and head out our brief voyage of discovery. As we get onto the highway back to town, Phillip reaches over, flips on the radio and begins to search for a station.

"So," I ask, "What kind of music are you into?"

"I like The Stones, Rod Stewart, Traffic, Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, Beatles, you name it, as long as it's rock and roll."

Not bad choices, in fact, they are a close approximation of my own tastes. There are a lot of kids in Cranston who like country and western, but I have never been able to abide it. I grew up listening to my parents' music, swing and big band, but with the Beatles and British invasion I became a huge fan of rock and roll. "Then I think we are on the same page. Find us some music and make sure it's loud, otherwise I will have to leave you on the side of the road thumbing for a ride."

We cruise into town and I give Phillip the tour of Main Street and the back streets, on through all the neighborhoods and then out some of the country roads. There is a gathering place for the kids called the 'Y' which is actually a field bisected by two roads that split off just outside of town. Much beer gets drunk there. Our little survey includes this popular destination.

One of the predominant features in East Texas is an abundance of trees; there are stands of pine, fir, cedar and also hardwoods. Cranston stands on the edge of The Great Piney Woods, if you can believe that name. Most of the farms and ranches here are hewn out of this vitrified growth of forest. So when you are driving the back roads of East Texas in many places the trees grow up to about 10 feet of the road. It is beautiful to drive through with the sun dappling the road surface and glinting your windshield as you speed along, but the term 'two lane blacktop' was created for these roads. You have to be very alert because if you veer off the road, your next stop will be a tree.

We head out one of these little roads, known locally as the McKenzie Road, that heads to a very large ranch owned by the Short family. Junior Short's grandfather, Abner Short, is a contemporary of my grandfather and he has about 3,000 acres called the Puzzlewood Ranch. It's called that because before it was first cleared the forest there was so thick you could wander off into it either on foot or horseback and never find your way out. Today it's just home to a whole bunch of cows. I give Phillip the whole dissertation on Puzzlewood. Phillip seems either uninterested or disinterested, singing along with whatever is on the radio and not offering much in the way of conversation. I decide to wheel out to my grandfather's place. It is actually in a little town called Rebekah about 20 miles east of Cranston.

"You know, Phillip, I think I'll show you my granddad's old place. We can check out the hunting cabin. It's not much, but it's there."

"Sounds all right to me."

As we drive out, Traffic's "Low Spark of High Heeled Boys" begins playing. This is a song I cannot hear often enough. I don't know why, but it is one of the few songs I could play over and over. I begin singing along, "If you see something that looks like a star, and it's shooting up out of the ground, and your head is spinning from a loud guitar..." I bet Steve Winwood would belt me if he heard me massacring his song, but he's not here.

Phillip looks over at me and asks, "Do you like this song?"

"No, man, I absolutely love it. I think it is the best."

"Yeah, me too. Traffic may be my favorite band of all time."

The rest of the way we talk about Traffic and I also establish that Phillip's favorite pro football team is the Dallas Cowboys. Now we're talking. I love the Cowboys; Roger Staubach, Calvin Hill, Duane Thomas, Jethro Pugh, Bob Lilly, they're all just great. We discuss their prospects for a trip to the Super Bowl.

We get to the turn off to my grandfather's ranch, or what's left of it, and pull on to the hard packed dirt road that leads down to the hunting cabin. We pull up to and get out. As we walk the last 50 yards to the cabin we continue our Cowboy conversation.

"So, Phillip, how did you get to be a Cowboy's fan," I ask?

"My dad's originally from a town north of Dallas, called Denton, and he's just always been a fan. I guess I just picked it up from him."

"Same with me. In fact one of my earliest memories is of watching the Cowboys games with my dad. He would always watch them on Sunday afternoon in his chair. I guess I was five or six years old and I would always get into his lap and watch the game with him. I just remember sitting with my head very close to his and him smelling like Aqua Velva and cigarettes. He smoked then, although he's quit now. But I can remember thinking what a great smell that was. And I would put my hand up and find his jaw and rub where his whiskers were."

Phillip gives me a sidelong look and a little crooked grin. "Very interesting story. You must have been an unusual child." Then he sort of laughs and punches me in the arm, again.

"Look, man, if you keep hitting me, I'm going to have to hurt you."

"All right," Phillip says, "no harm, no foul."

We get up to the cabin and I orient Phillip to the surroundings. I explain that there are fields of goat weeds that grow to the east of the cabin and there is a spring fed lake to the southwest and that the San Ysidro Creek runs sort of west to east. The best places to hunt are either close to the lake or the creek because the birds fly down from the fields in the evening to drink. Phillip seems appropriately impressed with the layout.

I have a key to the padlocked cabin so I open it and show him the layout. The cabin is actually two rooms; a main room with a table, a few chairs and a camp stove, the other room has a camp bed about the size of a double. It is a pretty Spartan set up, but it is serviceable. There is an outbuilding behind the cabin about 25 feet away.

We walk the property for just a while, down to the creek. The San Ysidro winds it way through quite a few properties in this part of the county. In some places it comes up to your ankles, in others it can be waist deep. It is home to plentiful fish and more than a few water moccasins and cottonmouths. However, that has never kept any of us boys from swimming in it.

Glancing at my watch, I notice it is about 3:30. "You know, Phillip, we should probably head back to town for practice. You see, I told you we could cover the entire town and then some with plenty of time to spare."

"Well you have to admit there isn't a lot to see. Ya know, in Dallas there was always something going on, but my parents kept a pretty tight rein on me. I couldn't imagine them just letting me ride off with someone in Dallas."

"So what you're saying is a little freedom might be worth a little boredom," I ask?

"That would be just about right."

We head back to the car, load up and head back to town.

"Do you want to just stop by your house and grab your stuff on the way back, Phillip? Then you can walk to practice with John Mark and I. Heck, you can even have dinner with us if it's okay with your parents."

"Yeah, okay, that would be cool with me. How about that hunting trip, when are we going to do that."

"Okay, the season opens on September 7th, the first week of school. Our first game will be on the 14th, so we can come out here after practice Friday evening and do some hunting and plan to stay over, or we can just come out on Saturday morning."

Phillip considers the options and says, "Let's come out here Friday night. Do you think we could get some beer?"

I give him a deadpan look, "I don't drink during football season, it's bad for you." He looks a little deflated. I try to stay serious, but I can't help it and start to laugh. He blushes a little then reaches over and punches me again. I look over at him and he has this huge shit-eating grin on his face.

"If I wasn't driving, I would beat the crap out of you. In fact I think I'm going to pull over and do that right now."

"No, no you can't do that. We need to make practice. C'mon, man." Phillip says.

I can tell he is feigning fear, trying to pull my leg.

"You know, Phillip, you are so full of shit you squeak. You just better remember to stay clear of me on the field or I will knock your jock off."

"You will have to catch me first."

"Yeah, just remember, it can be done."

We drive on back to town and stop off by his house. His parents are amenable to our little plan, Phillip grabs his stuff and we are off to my house.

It's a little after 4:00 when we get to my house. I introduce Phillip to my mom and she invites him to dinner. I knew she would do that, hence my invitation earlier. Phillip graciously accepts her invitation. He talks easily with my mom, sort of impressing me. I can tell my mom is charmed, he seems so at ease. My dad won't be home until 5:30 or 6:00 so a proper introduction to the head of the household will come after we get back from practice.

John Mark gets home about 4:30 and notices we have company. "Hey ladies, how's tricks. What have you two been up to?"

"I took Phillip on the grand tour of Cranston today. He was duly impressed, for about five minutes. I think he'll get used to our little city though."

Phillip chimes in announcing that, all things considered, Cranston might be all right.

John Mark herds the two of us out the back door and down the road to the field house and practice field. "Since you were inadvertently held up this morning Luke, it might be good for you to show up early this afternoon."

"Funny, John,"

"What're you talking about," Phillip asks?

"Well John here blindsided me this morning on the way to practice and that's why I ended up almost late for practice. Ya know, he can be a real bully, always picking on little kids."

Johnny finds this immensely amusing, breaking into a full run and laughing all the way to the field house. Phillip is immediately behind him and passes him easily. And me, I'm left to bring up the rear.

Practice goes well, more full contact, full speed offensive and defensive drills. After that we run 100 bleachers and a 100 yards worth of wind sprints. By the end of practice the coaches have beaten us all into complete submission. We drag our tired asses back to the field house, which quickly becomes a steam room.

John Mark, Phillip and I trudge back to our house in the slowly darkening evening. Day light savings time assures we still have light until almost 8:00 p.m., but the shadows are long. Still it is a hot, muggy day in August in Texas. We still have mostly damp hair; it's just hard to get it dry when you are in the field house with the steam hanging about head high.

We reach our house and go in. My dad is in his familiar chair in the den, feet up reading the newspaper and watching TV. I introduce Phillip while John Mark disappears down the hall to his room. "Dad, this is Phillip Shelton. He just moved here from Dallas and he's a freshman. He's probably going to start at tailback. His dad is a retired major in the Army."

Dad smiles, shakes Phillip's hand and asks, "Did Luke cover all the high spots there, Phillip?"

Phillip laughs and says, "Yes, sir he did. He's pretty thorough, isn't he?"

"Okay, being the youngest, I'm used to jokes at my expense you two."

"So, Phillip," my Dad says, "you moved here from Dallas? How do you like Cranston so far?"

"Well, sir it is a little small, but I think I'm going to do just fine. Everybody has been very friendly and that helps, a lot."

"Did your father retire to Dallas, Phillip?"

"Yes sir, he did."

"What was his last post?" "

We were stationed in Germany, sir, for 4 years and then the final 2 years we were in Fort Worth."

"So, did you like Germany?"

"It was okay. You know, military families sort of stick together, but we did travel over most of Europe and that was interesting."

About that time, my mom comes out of the kitchen and announces that I should set the table so we can eat. Phillip volunteers to help, and with dinner announced, John Mark suddenly appears in the den.

We all sit down to dinner, say grace and dig in. My mom has made chicken fried steak (the world's greatest, if I do say so myself), mashed potatoes, corn on the cob and fresh yeast rolls. As I said, my mom is the world's greatest cook. Conversation around the dinner table is comfortable and easy as if Phillip has been around for a long time. He has no problem with discussing just about anything. Plus, with a little prompting from my mom, he just about eats himself silly. My mom loves boys with healthy appetites, I think it is sort of an occupational hazard of raising five of them.

After dinner, we sit around and watch a little TV with my dad while he expounds on the events of the day. In my considered opinion, my dad is just about the smartest guy around. I guess it's part of being a kid, but I am proud that he is my dad. He is very attentive listening to Phillip, trying hard to make him feel at home. And I think Phillip warms to him, joking some and discussing the Cowboys, my father's favorite subject. He thinks Tom Landry just about hung the moon.

About 8:30, Phillip says he probably should be getting home. He gets up and shakes my dad's hand and thanks my mother, rather effusively, for dinner and compliments her mastery of cooking. Of course, my mom is flattered and, as a reward, Phillip gets a big hug for being such a nice boy.

We head out and on the way to the car I say, "All right, now who's a big suck up? Would that be me or you?"

"You're just jealous because I'm so much better at it than you, lightweight." Phillip observes.

"Man, you are an incredible pain in the ass, just like John Mark."

Phillip flashes this beaming, knowing smile and gets into the passenger side of my mom's car. We head out to the old Parker place and when we get there, Phillip gets out, then leans back in from the waist so his head and shoulders are in the doorway of the care and extends his hand. I shake it and he says, "I really appreciate you taking time to show me around and introducing me to your folks. And dinner, what can I say? Well, thanks anyway. It was a good time."

"No problem, Phillip. I think my parents would welcome you anytime. Well, me too if you promise to quit being such a pain."

"I'll be on my best behavior. Thanks, again. See you at practice tomorrow."

He closes the car door, goes up the walk to his house and into the front door.

That kid is one smooth operator, I think as I pull out of the driveway. He had my parents eating out of the palm of his hand. I can tell John Mark is impressed with his football abilities and I think I may have made a new friend. Altogether not a bad day for Phillip, I guess.

September, 1971

First week of school is always such an adventure. We had registered for classes in the summer, but there are the inevitable fuck-ups when you actually get your class schedule. I'm trying to take some advanced placement classes and when you combine that with the required subjects, well, sometimes the old train runs right off the tracks. I spent half the day on Monday in the principal's office trying to straighten out my schedule with the sophomore class advisor, the school counselor and the principal. I got the impression they thought I was being a smart-ass kid, but there are classes I need to take in order to place out of certain courses when I get to college. The problem is there is not a big push for kids in Cranston to go to college. Now my parents have always encouraged, no, insisted that their boys are going to college which is just fine with me, but sometimes it's hard to get our little school to cooperate. Well, enough of my bitching.

Football practice is always the last class of the day for the boys who are playing. That means we practice from 2:30 to 5:00, sometimes longer. We are about a week away from our first game and with spring practice, two-a-days and, now, regular practice behind us, our little team is starting to come together. Phillip will be starting on offense, as will John Mark and I. John Mark also starts on defense as a safety, and while I won't be starting, Coach has told me I will be playing some on defense as well.

Phillip has become sort of a fixture around the Shelton household, which seems to suit everyone just fine. My mom, dad and John Mark like him, in fact, he fits in just about right. He's sort of like the littlest brother, although he ain't that little. I guess he's here just about every afternoon and he takes about 2 meals here a week. It appears he's sort of adopted us. I think the main reason is the fact our house is in such close proximity to school and football practice, while his house is a little out of town. The other thing is my parents are used to the house being full of kids and one more doesn't make or break any situation. He seems pretty relaxed around us.

Friday rolls around, Phillip and I have been anticipating the opening of dove season. Of course, the adult hunters in town will have already been out in force for most of the day, but the best thing about my grandfather's place is that no one hunts there but us. We don't lease any of the property for hunting. That doesn't mean the dove won't be a little skittish, I guess I would be too if people had been shooting at me all day long, but they still need water.

Friday practice is a light one, shorts, shirts and helmets and it ends about 3:30. After football practice, in the dressing room of the field house, I give Phillip a little rundown on what we'll need to take. I'm going to bring two ice chests, 10 lbs of ice, my shotgun and shells, a change of clothes and some odds and ends food items. I also tell him we'll probably cook some of the dove over a campfire that night so we won't need anything substantial in the food department, except some bacon to wrap the dove breasts in while they cook. I volunteer to handle that.

"So," Phillip says, "I guess this means you expect to kill quite a few dove while we're there, huh?"

"Yes, I do. I always get my limit. Of course I can't speak for your skills with a shotgun, but I do just fine with my 20 gauge and a field load."

I have already prevailed upon John Mark to procure us a six-pack of Budweiser for the trip. He knows the local bootlegger but hasn't passed on that morsel of information to me yet. I think it's like the passing of the flame in his mind. I'm sure I'll find out before he heads off to college. Johnny can be a real dick sometimes, but actually he's a pretty great brother. The reason I'm only getting one six-pack is I'm a bit leery of the combination of guns and alcohol, but by the time we get around to drinking it, the guns will be unloaded and we really only need a little buzz anyway.

"Okay Phillip," I say as I finished getting dressed. Phillip has taken up residence in the locker next to mine. How he swung it with Junior Short I don't know, but there you go. "I'm going home and load up my dad's pickup and then I will pick you up. That should take about thirty minutes, tops."

"I'll be ready to go." Phillip answers.

John Mark swings by my locker to let me know he's about to leave and takes a little mock swing at Phillip. Phillip puts up his dukes and they pantomime a little sparring like a couple of aspiring Alis.

"God," I say, "you two are so lame. I'm outta here." And I head for the door.

"Wait up, Luke." John Mark calls out from behind.

We jog on home. When we get there I go to my room and pack my stuff. I pull my 20 gauge out of the gun case and give it the once over. It is slightly oily to the touch; I always put some 3-in-1 oil on it when I store it. I get a chamois out of my gun kit and rub it down lightly. It is Mossberg pump action. I check the magazine and the chamber to make sure there are no live rounds in the gun. I always check the gun before I put it up, primarily because my dad would kill me if I brought a loaded gun in the house and if he didn't, mom would, but I double-check it before I go anywhere. Loaded guns in a moving vehicle make me nervous for some reason. I put a pair of jeans, a tee shirt, a work shirt, underwear and a pair of socks in my knapsack. From my closet I pull out my sleeping bag and a couple of old sheets. I cruise out to the kitchen where Mom is preparing dinner for her suddenly smaller family, at least for this evening, and ask her if she has bacon. Of course I know she does. She sections off about a half-pound and wraps it in foil. I've brought the two ice chests out and she lays the bacon on top of the ice in one. I also throw in a half a loaf of bread, some Twinkies, other assorted goodies and some Cokes. I also toss in about a dozen baggies to store the dove breasts I anticipate bringing home in. The other ice chest contains the six-pack that I have secreted under a towel, but Mom does not look in that one. I've learned if I act innocent I can darn near get away with anything. Not that I'm out committing any felonies, but underage drinking would be severely frowned upon by Mr. and Mrs. Frank Shelton. When I am done I stack the two ice chests one on top of the other and lug them toward the back door. Mom opens it for me and I step out onto the back porch and back up into the screen door pushing it open. I tote the two ice chests to the truck and load them into the bed. I run back to the house to retrieve my shotgun, shells, knapsack and sleeping bag. Mom is waiting on the back porch as I head out.

"You boys be sure you are careful out there," she says.

"Mom, you know I am always careful, and I will make sure Phillip is too."

She takes my face in her hands and kisses me once on each cheek and hugs me as well as she can with my hands full. "I love you, Luke Aaron."

"And I love you too, Mom."

"But I love you more."

"Yes, I know." I turn and head to the truck.

I drive over to Phillip's house. When I get there I hop out of the truck and bound up to the front porch. Phillip has anticipated my arrival and opens the door before I get there. His mom and dad are sitting in the living room in the front of the house.

I walk in and shake hands with the Major and Mrs. Stecker. "How are you folks today?" I ask.

"We are doing well, Luke," says the Major, smiling, "and you?"

"I'm okay, sir, but the first week of school has been somewhat of a trial. I had a little trouble with my class schedule, but all is well now."

"Good, that's good," Major Stecker says nodding. "Now, Luke, you and Phillip need to remember to be extremely cautious hunting, you know?"

"Yes sir, I understand. I've been dove hunting ever since I was about as tall as my shotgun and my father taught me very early the rules for safe hunting. We will be careful."

"I trust that you will, son."

Phillip kisses his mom, his dad moves over and pats him a couple of times on the back. Phillip has put his knapsack, gun, sleeping bag and a portable radio by the front door. He picks up his knapsack and his shotgun, I grab his sleeping bag and radio and we head out the door. We toss his stuff into the back of the truck with mine, load up and head out for the hunt.

We arrive at my grandfather's place just before 5:00 p.m., unload our knapsacks, sleeping bags, the ice chests and radio into the cabin. We both don our hunting vests and load our weapons. Extra shells are placed into the bandoliers sewn into the front of our vests. Then we begin our walk toward the lake behind the cabin.

"Okay, Phillip," I say as we approach the lake, "what we should do is separate about 100 feet. We can use the goat weeds around the lake as cover. Just remember where we are and do not shoot in my direction. I'll make sure I don't fire your way. I don't think either one of us wants to be picking bird shot out of our butts this evening."

Phillip chuckles and says, "I know a little about gun safety too, Luke. I promise if I shoot you, I'll make sure no one finds the body."

"Funny, asshole. Now you go that way. And I'm keeping an eye on you."

I watch Phillip walk into the waist high weeds. After he has made his way at least a hundred feet, he crouches down and is fairly well hidden. I move into the weeds on my side and do the same. We wait for the birds. As the heat of the day has descended a light, dusty breeze kicks up from east to west. The goat weeds wave around us. I keep my eyes on the sky towards the cabin and the fields beyond. We don't have to be patient for long. The first group of about twenty dove come flying in low, drawn by the promise of water and a rest in the cooling dust of the day. As they approach, both Phillip and I pop up and blast away. I take aim, carefully leading each shot and bring down three birds. I am a dead aim, if I say so myself. Phillip bags a couple for himself. We track where they have fallen to the ground in the surrounding vegetation and retrieve them. I put my three into the pouch in the back of my hunting vest then head back to my ambush point. The doves continue to fly in, unsuspecting that the curtain is about to be abruptly rung down on their brief appearance on the stage of life. In about an hour I have shot the limit, fifteen. I walk over to Phillip who is still a couple of birds shy of the limit.

"Phillip, let's take about 3 or 4 over the limit for dinner tonight. The rest we will clean and ice down to take home."

"Okay. You don't worry about the game wardens?"

"Those guys are sort of like Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy. I've heard about 'em all my life, but I've never seen 'em. I have never run into one and I don't know anyone who has."

Phillip nods his head as if relieved he won't be caught breaking the law and looks back toward the cabin. He has perspired a bit and the sweat has cut little rivulets in the dust on his face. His hair, which is always in a constant state of dishevelment even when it's just been combed, waves like a brown thatch of wheat in the breeze. The look on his face is one of determination in the successful attainment of the kill limit. I think he may be a little surprised with my skill with the shotgun. He continues his crouch as I move back to my vantage point.

The last group of dove we shoot at is the largest. As they come in, Phillip and I rise up again. The doves see us and move as one, veering to the left, toward Phillip. I open fire and hit one, two, three, just like that, easy as you please. As they pass over Phillip he opens up and brings down four, and then in one last effort, a long shot, to be sure, a fifth. I am impressed.

"What a shot, man!" I shout to Phillip. He turns and grins, giving me the thumbs up. Yeah, he's pumped up about that one.

We gather our plump, feathered victims and then empty the magazines of our shotguns of unspent shells. I also check the chambered round, as does Phillip, so the weapons are empty for the walk back to the cabin.

"So, have you ever cleaned dove before?" I ask as we walk toward the cabin.

"No, when my dad and I hunt in South Texas there are guides for the hunt and they have guys that do the dirty work for you."

"It's easy, no big deal. I'll show you how."

When we get to the cabin, we unload the birds onto the ground. I grab a bucket out of the cabin and we walk down to creek. I draw up some water and we go back to the cabin.

I put the bucket of water in the center of the birds, pick one up and hold him in the palm of my hand with the breast up.

"First thing to do is locate the bird's anus," I explain, "then you place your thumb in there and pull upward toward the point of bone at the bottom of the breast." I demonstrate, removing the breast from the dove in a single motion, the intestines falling away to the ground. I toss the rest of the bird away to begin the pile of carcasses. "Next you pull the skin and feathers away from the front of the breast and make sure the back is clear of the heart or other organs."

I look at Phillip and he hasn't blanched or thrown up so I figure he'll do okay for a city boy.

"Last thing you do is wash them," I says as I put the breast in the bucket of water and swish it around. "Phillip, go to the cabin and get the baggies from the ice chest. Also, there are a couple of sheets rolled up with my sleeping bag. Bring me one of those."

He goes to the cabin and brings back the requested items. I hand him the cleaned dove breast and I open up the sheet. I tear off a corner in a square of about two feet by two feet and lay it on the ground.

"We'll lay out the cleaned birds right here. Toss the bodies over there with the first one. When we build a fire we'll burn them."

We get busy with this unpleasant chore and Phillip does well with his new duty. He's not at all squeamish about getting his hands dirty and before long we have a nice pile of fresh meat on the square of sheet. We place them three to a baggie and put them all, with the exception of six, in the bottom of the ice chest. I pour out about half of the ice on top of them. Then I unveil the six-pack of beer from the other ice chest. Phillip's face brightens when he sees this. I put the beer, along with four Cokes, on top of the first layer of ice and pour the rest on top. Lastly, I place the six dove we will eat this evening on top and close the ice chest.

"Good job, rookie," I say to Phillip.

He smiles and says, "I couldn't have done it without you, man."

Boy, is he full of it. His face is streaked with dust, blood and feathers. In fact he looks like I imagine one of the boys in the Golding novel "Lord of the Flies," would look after they've gone native.

"All we have to do now is clean ourselves up. We can do that down at the creek."

We trudge back down to the San Ysidro. I look at my watch and it's just a little past 6:30, the day still very warm, the sun in our faces, lowering in the sky. We get to the creek and Phillip goes to the bank, plunges in his hands, washes them and then his face. He stands up and removes his shirt, shoes and socks. Then he shinnies down his jeans and underwear. I do the same and we walk into the creek. Where we enter is an old cattle trail, a sort of wide spot in the creek where it runs shallow. We walk slowly up the creek, toward the current, where it begins to deepen. We reach an elbow of the creek where the water has carved out a little pool and the water reaches to just above our waists. The water is greenish, cool and it feels astonishingly good. I realize I was a little more overheated than I thought.

"Keep your eyes open for snakes," I tell Phillip, "they do like to hang out in this creek."

"Yep, I suspect they would."

I let my body drop into the water to my shoulders and then I tip my head back and let it cover my hair and face. I stand up dripping as if from a baptism. I look over as Phillip does the same.

After he rises up from the water he looks at me, smiles and says, "This is great. I hadn't realized how filthy and hot I was."

"I'll second that, amigo," I add.

We stay in the water for a while, enjoying the cool off, as the sun continues it's slow descent to the horizon. After about fifteen minutes, we move back toward the cattle trail and onto the bank of the creek. We stand drying in the sun, the breeze cooling us as well as the water did. Phillip shakes his head vigorously, like a dog, creating a halo of accelerating droplets ascending upward then dropping to ground, catching me in the spray. I feel duty bound to return the favor and I do.

After we have dried, we retrieve our clothes from the bank and dress. We go back to the cabin and begin the job of gathering some wood for a fire. When we've assembled a nice collection of kindling and some larger branches, I clear an area behind the cabin in about a six-foot perimeter circle. I gather up some fist size stones and make a circle of about two foot inside the perimeter. Then I take my pocketknife out and pick up four or five of the sticks of kindling. I reduce them to shavings into the center of the circle enclosed by the stones. I place a small bundle of the kindling roughly in the shape of pyramid atop the shavings. I find a bunch of dried pine needles and twist them into a sort of taper, pull out a lighter and light my makeshift candle. I gently place it into the shavings under the triangle of kindling and they jump into flames. The kindling begins to burn nicely so I begin putting sticks about the size of my finger on top. As the fire increases in intensity, I add larger and larger branches until we have us an adequate campfire. Then I go to a liveoak tree and cut a couple of small green branches. Using my pocketknife, I peel off the bark and sharpen both ends of the branches.

"These," I say to Phillip as I hold up the green sticks, "we'll use as spits for the dove."

"Whatever you say, Kemosabe. You kind of know what you're doing out here, don't you Luke?"

"I've been doing this for as long as I can remember."

I walk over to the pile of dove carcasses, gather them up and dump them onto the fire. The smell of the burning feathers and flesh is not a pleasant one, but they go up quickly. It reminds me of the burnt offerings the Bible speaks of, the Israelites lifting up praise and supplications to Yahweh; the smoke rising up into the darkening sky as an appeasement.

The sun is fully down now, but the evening is a warm one. After the fire has burned down a bit, I pull out the dove breasts and wrap each one in a couple of pieces of bacon and spear them on to my green stick spits. I also reach into the cooler and pull out a couple of Cokes, tossing one to Phillip where he sits by the fire. He has removed his shirt and seems completely happy with the situation. I walk over with the two sticks, bent slightly with the weight of the dove, and hand one to Phillip.

"Hold this over the fire, not too close to the top of the flame or they will burn. Keep them turning slowly, and in about fifteen to twenty minutes we should be enjoying something we went out and killed for ourselves."

"Man, this is great," Phillip says. Then he takes a big swig from his Coke and puts the spit into the fire.

We sit silently while the dove cooks and the darkness deepens around us. The stars begin to pop out above us. I'm always amazed at the multitude of stars visible when you are completely away from any ground light. The constellations are put into relief against a deep black blue sky like crazy diamonds, the lights twinkling, seeming to ebb and flow in their intensity. I've never figured out if that is a trick of the eye or if it's the atmosphere or if the stars actually do twinkle, but for some reason I think it is soul stirring.

After a reasonable amount of time, we pull the dove from the fire. The bacon has crisped around each breast and the flesh of the birds has firmed, achieving a dark, almost mahogany color. We eat the birds directly from the spits after they have cooled off a little and they are excellent, if I do say so myself. The flavor of dove is not as gamy as some birds; it has a nutty, robust taste. And the bacon adds just the right amount of seasoning to the mélange of flavors. When we are through with our meal we toss the spits into the fire along with another couple of logs. Phillip gets up, retrieves his radio and sleeping bag. He places the bedroll on the ground, sits and leans against it. He turns on the radio and finds a station in Houston that is playing rock and roll. I reach over to the ice chest and get us a couple of beers. Phillip opens his and throws back a mighty gulp first thing.

"Aaahhh," he says smacking his lips loudly, "now that is good."

I open mine, take a pretty good quaff and nod in agreement. The beer is very cold and it sends a little icicle spike from my throat to my belly. "Good may be understating it somewhat, Phillip."

I begin pointing out the constellations to Phillip. John Mark had been interested in astronomy at one time, learned all the constellations and then set out to teach me about them. I still remember a few. I tell him Orion and Gemini are visible in the southern sky later in the winter. I describe with my hands the positions of the stars in the constellation Gemini, how the two stars Castor and Pollux anchor the far left of Gemini. Gemini sort of reclines to the left in its position in the sky.

"How do you know the names of those two stars?" Phillip asks.

"Well, Johnny pointed them out to me. Plus Mrs. Roberts, the freshman English teacher, had a thing about Greek mythology. Castor and Pollux were the twin sons of Leda. Zeus, the chief god of Olympus, was the father of Pollux and Leda's human husband was the father of Castor. As a result Pollux was immortal, while Castor was human."

I continue with the legend of Castor and Pollux, how they were educated, brave, and adventurous yet gentle and dedicated to one another. I tell of their adventures as Argonauts, how Castor was a horseman, Pollux a boxer, of their love of two beautiful sisters and how Castor was slain by a rival for the affection of one of the sisters, and how Pollux, overcome with grief at the death of his beloved brother, bartered with Zeus to trade part of his immortality to save his brother.

When I concluded Phillip said, "So you do pay attention in class, I see."

"Yeah, when the story is interesting enough, dickhead."

"Just a joke, Mr. Sensitive. It is a good story. About the only thing I know about Gemini is that I am one."

"No kidding," I say, "Me too, my birthday's June 3rd. That's why I brought up the whole thing about Gemini"

"That's mine too."

As he said it I remembered John Mark telling me that Phillip's birthday was in early June but I didn't know we actually shared a birthday. "So that practically makes us twin sons of different mothers," I say, "just a year apart."

"Yeah, right. Man you think too much."

"You may be the first person who ever accused me of that sin, Phillip."

The radio plays some fine rock and roll, "Gimme Shelter" by the Stones, "She's So Heavy" by the Beatles and on and on. I bring my rolled up sleeping bag over by the fire, recline against it and Phillip and I continue our conversation. We cover football and our prospects for a win next week. We talk about some of the girls at school comparing notes on who we think is beautiful, who's approachable and who's not. Our discussion ranges to the Cowboys to school and back. We also drink the rest of our beer and continue to search the night sky. Occasionally I point out another constellation like Aquila and name the stars; Altair, Alshain and Tarazed. I have to admit I've achieved a bit of a buzz and the conversation may be wandering, at least my end of it. Eventually I glance at my watch and notice it's close to 11:00 p.m. Man, time flies when you're having fun, or something like that.

"So, Phillip, do you want to sleep under the night sky or would you prefer to sleep in the cabin?"

"Well, you know, there may mosquitoes or other blood sucking nasties out here. Maybe we should sleep inside."

"Sounds like an affirmative plan. Let's go inside."

We arise, put out the fire, gather up our stuff and go inside. It is a warm night so I open all the windows in the cabin to get a cross breeze. Phillip sets his radio on the table in the main room and the music plays on. I go into the cabin's other room, wrestle with the mattress and turn it over. I get the remaining sheet from where it is rolled up with my sleeping bag and spread it out over the bed. The bed has two pillows. I pick them up and shake them so that all the dust will be knocked off. Phillip comes into the room as I do my clean up duties.

"Why don't you take the bed and I will use my sleeping bag," I say.

"Awww, come on Luke, don't be stupid. They don't call it a double bed for nothing. It may be a little crowded, but it will be more comfortable than the floor," Phillip answers.

"Sounds okay to me."

We undress, I toss Phillip a pillow and we both lay down on our backs. The night is dark and warm but the breeze keeps it from being uncomfortable.

"So, Luke, I'm curious, how much experience do you have with the girls," Phillip asks, "I mean, are you still a virgin or what?"

"That's a hell of a question."

"Then the answer is yes, right?"

I don't know why I'm being defensive. I've dated some and the truth is the extent of my experience is some kissing and light petting. Very, very tame. I guess I'm just not that bold or maybe I'm unsure of myself around girls, hell, I don't know. Well, no reason to lie.

"Yeah, the answer is yes. How about you?"

"Me too. I imagine the time will come, but it hasn't yet. So, uhhh, Luke, do you masturbate, I mean, do you jack off?"

"Jeez, Phillip, is this the extremely personal version of 20 questions?"

"C'mon tell me, do you?"

I turn over on my side and prop up on one elbow to face him. He turns his face toward me.

"Yes, Phillip, I do. Doesn't everyone, don't you?"

"Yep. I was just wondering if you wanted to do something that I used to do with a friend of mine from Dallas."

"And what would that be?"

This conversation has gotten a little on the embarrassing side, but since it is Phillip and I have told him most things about me already, I guess I'm game for anything.

"Well, I'll have to show you."

With that, Phillip gets up and comes over to my side of the bed. When he does this, I sit up. He takes his pillow and stacks it on top of mine.

"Okay, now you need to lay back on the pillows," Phillip instructs. Then he sits down on the bed by me.

"The next thing is, you need to take off your underwear Luke."

My mind is starting to do little flip flops, as is my heart. I'm not quite sure what to do. I hesitate. The next thing I know Phillip stands up, hooks his fingers into the waistband of my briefs and pulls them off in a single motion. Now I'm more than a little embarrassed, I mean, I've been naked in front of this guy before, but not like this. My penis is tumescent, but not erect. Phillip reaches out and firmly, yet gently grasps me. The feeling is nothing short of ecstasy. No one other than me has ever touched me there and my dick snaps to attention like a good little soldier. It is like the ambient temperature of the room has gone up about ten degrees; I feel beads of sweat break out on my forehead. Phillip is standing in front of me and he removes his briefs. Since we've been playing football together I've seen Phillip naked, oh, at least a hundred times, but it's like I'm looking at him for the first time. Maybe it's because it seems like the focus of the entire universe has descended on us or maybe it's because I feel like time is standing still or maybe I'm just overreacting, man, I just don't know. His face is handsome; disheveled brown hair, dark eyes, straight angular nose and squarish jaw. His muscles are pretty well defined for a kid his age. I can see the details of his body, the pectorals, the serratus that define the rib cage on each side and the slight rise and fall of his abdominals. I see a small birthmark about the size of a thumbprint on his right side in the middle of his ribs. I swear I've never noticed it before. His skin is smooth except for a small trail of hair rising like a wisp of smoke from his pubic hair to his belly button and he has an erection to beat all. It almost rests on his belly. His legs are long and well muscled. He kneels on the bed between my legs and slowly scoots himself up until our balls are touching. My heart begins beating like a maniacal metronome, the blood thrumming in my ears, my erection is keeping time with my heart, making small motions toward my stomach with each beat, and I am almost hyperventilating. I fill like I am about to burst. The warmth and touch of his body against mine is almost indescribable. I am sure Phillip can hear the triphammering of my heart.

"Luke, calm down, I'm telling you it's all right. You are going to like this."

I take a deep breath, hold it, then let it out and my respiration slows down just a bit.

"Okay, I'll take your word for it." I say shakily.

Luke leans sideways and reaches into his knapsack beside the bed. He takes a small jar of Vaseline from inside it, opens it, lifts out a dollop with his forefinger and spreads it into his palms. I think to myself; he's put a little planning into this.

He moves just a little closer; there is absolutely no gap between our legs and balls now. With his left hand he grasps our dicks together at the base. The sensation of our penises together makes my head reel and my heart kicks up its thundering another notch, if that's possible. I swear I am going to pass out. With his right hand Phillip grasps the shafts of our dicks and presses them tighter together. Oh fuck, this is too much. Then he slowly strokes upward over the tender heads and I feel like someone has electrified me, not just my dick but by my stomach, my nipples, my head and my brain. My ears feel as if they will burst into flames. Phillip then strokes once, twice....

"Oh Phillip, I, oh shit'"

And with that I have the most explosive orgasm I have ever had. It doesn't feel as if it's coming just from my dick but from the center of me. The first ejaculate strikes me under the chin, the next lands splat on my chest. My body spasms, my feet beat a small tattoo on the bed and I feel like I am falling away from and toward Phillip. The rest of my ejaculation jumps lazily onto my stomach. Phillip starts to stroke a third time and I reach out with my left hand and grasp his wrist to stop him. If he does it again I know the back of my head will explode.

"Oh God, fucking incredible," I rasp.

"I guess that's what we would call a hair trigger, Luke."

"I'm sorry, it just felt so fucking good I came before I even thought about it."

"Not a problem. My first time I did just about the same thing, maybe even quicker. The good thing is, we can do it again and this time you won't be as quick off the starting line."

Phillip is still erect. He takes my semi flaccid penis and begins rubbing and stroking it against his. Right as rain, I begin to get hard almost immediately. As the stroking increases, Phillip leans down toward me and begins to nibble and lick at my nipples. Oh man, another new sensation that sends little charges running from my chest to the head of my dick. This just keeps getting better and better. I swear I may go absolutely insane from the pleasure. I hope it feels this fine to Phillip. I rise up from my pillows and return the favor by tugging at his nipples with my teeth. His face sort of lights up, he smiles with the sensation and then lowers his chest onto mine. His hands find my hips and he begins to thrust his dick against mine. I return the pressure by pushing my hips upward and soon we are lost in a whole new rhythm all our own, thrusting against one another, greasy with the Vaseline. I can feel his nipples rubbing against mine and the sensation is otherworldly. Our chest, bellies and dicks communicate with the unspoken language of skin against skin. With the friction between us building to a crescendo, I place my right hand between us and grasp his dick. He thrusts hard into my hand, I reach with my fingers, find my own dick pressed between our bellies and grasp it tightly against his. Phillip bucks and gasps, I feel his penis stiffen in anticipation of orgasm, I place my left hand on his ass and look into his face. He has the most beatific look, his eyelids flutter slightly and he gasps. He arches his back upward slightly and when he comes, his ejaculation lands on my chest. The look on his face, his articulations of ecstasy and the sensations of his orgasm cause me to slip right over the edge. I come as powerfully and completely as the first time. All the little synapses in my brain feel like they are frying and I am out of my head with pleasure. Phillip collapses easily on to my chest, his arms under me and his hands on my shoulders. With both my arms I hold him tightly to me. We stay in this embrace for quite a while, our breathing and our pounding hearts slowly synchronizing into something approaching normal respiration and heart rate. His head is next to mine, the hair on his temples plastered tight to his head with perspiration. I turn my face to his and bury my nose in his hair. He smells of sweat, smoke and, well, Phillip.

After a while, Phillip pushes up with his right hand and looks me dead in the eye.

"So, how do you like my little game?"

"Phillip that is the most astounding thing I have ever felt. I don't know if there is a description of that feeling that would do it justice."

"Good. I knew you would like it."

Slowly, reluctantly I think, we separate our intertwining and rise out of the bed. We walk into the main room of the cabin and wash from the bucket of water we had brought up from the creek earlier. The silvered moonlight shines on our bodies, glistening slightly with the water and I think to myself that he looks beautiful. Is that a weird thought or what? The glow of what has transpired between us has transported my brain into some kind of alternate world I think.

We go back to the bed and lay down together. Phillip moves in close to me, eyes closed, face-to-face, and places his hand on my hip. I lay there looking at him, my friend transformed into something more but I'm not quite sure what yet. Phillip opens his eyes and looks at me.

"Would you like to do it again? This time you can start on top, I'll kind of sit back and enjoy."

"Ya know, Phillip, that may be the second best idea you've had all night."

I get up and retrieve the jar of Vaseline from the side of the bed. Phillip lies down on his back reclined against the pillows. I sit down between his legs and paint both of our dicks with a layer of the Vaseline. I stroke him independently of me at first, and then I move in close and grasp our dicks together. I lower myself onto him and begin to thrust against his penis. He places his hands against my lower back, above my hips and returns my probings with his own. The thrusting turns into a sort of wrestling match, our arms entwined, our chests pressed hard against each other, nipples rubbed almost raw, and our hips grinding our dicks together. I raise myself into a sitting position and Phillip moves with me, his legs extending over mine and our hands close around our dicks. We grasp and stroke, holding each other loosely, then closely until finally we get to that wonderfully blessed release point. Phillip gasps and this time he almost yells when he ejaculates. Our orgasms are so close together, it is impossible for me to tell who gets their first, and then I think that's not the point. The point is, now, I got there with Phillip. Still facing one another I embrace his body to mine and I kiss him, my tongue curious for his, and he urgently returns the kiss.

"Luke, oh God, that was good. I feel like I've run a race and won the laurel."

"Yep, damn straight, it felt about as right as anything can feel but it appears we're going to need another little wash off."

We clean ourselves up again and come back to the little double bed. We lay down beside one another. I fall almost immediately into a deep, dreamless sleep.

When I awaken in the morning, I am on my right side facing the wall. I can tell it is still early from the slant of the sunlight streaming through the windows. In the night Phillip has spooned against my back, his arm over my side, his hand lying lightly on my erect penis and I can feel his erection against my back. It wasn't a dream, I think, thank goodness it wasn't a dream. I turn over on my left side and face Phillip. As I adjust my position, he awakens, looks at me and smiles crookedly.

"I need to take a piss something awful," he says.

"Good morning to you, too. Let's go."

We arise on sleep-stiffened legs, make our way to the door of the cabin and walk out into the breaking light; naked as the day we were born. We both take that delicious first piss of the morning, oohing and aahing at the delightful sensation of bladders emptying. Back into the cabin we go and lie down again on the little bed.

"I guess we'll have to pack up our stuff and head back to town." I say as I face him.

"I think we have time to take care of some other business first."

I look at him fully and I see he is getting an erection.

"Yep," I say, "first things first."

And then our bodies hungrily find one another.

October, 1971

To say the past six weeks have put my happy little mind into a whirlwind would be akin to saying Senator Ted Kennedy had a small traffic accident last year or we're having a little conflict in Vietnam. School and schoolwork have gone outstandingly; so far I am doing great in all my classes. We have won our first five football games including one last weekend against our archrival Camden. And then there is Phillip. We've made the trek out to the cabin every Saturday the past few weeks. Since dove season lasts 70 days this year we still have an easy excuse to go out there and the truth of the matter is we have been hunting, bringing home our limit every Sunday. After dove season, we'll have to come up with some new alibi, but the real reason we go out there, of course, is to steal a few precious hours alone and, let me tell you, the time we have spent together has been nothing short of pure heaven for me. That's not to say I haven't had some nagging conflicts and questions for myself about what our friendship has turned into, but when we're together at the cabin, sharing ourselves, those internal questions and conflicts sort of blow away like a light fog in a high breeze. No other concern seems important. At school Phillip and I are the same as we ever were, best friends, hanging out, but on the weekends it is something else altogether. It's like we're inseparable, mind and body.

We had a little bit of a scare during last week's game. It was a very cool evening for October. Low 50's, high 40's temperature, something like that. Camden has a very good football team and they match up well with us. They have a middle linebacker, a black kid named Lester Doyle, who is just a talent. This guy is big, fast and has a nasty attitude. Reminds me of what Lady Caroline Lamb said of Lord Byron, "He's mad, bad and dangerous to know." That describes Lester Doyle to a tee. Well, during the game, early 4th quarter, we were down 17-7 but we were driving. We had the ball on about their forty, 2nd and eight, and John Mark calls a pass play designed to hit a wide receiver down the left side for the first down, if not a score. I was in at tight end. When we get to the line, John Mark notices the outside linebacker and safety on the right side are cheating up, most likely a blitz. Johnny changes the play at the line of scrimmage for a hot route to Phillip coming out of the backfield about 8-10 yards downfield behind the linebackers in the middle of the field. When the ball is hiked, sure enough, the linebacker and safety blitz, I pick up the linebacker and Mason Thomas, bless his little poor blocking heart, picks up the safety, John Mark takes a short three step drop and hits Phillip coming across the middle. However, Lester Doyle is a smart player and he saw the whole thing develop, I mean this guy knows what is happening on the football field, and as Phillip caught the ball and drew it in, Lester hit him full speed, helmet to the chest and Phillip came completely off the ground, decleated, as it were, and hit the ground back first. But the ball didn't come out, completed pass, first down. Yes, let's all celebrate. Then we look back to where the play concluded and Phillip ain't getting up. My brain sort of wanted to lose it. He's lying on his back, knees up, his breath steam from the cold, billowing up. Coach Wilkins and the trainer start running out on the field toward him. At about that time, Phillip does a slow roll onto his side and then onto his hands and knees, still grasping the football in one arm. He's gasping for breath, his head lowered to the ground. Oh fuck, I think, he is really hurt. John Mark and I and the whole offensive team walk up to where Phillip is as the Coach arrives.

"Phillip, son, are you all right," Coach Wilkins asks?

Phillip wheezes, "I can't breathe."

"Phillip, lay on your back. Stretch out," our trainer Jay Cummings says.

Phillip complies, rolling onto his back. Jay puts his hand on Phillip's chest and tells him to relax and try to breathe normally. I can see Phillip's face through his facemask and I can tell he is in pain. This causes a crazy little hiccup in my chest. Phillip looks over and catches my eye. He lies there for a few minutes and finally we can tell he's going to be okay.

"Just got the breath knocked out me," Phillip says weakly as he sits up, puts his arms around his knees and surveys the field.

"No, you got the shit knocked out of you boy, but you made a great catch, very brave," Coach Wilkins tells him.

"I think I'll get up now." And Phillip rises to his feet, Coach Wilkins grabbing his right arm and elbow to assist. Then Phillip jogs to the sideline.

"Wow, that was some catch," John Mark allows, "I can't believe he held onto that one. That Lester is a fucking hitting machine."

"No shit, Sherlock," I say. That's about all I can add to Johnny's stunning grasp of the obvious.

The great part is that hit didn't keep Phillip out of the game. He was back in about 4 plays. He scored a touchdown that got us to 17-14. John Mark engineered a late 4th quarter drive and scored a touchdown on a keeper play from ten yards out with about 2 minutes left and then our defense shut them down, giving us a 21-17 win. We were jubilant. You know, we just might win district and then who knows, maybe we'll go a little further in the playoffs.

Last Saturday night at the cabin, when Phillip and I were together, I saw the result of his run in with Lester Doyle. There was a bruise on his chest about the size of my hand on his left pec. It was very sensitive to the touch and it hurt my heart to see it.

"My first reaction after that hit was; did someone get the license plate number on that truck?" Phillip says, lying on his back looking at me.

I laugh at his remark and he smiles.

"Well, it was a good play and it helped win the game," I tell him.

"Yes, yes it was a good play."

I reach and hold him to me; he strokes my hair with one hand and puts his other hand in the small of my back. He sighs, relaxes and eventually we fall asleep just like that.

I guess I say all this because I think I'm in love with Phillip Stecker. God, how strange is that? I just wish I knew if he thought the same thing about me. I honestly didn't know I could feel this way about another guy. I mean I don't think I know a whole lot and this thing with Phillip has me tied up in knots inside. Life is weird.

November, 1971-Thanksgiving weekend

The last day of dove season was last Saturday. This past week I've been off from school, Thanksgiving break. Phillip and I have plans to go out to the cabin on Saturday, ostensibly to clean the place up from our hunting trips. We've come up with a few new stories to use so we can continue our trips to the cabin, at least on some weekends. Phillip continues to hang out at my house a lot, but I go out to his place often and his parents seem to have genuinely warmed up to me. Major Stecker enjoys talking about his experiences in the Army and I always provide an ear to his reminisces. The Stecker's older son, Wes, Jr., is at West Point and the Major is particularly proud of this. Who can blame him? I know when he told me about it, I was impressed. But, truth be told, I know Phillip and his dad have a rocky relationship. Phillip has told me a little about it, but it's a touchy subject. Phillip loves his dad, but they are sort of like oil and water. Mrs. Stecker is a very nice lady, but not as outgoing as the Major. She sort of dotes on Phillip, but then again, my mom is a world-class doter her ownself, so what can I say?

The Saturday after Thanksgiving Phillip and I are at the cabin, we got here around noon. It has been a clear cloudless day, temperature in the high 70's, very nice for late November. We have made the cabin clean and straight. We've policed the entire area around the cabin, burying trash and the like. We take a hike out to the creek and wash up after our exertions. The water is much cooler now, no, actually it is quite cold. But we go ahead, jump in and take it like men. We go to the deeper pool and wash off. We wrestle some in the water, getting a little worked up but that is about all. We stroll back to where we walked in, dry off, dress and head back to the cabin. We build a fire, Phillip has learned the routine now, and we make it a big one. As the afternoon deepens, the temperature cools some, but the big fire keeps the cooler air at bay.

Phillip has brought his radio, per usual, and as we sit by the fire we listen to our favorite music. Our latest favorite is "Every Picture Tells a Story" by Rod Stewart. We love to sing along with this one because we really get to let loose at the top of our lungs. I mean if you're going to keep up with Rod you've got to let it all hang out. While we're relaxing by the fire, shirts off, that song comes on the radio, Phillip reaches over and turns it way up to ear splitting. We jump up and just let it rip, singing as loudly as we can and dancing around the fire like a couple of idiots. Man, I think, does it get any better than this?

Later that night when we are in bed, spent from our bodies combining, I am lying awake. Phillip snoozes close to my side. He is a notorious back sleeper, no covers unless it is freezing, and sometimes when he is asleep, I just lie there and look at him. He appears to me like one of those classic Greek or Roman statues that has tumbled from its pedestal. My eyes take him in from the top of his head to his feet. He has a small scar that describes an arc under his left eye, almost invisible unless you are close. I look at the rise of his chest, the plane of his belly, the flat inverted comma of his navel, his penis at rest and his legs outstretched with his feet crossed together at the end of the bed. God, I think, he is beautiful. The sight of him makes my head sort of go blank. I feel very fortunate, no that's not the right word, blessed to be this close to him. My mind is in a reverie dominated by Phillip.

"What are you doing?" I hear Phillip ask sleepily and I snap out of my musing.

"Oh, uh, well," I stammer, "I'm kind of looking at you while you sleep. I, well, I like to watch you when you sleep."

"Ummh, okay, that's okay."

"Phillip, I don't know quite how to say this," I can't believe I'm actually going to say it. I've been thinking about this for weeks and if it doesn't go well, I don't know what I'll do. "You know, Phillip, I think I may be in love with you."

Phillip gives me one of his crooked little smiles and rolls slowly up on his elbow, his head propped in his hand.

"You know what, Luke, that's good because I think I've been in love with you for quite a while now. Well, since about the first time we came out here."

My ears start to roar; my heart lifts out of my chest and soars. I look at him from head to toe and I notice he is getting an erection. This may sound absurd, but I think this may be the most gratifying thing I've ever seen. My body responds to his and we consummate what we have spoken to one another. The point of our contact is our bodies, legs entwined, dick to dick, belly to belly, chest to chest, face to face, but the connection is much deeper, much more; our souls seem to fit one to the other like pieces in a puzzle and we lift one another to that emotional and physical release, our small world falling together in this act of sacrament to our affection.

After we are through, I hold him close to me, his beloved face close to mine, both of my hands against the back of his head, our bodies in full contact. I am speechless with gratitude. My heart is full, I feel complete and I think nothing will ever change that.

As I fall asleep with Phillip close to me, already sleeping, breathing easily and deeply, I think of the sonnets of William Shakespeare we the sophomore students of Mrs. Roberts' English literature class have learned this semester. One in particular has caught my attention and it is my encomium to Phillip or at least that is what my soul tells me.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.