Welcome to This Country Life. I'm your host, Brent Reeves. From coon hunting to trot lining and just general country living. I want you to stay a while as I share my experiences and life lessons. This Country Life is presented by Case Knives on Meat Eaters Podcast Network, bringing you the best outdoor podcast the airways had off. All right, friends, grab a chair or drop that tailgate. I've got some stories to share. Collections. It's all about the things folks collect. This week, I'm gonna talk about some of the things I collect, some of the things my family has, and give you a little background.

Welcome to This Country Life. I'm your host, Brent Reeves. From coon hunting to trot lining and just general country living. I want you to stay a while as I share my experiences and life lessons. This Country Life is presented by Case Knives on Meat Eaters Podcast Network, bringing you the best outdoor podcast the airways had off. All right, friends, grab a chair or drop that tailgate. I've got some stories to share. Collections. It's all about the things folks collect. This week, I'm gonna talk about some of the things I collect, some of the things my family has, and give you a little background.

On some of them as well.

On some of them as well.

But first, I'm gonna tell you a story.

But first, I'm gonna tell you a story.

Back a few years after the turn of the century.

Back a few years after the turn of the century.

And I know that sounds like a long time ago, but it really wasn't. Or I like to think it was, because the reference used to me like eighty years ago, but not anymore now it's less than twenty five. Anyway, I was kicking it around southeast Arkansas and was a special Agent in charge of the five County tenth Judicial District Drug Task Force. My office was in Monticella, a booming little metropolis of about ninety five hundred humans. On the edge of the Mississippi Delta region of Arkansas in Drew County, the University of Arkansas at Montecella is there gold bowl evils. That's right, I said bowl weavil And like they say, ain't nothing more evil than a dang bowl evil. It's also the birth home of Ensign Rodney Shelton Falls and sin False is considered by many to be one of, if not the first American casualty of World War Two, having been struck by strafing Japanese planes during the initial attack of the United States in Pearl Harbor and some foss. We thank you for your sacrifice. And the current mayor of mane Soela is my old partner from the Drug Task Force. Jason Akers is my brother in blue and one of the very best friends I have on this planet. He's the kind of guy that if he got thrown in jail and I couldn't get him out, I'd get.

And I know that sounds like a long time ago, but it really wasn't. Or I like to think it was, because the reference used to me like eighty years ago, but not anymore now it's less than twenty five. Anyway, I was kicking it around southeast Arkansas and was a special Agent in charge of the five County tenth Judicial District Drug Task Force. My office was in Monticella, a booming little metropolis of about ninety five hundred humans. On the edge of the Mississippi Delta region of Arkansas in Drew County, the University of Arkansas at Montecella is there gold bowl evils. That's right, I said bowl weavil And like they say, ain't nothing more evil than a dang bowl evil. It's also the birth home of Ensign Rodney Shelton Falls and sin False is considered by many to be one of, if not the first American casualty of World War Two, having been struck by strafing Japanese planes during the initial attack of the United States in Pearl Harbor and some foss. We thank you for your sacrifice. And the current mayor of mane Soela is my old partner from the Drug Task Force. Jason Akers is my brother in blue and one of the very best friends I have on this planet. He's the kind of guy that if he got thrown in jail and I couldn't get him out, I'd get.

In there with him.

In there with him.

But this story takes place long before he was elected the town mayor and has absolutely nothing to do with him. I enjoyed my time in Manaseella. Back in high school, some of my friends and I would make the sixteen mile trip east across the Slain River to go to the walk In movie theater or stop at the fish Place just on the edge of town that my grandparents frequented every Friday. So when I wound up there as the Drug Task Force commander some fifteen years later, I was quite familiar with the folks in the area. It would be the place where I started a collection, a collection that I also laid the foundation of at the feet of my father. It's not knives this time, it's shotguns. Browning Shotguns Belgium made a five semi automatic shotguns to be specific. Now, those shotguns have been revered in my family, like a lot of other families, since John Browning had to wherewithal to design and patent that metal and wood framed example of exquisiteness. My dad had several, I have several, and so to all other members of my family. There are works of art and how they operate is the thing of genius. My admiration for them did not match my ability to afford them early on, and I didn't become a policeman to get rich, and that plan worked out for me. Bind them came on the rare occasion I found some disposable income. At the same time, I found a good deal on an A five. Those two things hardly, if ever, came about concurrently.

But this story takes place long before he was elected the town mayor and has absolutely nothing to do with him. I enjoyed my time in Manaseella. Back in high school, some of my friends and I would make the sixteen mile trip east across the Slain River to go to the walk In movie theater or stop at the fish Place just on the edge of town that my grandparents frequented every Friday. So when I wound up there as the Drug Task Force commander some fifteen years later, I was quite familiar with the folks in the area. It would be the place where I started a collection, a collection that I also laid the foundation of at the feet of my father. It's not knives this time, it's shotguns. Browning Shotguns Belgium made a five semi automatic shotguns to be specific. Now, those shotguns have been revered in my family, like a lot of other families, since John Browning had to wherewithal to design and patent that metal and wood framed example of exquisiteness. My dad had several, I have several, and so to all other members of my family. There are works of art and how they operate is the thing of genius. My admiration for them did not match my ability to afford them early on, and I didn't become a policeman to get rich, and that plan worked out for me. Bind them came on the rare occasion I found some disposable income. At the same time, I found a good deal on an A five. Those two things hardly, if ever, came about concurrently.

But one Friday morning.

But one Friday morning.

I was in my office in Monticella and my secretary popped in and said she was taking her lunch break and getting an early look at in the States sale that was taking place not far away. Buy me a shotgun, was the last thing I told her. Is she beat feet out the door. Fifteen minutes later she came running in and said, Hey, they got an old shotgun down there for one hundred and fifty dollars. A one hundred and fifty dollars shotgun wasn't much even then, at the turn of the last century. And I asked her what kind it was. She said, I don't know, but it's real pretty. That's in a case. It looks like it's leather, but it's it's I think it's imitation like vinyl. It's cracking in places and tore. I told her I wasn't interested in one hundred and fifty shotgun and a cracking vinyl case. Doubtfully, it was a very good one for that kind of money, and at that time I actually had the extra funds. She said she was going back down there, and as the door was closing, I told her to see what kind it was and give me a call. A short time later, my nokid cell phone started buzzing, and when I answered, she said, it says Browning on the side of the metal. And I said for one hundred and fifty dollars. She said, well, that's what the tag on it says. I asked her, was it all rusted up? She said, no, it looks new. But the lady said it was old. She said it was her husband's bird gun. Now where I grew up, if you said bird, you meant Bob white quail. And if you were to draw a picture of a bird hunter, he'd have a pair of leather lace up boots, a flannel shirt and a matching set of ducks back canvas breeches, coat and a hat just like the one that my dad shot to pieces that belonged to his cousin Wayne Fry. He'd also more than likely have a Browning Auto five shotgun in twelve sixteen or twenty gage. Not everybody, but a lot of folks. Coincidentally, it was a brown and a five that my dad used to obliterate Wayne's hat back in The Father's Day, episode number two twenty three, when he said her husband's bird gun. I'm pretty sure I jumped over the desk to get down there. When I drove up, she was sitting on the porch talking to an elderly lady who was overseeing a yard full of antique furniture and items that no one would call junk. I remember her being not unlike my own grandmother, an absolute walking definition of a Southern lady. Her hair was beauty parlor fixed, and her dress and shoes looked like they came right out of my grandma's closet. She invited me to sit down on the porch with them, and I did. I introduced myself, and she asked me about being a policeman and said that I didn't look like any policeman she'd ever seen with all those whiskers. Well, I showed her my badge and ID and I told her the nature of my work.

I was in my office in Monticella and my secretary popped in and said she was taking her lunch break and getting an early look at in the States sale that was taking place not far away. Buy me a shotgun, was the last thing I told her. Is she beat feet out the door. Fifteen minutes later she came running in and said, Hey, they got an old shotgun down there for one hundred and fifty dollars. A one hundred and fifty dollars shotgun wasn't much even then, at the turn of the last century. And I asked her what kind it was. She said, I don't know, but it's real pretty. That's in a case. It looks like it's leather, but it's it's I think it's imitation like vinyl. It's cracking in places and tore. I told her I wasn't interested in one hundred and fifty shotgun and a cracking vinyl case. Doubtfully, it was a very good one for that kind of money, and at that time I actually had the extra funds. She said she was going back down there, and as the door was closing, I told her to see what kind it was and give me a call. A short time later, my nokid cell phone started buzzing, and when I answered, she said, it says Browning on the side of the metal. And I said for one hundred and fifty dollars. She said, well, that's what the tag on it says. I asked her, was it all rusted up? She said, no, it looks new. But the lady said it was old. She said it was her husband's bird gun. Now where I grew up, if you said bird, you meant Bob white quail. And if you were to draw a picture of a bird hunter, he'd have a pair of leather lace up boots, a flannel shirt and a matching set of ducks back canvas breeches, coat and a hat just like the one that my dad shot to pieces that belonged to his cousin Wayne Fry. He'd also more than likely have a Browning Auto five shotgun in twelve sixteen or twenty gage. Not everybody, but a lot of folks. Coincidentally, it was a brown and a five that my dad used to obliterate Wayne's hat back in The Father's Day, episode number two twenty three, when he said her husband's bird gun. I'm pretty sure I jumped over the desk to get down there. When I drove up, she was sitting on the porch talking to an elderly lady who was overseeing a yard full of antique furniture and items that no one would call junk. I remember her being not unlike my own grandmother, an absolute walking definition of a Southern lady. Her hair was beauty parlor fixed, and her dress and shoes looked like they came right out of my grandma's closet. She invited me to sit down on the porch with them, and I did. I introduced myself, and she asked me about being a policeman and said that I didn't look like any policeman she'd ever seen with all those whiskers. Well, I showed her my badge and ID and I told her the nature of my work.

She said folks ought to be.

She said folks ought to be.

Ashamed of themselves, and that I should be very careful dealing with that meanness. I told her I would. She said, you want to see that shotgun? I said, yes, ma'am. She said, it's right in Yonder on the kitchen table. Help yourself well. I walked in her house, and that was immacktly clean and tidy as any home I'd ever been in. Everything in there was old, but well taken care of in its place and served a purpose. The old wood floors creaked under the big oval oriental rug she had in the living room. As I made my way toward the dining room, just a head laying on the table was a full leather shotgun case, just like my secretary had described. Tied to that zipper was a tag that was marked one hundred and fifty dollars. The zipper was rusted in spots and wouldn't go all the way down. I opened it as far as I could, and then I saw the butt plate on that shotgun FN, which stood for Fabric Nationale. That was the gun maker in Belgium. We're up until the mid nineteen seventies. All the A fives were produced after that. The barrels were inscribed made in Japan when production was moved to there. The Belgian brownings were what true browning folks wanted, and I was holding one right now. I slowly pulled it from the Chamois lion case, waiting for it to turn into something that would warrant one hundred and fifty dollars price tag.

Ashamed of themselves, and that I should be very careful dealing with that meanness. I told her I would. She said, you want to see that shotgun? I said, yes, ma'am. She said, it's right in Yonder on the kitchen table. Help yourself well. I walked in her house, and that was immacktly clean and tidy as any home I'd ever been in. Everything in there was old, but well taken care of in its place and served a purpose. The old wood floors creaked under the big oval oriental rug she had in the living room. As I made my way toward the dining room, just a head laying on the table was a full leather shotgun case, just like my secretary had described. Tied to that zipper was a tag that was marked one hundred and fifty dollars. The zipper was rusted in spots and wouldn't go all the way down. I opened it as far as I could, and then I saw the butt plate on that shotgun FN, which stood for Fabric Nationale. That was the gun maker in Belgium. We're up until the mid nineteen seventies. All the A fives were produced after that. The barrels were inscribed made in Japan when production was moved to there. The Belgian brownings were what true browning folks wanted, and I was holding one right now. I slowly pulled it from the Chamois lion case, waiting for it to turn into something that would warrant one hundred and fifty dollars price tag.

But it didn't. It only got better.

But it didn't. It only got better.

There wasn't a blemish on it, The bluing was intact, no scratches on the wood jackpot. I couldn't wait to show my dad and Tim the deal I'd gotten, But before I got to the front door, I had a bad feeling in my stomach. There was no way I could give that lady one hundred and fifty dollars for a shotgun that was worth three times that I stolen watermelons and done up other than the fariest deeds in my life that I hope and pray I have a tone for. But no way was I going to be the sweet old lady out of a shotgun that belonged to her husband. Did you like the gun? Oh yes, ma'am. I like to just find and I'd like to buy it from me, But I'm afraid I can't give you what you're asking. She said, Well, how much would you like to give me for it? Your secretary says, you like to hunting. I'd like to see it go to someone who likes to hunt as much as my as my herald did. So no, ma'am, it's not too high. That shotgun is worth more than that it is. I said, yes, ma'am, quite a bit more. She looked thoughtful for a moment, and she said, well, that's the price on there, and that's what i'll take for it. I told her it was worth more, and she said again, no, that's the price.

There wasn't a blemish on it, The bluing was intact, no scratches on the wood jackpot. I couldn't wait to show my dad and Tim the deal I'd gotten, But before I got to the front door, I had a bad feeling in my stomach. There was no way I could give that lady one hundred and fifty dollars for a shotgun that was worth three times that I stolen watermelons and done up other than the fariest deeds in my life that I hope and pray I have a tone for. But no way was I going to be the sweet old lady out of a shotgun that belonged to her husband. Did you like the gun? Oh yes, ma'am. I like to just find and I'd like to buy it from me, But I'm afraid I can't give you what you're asking. She said, Well, how much would you like to give me for it? Your secretary says, you like to hunting. I'd like to see it go to someone who likes to hunt as much as my as my herald did. So no, ma'am, it's not too high. That shotgun is worth more than that it is. I said, yes, ma'am, quite a bit more. She looked thoughtful for a moment, and she said, well, that's the price on there, and that's what i'll take for it. I told her it was worth more, and she said again, no, that's the price.

Take it or leave it. Well.

Take it or leave it. Well.

I wrote her a check and I folded it up and I handed it to her. She smiled and stuck it in her from pocket, and without looking at it, and said, I guess I can take a check and trust a policeman, even a hairy one like you. I hugged her neck and thanked her, and she told me, I hope you get as much enjoyment out of that gun as my herald did. I left there with a clear conscience and a piece of history. Now, twenty plus years later, I can see that shotgun sitting in my safe every time I open it up, and I have no idea if it even shoots. I've never loaded it, much less fired. It was meant to be and has always been, a bird gun, and the Bob White quails have all but disappeared in South Arkansas. The gaming fish Man. They're working hard to bring them back, and I'm thankful for it. I hope to have the opportunity soon to take my brother Tim and his sons and mine on a quail hunt, maybe out west, somewhere where you can still walk them up behind a good dog, shoot into a covey rise, so they can experience what Tim and I did when we were young. Birds were plentiful. I've been saving that shotgun, whose serial numbers revealed it was manufactured in nineteen fifty eight, just for such an occasion. Then that portion of its story will be complete. Its journey from Harold to Harold's widow to me will end that chapter of the one hundred and fifty dollars shotgun that coincidentally, in nineteen fifty eight sold new for one hundred and fifty dollars that I bought with a folded check that I made out to her for two hundred and fifty.

I wrote her a check and I folded it up and I handed it to her. She smiled and stuck it in her from pocket, and without looking at it, and said, I guess I can take a check and trust a policeman, even a hairy one like you. I hugged her neck and thanked her, and she told me, I hope you get as much enjoyment out of that gun as my herald did. I left there with a clear conscience and a piece of history. Now, twenty plus years later, I can see that shotgun sitting in my safe every time I open it up, and I have no idea if it even shoots. I've never loaded it, much less fired. It was meant to be and has always been, a bird gun, and the Bob White quails have all but disappeared in South Arkansas. The gaming fish Man. They're working hard to bring them back, and I'm thankful for it. I hope to have the opportunity soon to take my brother Tim and his sons and mine on a quail hunt, maybe out west, somewhere where you can still walk them up behind a good dog, shoot into a covey rise, so they can experience what Tim and I did when we were young. Birds were plentiful. I've been saving that shotgun, whose serial numbers revealed it was manufactured in nineteen fifty eight, just for such an occasion. Then that portion of its story will be complete. Its journey from Harold to Harold's widow to me will end that chapter of the one hundred and fifty dollars shotgun that coincidentally, in nineteen fifty eight sold new for one hundred and fifty dollars that I bought with a folded check that I made out to her for two hundred and fifty.

And that's just how that happened.

And that's just how that happened.

Collections can be as varied as the collectors, from fishing baits to beanie babies. There's someone somewhere that likes to stack them up and proudly display them for others to look at, or keep them hidden from sight, only enjoying the ownership and the satisfaction that comes from owning quantities of the object of their desires, like my wife's shoe collection that would rival that of Amelda Marcos. Don't know who Amelda is? Google is your friend, Well maybe not your friend, but you can see who that woman is I just named by using it. Anyway, I come from a long line of collectors. My mama likes anything that's connected with depression glass dishes, antique furniture, quilts, and the like. And while I just talked about my dad's affinity for brown and shotguns, it is along that same vein that he had another collection by Centennial Quarters. For all you folks that don't know what one is, I'm going to suggest you google it, and if you have to Google that up, may the Lord have mercy upon your ill informed soul. Nineteen seventy six wasn't that long ago? Never mind apparently it was, But starting forty eight years ago and every year thereafter, my father snatched up by Centennial quarters like they were gold. He could sniff one out quicker than whaling can of bandido. There wasn't one safe anywhere close, And when he passed away, there were gallon jars of them on shelves in his closet. I carry one in my pocket from that collection, along with the sundry of other items. I don't leave the house without. What was his fascination with him, I don't know. I never asked him. I asked him, and he said the same thing. He just liked him. His affinity for bisentennial quarters was surpassed only by his desire not to spend quarters of any kind. My dad was notoriously a tightwad when he came to spending money on anything he thought was frivolous. Fifteen hundred dollars for a dog, no problem, boat, motor okay, fishing, poles, hunting boots, shotguns, horses, saddles. In tact, take my money, said Buddy Reeves.

Collections can be as varied as the collectors, from fishing baits to beanie babies. There's someone somewhere that likes to stack them up and proudly display them for others to look at, or keep them hidden from sight, only enjoying the ownership and the satisfaction that comes from owning quantities of the object of their desires, like my wife's shoe collection that would rival that of Amelda Marcos. Don't know who Amelda is? Google is your friend, Well maybe not your friend, but you can see who that woman is I just named by using it. Anyway, I come from a long line of collectors. My mama likes anything that's connected with depression glass dishes, antique furniture, quilts, and the like. And while I just talked about my dad's affinity for brown and shotguns, it is along that same vein that he had another collection by Centennial Quarters. For all you folks that don't know what one is, I'm going to suggest you google it, and if you have to Google that up, may the Lord have mercy upon your ill informed soul. Nineteen seventy six wasn't that long ago? Never mind apparently it was, But starting forty eight years ago and every year thereafter, my father snatched up by Centennial quarters like they were gold. He could sniff one out quicker than whaling can of bandido. There wasn't one safe anywhere close, And when he passed away, there were gallon jars of them on shelves in his closet. I carry one in my pocket from that collection, along with the sundry of other items. I don't leave the house without. What was his fascination with him, I don't know. I never asked him. I asked him, and he said the same thing. He just liked him. His affinity for bisentennial quarters was surpassed only by his desire not to spend quarters of any kind. My dad was notoriously a tightwad when he came to spending money on anything he thought was frivolous. Fifteen hundred dollars for a dog, no problem, boat, motor okay, fishing, poles, hunting boots, shotguns, horses, saddles. In tact, take my money, said Buddy Reeves.

Dad.

Dad.

I'm hungry. We'll get someone when we get to the house. But I'm hungry now. Guess what, You'll still be hungry when we get home. Case in point, He and I took a trip out west in July of two thousand and one. He'd never been past Oklahoma, and he wanted to see Mount Rushmore. I'll relate the details of that trip and another story. Trust me, it can stand on its own without any poetic licensing. So I'm just gonna fast forward to us standing in the Black Hills of South Dakota at the Crazy Horse Memorial. We walked all through the visitor center, admiring historical photographs and information not only about the memorial, but about the man himself. We walked out to the visitor center on a big deck out back, and therein all that's grandeur was Chief Crazy Horse's likeness being carved out of a mountain. It was absolutely enormous, and like most places there, there were those big coin operated binoculars that would give you a magnified view of the scenery. I saw a small yellow speck on the outstretched arm of the Chief and I realized it was a bulldozer. They rarely put the size of that relief carving in perspective, and I dropped a quarter in to get a closer look, and it really took my breath away as how big that thing really was. Dad, you ain't gonna believe how big this thing is. He was like a little kid trying not to run on the pool deck. After being warned by the lifeguard for the final time, I went back to gazing at the mountain, and I caught him in my peripheral vision, turning that big set of binoculars to where he could see what I'd so excitedly described to him. Where is it that son right there where I can't see nothing. I looked over at him and staring through the viewfinder, and I was like, Dad, it's pointed right at the mountain. Just looked through it. He said, I don't see nothing but black. This thing's broke. I said, no, Dad, it ain't broke. You got to drop a quarter in that slot and make it work. He drew his head back and looked at me like I'd lost my mind. A quarter, I said, yes, sir, put a quarter in that slot and it'll turn on for you. His face turned into a portrait of what someone looks like when they smell sired milk.

I'm hungry. We'll get someone when we get to the house. But I'm hungry now. Guess what, You'll still be hungry when we get home. Case in point, He and I took a trip out west in July of two thousand and one. He'd never been past Oklahoma, and he wanted to see Mount Rushmore. I'll relate the details of that trip and another story. Trust me, it can stand on its own without any poetic licensing. So I'm just gonna fast forward to us standing in the Black Hills of South Dakota at the Crazy Horse Memorial. We walked all through the visitor center, admiring historical photographs and information not only about the memorial, but about the man himself. We walked out to the visitor center on a big deck out back, and therein all that's grandeur was Chief Crazy Horse's likeness being carved out of a mountain. It was absolutely enormous, and like most places there, there were those big coin operated binoculars that would give you a magnified view of the scenery. I saw a small yellow speck on the outstretched arm of the Chief and I realized it was a bulldozer. They rarely put the size of that relief carving in perspective, and I dropped a quarter in to get a closer look, and it really took my breath away as how big that thing really was. Dad, you ain't gonna believe how big this thing is. He was like a little kid trying not to run on the pool deck. After being warned by the lifeguard for the final time, I went back to gazing at the mountain, and I caught him in my peripheral vision, turning that big set of binoculars to where he could see what I'd so excitedly described to him. Where is it that son right there where I can't see nothing. I looked over at him and staring through the viewfinder, and I was like, Dad, it's pointed right at the mountain. Just looked through it. He said, I don't see nothing but black. This thing's broke. I said, no, Dad, it ain't broke. You got to drop a quarter in that slot and make it work. He drew his head back and looked at me like I'd lost my mind. A quarter, I said, yes, sir, put a quarter in that slot and it'll turn on for you. His face turned into a portrait of what someone looks like when they smell sired milk.

You already put one in.

You already put one in.

Yes, sir, he said, oh, heck, I'll just look through yours. A quarter twenty five cents. Twenty five cents is what separated him from seining to sight. He'd only dreamt of sin before today, and he wasn't about to spend one to see it. He collected quarters, but he didn't spend them.

Yes, sir, he said, oh, heck, I'll just look through yours. A quarter twenty five cents. Twenty five cents is what separated him from seining to sight. He'd only dreamt of sin before today, and he wasn't about to spend one to see it. He collected quarters, but he didn't spend them.

Not for that anyway.

Not for that anyway.

My brother Tim collects a bunch of stuff very reminiscent of my own, but he's got a lot more of each, from knives and firearms and Indian artifacts from where we live, and a collection of memorabilia from a local battle from the war between the States, musket balls that had been dropped on the field to battle, along with fired ones that held the deformity of being fired and striking something or someone. Down near the river, there were camps occupied by soldiers, and just like any place where people gather, people lose things even back then, bullets and buckles and spurs and knapsacks, horse tacking the like. Less than one hundred years later, our older relatives talked about scratching around on the banks of the river when they were down there fishing and picking up the lead bullets from that battle to hammer into fishing weights, a practice the soldiers themselves did anytime they were stationed near water. That's quite a collectible. A piece of lead that was built for taking the life being fashioned into something to catch a fish. The most remarkable item from that struggle is a handful of coins, not unlike what a lot of us towed around today. These, however, belonged to a soldier who lost them on the field of battle one hundred and sixty years ago. Five cent pieces back then were called half dimes, and there were two of them, along with twenty three dimes and seven quarters four dollars fifteen cents many from eighteen sixty to eighteen sixty three. That is equal to about eighty dollars today. But in eighteen sixty four a Union soldier's pay was thirteen dollars a month. My brother had found in the area about the size of a kitchen table, a falling American's.

My brother Tim collects a bunch of stuff very reminiscent of my own, but he's got a lot more of each, from knives and firearms and Indian artifacts from where we live, and a collection of memorabilia from a local battle from the war between the States, musket balls that had been dropped on the field to battle, along with fired ones that held the deformity of being fired and striking something or someone. Down near the river, there were camps occupied by soldiers, and just like any place where people gather, people lose things even back then, bullets and buckles and spurs and knapsacks, horse tacking the like. Less than one hundred years later, our older relatives talked about scratching around on the banks of the river when they were down there fishing and picking up the lead bullets from that battle to hammer into fishing weights, a practice the soldiers themselves did anytime they were stationed near water. That's quite a collectible. A piece of lead that was built for taking the life being fashioned into something to catch a fish. The most remarkable item from that struggle is a handful of coins, not unlike what a lot of us towed around today. These, however, belonged to a soldier who lost them on the field of battle one hundred and sixty years ago. Five cent pieces back then were called half dimes, and there were two of them, along with twenty three dimes and seven quarters four dollars fifteen cents many from eighteen sixty to eighteen sixty three. That is equal to about eighty dollars today. But in eighteen sixty four a Union soldier's pay was thirteen dollars a month. My brother had found in the area about the size of a kitchen table, a falling American's.

Wages for a week of war.

Wages for a week of war.

Now, this battle took place on land that belongs to TAM's father in law, mister Billy Bryant, by turkey hunting mentor, who turned.

Now, this battle took place on land that belongs to TAM's father in law, mister Billy Bryant, by turkey hunting mentor, who turned.

Ninety one this year.

Ninety one this year.

He was raised there on that piece of land that was given to him by his father. His father told him a story of when he himself was a little boy and was squirrel hunting. One day, while walking through the woods, he walked upon something that caught his eye and after looking closer and moving leaves, he found the skeletal remains of a Union soldier near the base of a tree. Covered in leaf litter and the passage of time, the ragged wool of his uniform was still somewhat visible. He ran all the way home and was so shaken that he couldn't find that place again to show anyone where he'd found him so they could bury the remains. A not so gentle reminder that some collections are not to be taken lightly, and the story of their existence is important to document, to be told and not forgotten. I dare say there is no better self taught his story and on the Battle of Marksmel than my brother Tim, to our family and other sentence of that terrible time who still reside there. It is a place to be revered for the human struggle of all involved. I'll share some photos of the items on my social media pages. Slide on over there and give those pages a follow if you'd like to see them. Also, for you folks are starting to think about whitetail season and are so inclined, check out First Light's new whitetail kits over at the first light dot com.

He was raised there on that piece of land that was given to him by his father. His father told him a story of when he himself was a little boy and was squirrel hunting. One day, while walking through the woods, he walked upon something that caught his eye and after looking closer and moving leaves, he found the skeletal remains of a Union soldier near the base of a tree. Covered in leaf litter and the passage of time, the ragged wool of his uniform was still somewhat visible. He ran all the way home and was so shaken that he couldn't find that place again to show anyone where he'd found him so they could bury the remains. A not so gentle reminder that some collections are not to be taken lightly, and the story of their existence is important to document, to be told and not forgotten. I dare say there is no better self taught his story and on the Battle of Marksmel than my brother Tim, to our family and other sentence of that terrible time who still reside there. It is a place to be revered for the human struggle of all involved. I'll share some photos of the items on my social media pages. Slide on over there and give those pages a follow if you'd like to see them. Also, for you folks are starting to think about whitetail season and are so inclined, check out First Light's new whitetail kits over at the first light dot com.

That's First Light l I T E dot com.

That's First Light l I T E dot com.

Thank y'all for listening until next week. This is Brent Reeves signing off.

Thank y'all for listening until next week. This is Brent Reeves signing off.

Y'all be careful,

Y'all be careful,