A Martial Arts Life

True Mastery

2011-02-11T03:12:00.005-05:00

Before I do anything else, I’d like to say that I purchased a Pocket Bushman folder from Knifecenter.com recently.

To be perfectly honest, I had some doubts about the knife, due to some rather negative reviews of it on the web, but I have, thus far, found those concerns to be without cause.
First of all, the knife exits the box razor sharp. I have a bare spot on my arm (for the first time in a long time) to prove that it is delivered that way.

In normal usage, without any deliberate attempt to overstress the spring, the knife does its job just fine. As a matter of fact while using the knife in one of the most punishing (inland) environments I know of (the kitchen) it performs better than just about any other knife except for my carbon steel antiques (naaaah, no bias here).

O.K, so here I sit at my computer; trying to figure out what I should talk about now. Should it be about technique? Should it be about style? Or should it be about some of the more esoteric subjects (a favorite of many students) that run rampant through all martial arts legends and mythology?

None of the above.

What I’d like to wax poetic on today is the subject of real, or true, mastery of a subject or discipline.

Discussing mastery is kind of like trying to find land mines by putting on a hakama, blindfolding yourself; then grabbing your favorite bokken or staff and looking for the land mines by commencing to whack the ground as you slide step forward. No matter what you do, the outcome isn’t necessarily what you expect it to be.

But, if you care to try that, let me know how it works out for you.

My father, and Uncle Frank, had both told me that the real essence of a master isn’t found in the physical mastery of fighting or warfare. Real mastery begins, and only BEGINS, mind you, when you are able to teach a six year old how to fight in a disciplined manner. Without resorting to negative reinforcement techniques.

Well, as you can imagine that wasn’t a lesson that I believed or learned the easy way.

By the by, I have a history of hard learned lessons but, as my parents used to point out, I also have a short learning curve. I tend not to repeat my mistakes, but I do find some interesting new ones to make.

When my father opened his kwoon, my uncle was his chief instructor. I was the chief assistant instructor, a position that I probably took much too seriously but it did help to make certain that when I was in the kwoon, I was practicing as hard as I knew how.

When my uncle told me to take over the adult classes and teach them the basics I was very proud. Eleven year old me, leading adults in learning the basics.

There were a few, to be sure, who didn’t care for that. But each challenge led to them having to free spar with me and none of the matches went the way that the challengers had anticipated. The rules didn’t matter (street rules or tournament, the choice was theirs) I either won, honestly, or lost by such a close margin (one point) that the adult in question didn’t even care to discuss it afterward.

For a kid, especially in those pre-“junior black belt” days I was on top of the world.

And then the excrement hit the stationary push prop.

Dad decided to open the school to children.

After all, he already had four sons, all of whom were very competent assistant instructors.

Initially, with the first few children, they worked out with the adults, but after there were enough students (ten or so), Dad moved them to their own time slot in the kwoon schedule.

Which meant that (unbeknownst to me) there was now a reason to have a second Chief Instructor.

Now, when Uncle Lanny made that announcement I was hoping that it would be me. I knew that he was the Head Instructor, which led me to believe that I would be put in charge of the adults. I reasoned that, since Everett (number two son) was already leading the children in most of their training that he would be put in charge of the children; which then left me with teaching the adults and Uncle Lanny overseeing it all.

Well, I thought it was a good idea.

What did happen was that Uncle Lanny became the Chief Instructor for the adults, Everett became his new assistant and I became Chief Instructor for the children. Dad brought Uncle Bill in to be the Head Instructor and I fought back the urge to start sucking my thumb in the corner.

Hey, we ALL start out human.

So there I am, accustomed to teaching the adults. Living with; talking to and associating with adults. Most of my friends were adults and I only had minimal contact with other children my own age, which suited me just fine, as most of them appeared to be severely brain damaged. I mean, who wants to hang out with people who think it’s funny to stick two pencils up their nose?

First of all, there was a communications gap. The oldest was still only fourteen, with a mental age of maybe ten (remember the pencils? Yeah, that’s the one) and the youngest was a thumbsucker (literally) of about five. Physically, a nine year spread in ages, mentally? Not so much.

They kept me busy, oh god, did they keep me busy!

The first thing I learned was that the attention span wasn’t much more than twenty minutes at best. So things had to be kept to fifteen minute increments. The next thing I learned was that they couldn’t be pushed as hard as the adults, or even as hard as I’d push myself or my brothers. Compared to them, we were little powerhouses.

Daniel (number four son) once kicked the fourteen year old hard enough to knock the wind out of him and land him flat on his back.

The fourteen year old attempted to reciprocate, with permission, and only succeeded in seeing his opponent slip the kick, grab his leg and, you guessed it, land flat on his back.

Again

Daniel, age six, opponent, age fourteen; match goes to Daniel.

Houston, we have a problem.

Last, but not least, was that I knew all the movements so well that I could do them in my sleep. Ask me to demonstrate a technique and I could do it with no problem, whether the uke was willing, or not. Ask me to demonstrate a skill set and I could run through the entire series without missing a beat.

But I was accustomed to working with adults, whom you could show a technique to and expect them to see the nuances you needed them to learn. For them, the fact that my movements were as natural as walking was a good thing. When they got stuck all I had to do was to show them, and they’d pick it up.

Doesn’t generally work that way for children.

Think it’s not much of a problem?

Then try explaining to someone who’s been in a wheelchair, for his whole life, how to walk.

The odds are pretty good that you’ll miss about ninety percent of the more crucial information no matter how well you plan it out.

And you’ll miss it, precisely because you no longer have to think about it.

So there was the problem, I had to find a way to explain something which I knew so well that I no longer had the words to explain.

Words exist because of meaning. Once you've gotten the meaning, you can forget the words. Where can I find a man who has forgotten words so I can talk with him? ~Chuang Tzu

I had gone to a great deal of trouble to become the “man who has forgotten the words” but now I found myself in the unenviable position of having to remember them again. So I went to Uncle Lanny for help.

Should have known better.

Uncle Lanny looked at me for a long time, “You know all the moves, right?”

Well, yes, I do.

“And you know them so well that they’re second nature, right?”

Yeah

“So what’s the problem?”

Explaining them to my students.

“You know the moves, they want to know them, where’s the problem? Don’t you both speak the same language?”

Well, I used to think so.

“Then listen to them, learn their language.”

What? Standard English isn’t good enough? What the heck do they speak, Swahili?

Uncle Lanny just smiled and said, “Just listen.”

Well, I did listen, at least I thought I did, and things continued along pretty much the same. The fourteen year old continued to act like a five year old, the five year old was acting about two and everyone in between were just acting like fools.

The turning point came when I “met” Miss Sally.

Miss Sally hosted a children’s television show titled “Romper Room;” my youngest brother, Daniel, seemed to enjoy watching it. The rest of us considered it to be too “young” a show for us.

But, it did hold my brother’s attention.

And he, although he was more disciplined, was still only about five.

Hmmmmmmm, let’s see what the fuss is about.

So I watched the show, took mental notes and observed how my brother responded to Miss Sally.

Shortly afterward, I made some changes in how I taught the class.

First, I began by making the exercises more like games. Jack LaLanne was my role model for doing that, he had a way about him that made the exercises more enjoyable. Considering that he was attempting to “lure America” off their sofas it was definitely a job requirement for him. Stretching became more dancelike and the breakfalls became an exercise in seeing who could fall and make the least noise. Weight distribution is vital in breakfalls, the quieter you can land, when thrown, the softer you just hit the ground.

Teaching the strikes and blocks became a combination history lesson/mythology class and story hour. While I moved my students into the correct positions (standing still became an exercise in static balance) I would regale them with stories about the move’s presumed historical precedence, factual when I could, mythological if necessary and flat out fictional (but logical) if I couldn’t locate information about the basis for the movement/strike/kick/block.

Uncle Lanny directed Everett in leading his students, watched and smiled.

When my routine had become pretty much set and I knew I could count on my assistant instructor (David) I began to take breaks and watch from the desk with the Sifu, (Dad) and my two Uncles.

After a few months of everything going smoothly, Uncle Bill came to me and asked, “So have you thanked your students yet?”

I didn’t even ask why, I didn’t have to.

I lined them up and had them stand there as I thanked them for what they had taught me and bowed to them. Looking puzzled, they returned the bow.

As I left the mat, Uncle Lanny leaned over and said, “Do you know what the second stage of True Mastery is?”

Yeeeeeesh

At least I had a month or two of enjoying the THOUGHT that perhaps I had achieved True Mastery.

That, though, is a story for another time.

There isn't one of us that doesn't want to be someplace else. But this is what we do, who we are. Live for nothing, or die for something. Your call.

John Rambo

A Fight Story

2010-12-16T23:57:00.003-05:00

The following is an excerpt from a story I’m working on, but it’s essentially a sitrep about an actual incident.

No, I didn’t wind up in lockup, there were too many police witnesses to how the whole thing went down and I was working for a few of them. The only real difference was that my father was the cook, not my brother, and my dinner guest was a detective sergeant; but he was definitely my boss.

The story picks up in a restaurant, just before we got our orders.

So we chatted about the manning, every time we get to the required level, corporate wants us to do more. The roll call and how it could be improved, Ed promised to lobby HR about the unnecessary fluff; and training issues. We had just started to touch on personnel issues, when the food came out, steaming. But Peggy brought the order out.

“What happened to the kid?” Peggy put down the two chicken fried steaks, with an offhand shrug she said, “She left out the back door, her brother came to pick her up, their little sister is sick” Peggy started back to the waitress’ station, “She said she probably wouldn’t be back in today” I put my napkin on the table and started towards the door at a jog trot, I could hear Ed behind me, “Do you know the family? Is it serious?” I half turned, replying, “She’s an only child” I finished my explanation as I turned to leave, “and her boyfriend used to beat her, badly” I stepped out the door.

Just as I thought; they were just leaving the side street and the imbecile hadn’t even waited to get completely out of sight of the restaurant as he half dragged her down the street, accompanied by three other goons. “Hey you” I shouted; they turned to look, she was half on her knees, trying to wave me off, “is that the best that you ball-less cunts can do? Brutalize a five foot, one hundred pound waitress?” They stopped, staring and began making the usual comments. God, was originality so totally dead as that?

Let’s see, Bruno was the biggest, but all of them were bigger than me, good, no one could say it wasn’t a fair fight. “Why don’t you come on over and see what you can do against someone who can fight back” my feet shifted position slightly, bracing myself and “gripping” the ground.

Hands slightly away from the body, palms in, hands open. No one who saw me, unless they were well trained, could tell I was ready for an attack.

They were still standing there, talking, laughing, and trying to work up the nerve to attack. I needed to get this going, or David was going to give me grief for letting the food get cold, “The uniform bothers you? Don’t worry about it, no one here but a man and four worthless pieces of shit” I unbuttoned the shirt and it slid to the ground; the equipment belt soon followed, good, they were focused on me. I waved them on over, assuming a “peek a boo” defense posture, if Pretty Boy Floyd can make it work, so can I. Besides, it’ll keep them guessing. Bruno tossed Angela to the ground and told her, “Stay put, bitch, this won’t take long” O.K., one more thing to make him pay for.

All four moved in, then I heard a hiss/click as the door behind me opened and closed, nothing to worry me back there, his cronies were all with him,. I ignored the noise, focusing on the targets in front of me.

They moved into a loose wedge with Bruno in the lead, stupid, why didn’t they just send me a written notice that Bruno was going to lead the attack. Their loose easy strut/attempted glide/swagger/walk was a clear signal that they had done this previously; probably successfully.

Too bad they moved like constipated orangutans.

Bruno dropped his head to his chest as he attempted a long, looping roundhouse punch. Much to his chagrin I stepped inside the swing, guiding his right outward with my left, catching hold of his arm just before the bicep. Pulling forward with my left, I continued his swing past me and pulling him into my right cross, a hesitation, a slight move back and my right arm came forward with an elbow smash into his left cheek, smashing the zygomatic arch. That caused his eye to pop out slightly, a macabre sight.

All this action took place in slightly less than two seconds but it covered his face in blood. The next few seconds involved Bruno’s head becoming one with the concrete of the sidewalk as my right arm suddenly reversed direction, making contact with his neck and throwing him over my right hip, the action pitching him forward onto his face. This left me in a left lead, preparatory position facing the nogoodnik who had been on his right.

He looked at Bruno, his face slowly contorting with rage, “Look what you did to my brother, you motherfucker!” While speaking he pulled a balisong knife from his right pocket, waving it in an exaggerated figure eight. That can be an effective move, but generally speaking it isn’t. Lord, save us from people who watch too much T.V., just don’t make it too soon.

He started with a couple of feints, pretty lame ones at that, I maneuvered backwards, keeping him between myself and the other two.

My posture shifted, slightly crouching, hands out to the sides without moving past the shoulders, palms toward each other, time to setup for defanging the serpent. I taunted him, voice low, splitting his attention between what I was muttering and what my hands were doing. Sooner or later he was going to take the bait.

Tag the back of his hand, move back before he could reverse direction, another insult, keeping my weight low and centered to insure my mobility.

Right hand, then left, keeping the patter coming, never letting up on the tagging action or the insults. Bruno started to moan, then tried to move, whoops, can’t have that.

A low level snap side kick and he was out again. The brother screamed something and made his move.

Bad for him, good for me as I pivoted outside the thrust; immobilized his right hand with my right and delivered a palm smash to his elbow with my left. Ever wonder how to break an arm in less than a second? He didn’t scream, much to his credit, but he did offer a few choice observations on my presumed parentage while he held his arm. Two down and … huh?? Looking down the street I saw the other two high tailing it away from the fight … and right into the arms of the security team that someone had dispatched. There were shouted orders, insults, then a small pop followed by an unearthly scream, ouch, someone just got tazed.

I picked up my shirt before walking over to Angela, “You O.K. hon’?” I crouched down beside her, pushing her hair back, checking the damage, didn’t see anything serious, both pupils good, “Might have a shiner there, we need to get you back to the restaurant, have Uncle David take a look at it” I helped her up as she stood; started to sob. “Uncle David, hell” Ed’s voice came from behind as I wrapped my shirt around her, “that little lady is going to the damned hospital, a medical team is already enroute.”

I handed Angela off to Ed, picking up my equipment belt from the ground, where I had thrown it, “How much did you see?” Ed grinned, “Enough, you’re an evil bastard, you know that?”

“Yeah, I’ve heard it once or twice, in my life.”

We went back into the restaurant; Ed got some traffic on his radio and stopped to answer as David took Angela from him. He sat her in a chair near the entrance and put an ice pack on her eye.

Angela looked at me through her good eye, “Why?”

I plopped my over aged backside into a chair, taking the cup of coffee that Peggy pressed into my hand, sipping it as Peggy said, “It’s all in the genes hon’, the whole family’s crazy like that” she sauntered back into the kitchen, “Never back down from a fight, never leave a wounded bird unprotected.”

The last thing I need to add here, is that Peggy is real, she was one of those waitresses who could have been the inspiration for “Flo” in that television series about Mel’s Diner. Except that far from being a whipcord thin little cowgirl, Peggy looked like a Valkyrie incarnate and knew no fear of any man I ever saw her around.

Other than his wife, Peggy was the only person I ever saw Big John back down from (he was a beat cop in Cleveland) and it didn’t look as if he was joking. There were plenty of other times I’d seen that seven foot plus Polack (his own description, so don’t get touchy) joking around but that wasn’t one of them.

The only real difference between Flo and Peggy is that Peggy had a bigger heart, and had little or no patience with bullies. One day, as I dealt with an irate customer (being twelve years old did not exempt me from having to do that when I was managing the restaurant) I suddenly became aware that he was no longer focused on me, but on someone behind me. It was Peggy, holding a tray full of dirty dishes with absolutely no effort, and tapping her foot very deliberately. I’m not so sure I wanted to know what she had in mind if he tried getting out of his chair, or tried grabbing me. I do know that it wasn’t because she thought I couldn’t defend myself as she had already seen me knock out a customer earlier that week (think about the mechanical advantage I had and the how becomes very clear).

So, the parts of the story where she is “seen” are a kind of homage to Peggy. I don’t have any idea where she is, or if she’s even still alive; (I’m constantly losing track of my friends, almost as bad as me and my glasses) I just think something should be said that memorializes one of the truly wondrous women I’ve met in my life.

One last thing, there’s a scene that takes place between David (David being my actual brother) and Peggy, after the fight; which is played out just as it had happened in real life.

You’ll have to find the book if/when it gets printed to read it but it is one hundred percent true to the two people involved and not changed one iota from the actual incident.

There isn't one of us that doesn't want to be someplace else. But this is what we do, who we are. Live for nothing, or die for something. Your call.

John Rambo

Knives

2010-12-08T19:46:00.007-05:00

Alright, if you’re reading this and you’ve known me for over a week, then you know that this is going to be a rant, how long? I don’t know, I’ve only just begun typing, but I have an entire eight hour shift, uninterrupted, to type and somewhere around forty six years of experience to draw on for comments.

This is your last warning, ;)

I’ve heard this same tired, stale, pointless argument for decades now, and it doesn’t sound any better when you change the noun. “This _______ is far superior to that ________, because (fill in whatever vapid nonsense enters your head at this point).
It’s a pointless argument, which can never be won because it is an opinion based argument which generally has no basis in probative fact.

The case in point, and the current burr under my collar (wolves don’t wear saddles, and if you don’t understand the referent, then don’t bother asking for explanation) is the subject of knives.
I have heard every argument in the world as to why one knife is better than the other and why some people just “absolutely will not use any knife other than BRANDO Knives, model whaddafark.”

Wanna know something real? An attitude like that is going to get you killed.

An attitude like that is also a leading cause for people being a lot more cold, wet, hungry, thirsty and, generally speaking, miserable than they need to be.

Care to know why?

Because (and I’ve yet to see it work out any other way), there always seems to arise some circumstance; some situation where you become separated from the object of your affection, and generally at a time when you need it the most!

Can’t/Won’t/Will Never happen to me, you say?

Keep chanting that mantra, it’s about as effective as “om mane padme hum.”

In my case, my Randall and I became separated because I secured the sheath for a jump, in a hurry and consequently got to see that knife “hurry” on its way as soon as my chute opened. For whatever reason, I almost worshiped that knife.
Had to rely on a cheesy looking GI issue pocket knife and my Buck model 110 for the duration of that particular exercise. I didn’t complain though, just worked out some really inventive ways to help those knives accomplish what I’d gotten used to using the Randall for.

How useful a knife is in a given situation depends on several things:

a. type of steel
b. type of tempering
c. blade shape
d. type of grind at the final edge
e. the construction of the handle attachment (full tang, spike tang, bolted on, etc.)
f. the overall construction of the knife

Now, those items are a good start, but you also need to consider:

a. the use you intend for the knife
b. the environmental conditions where you are likely to be using the knife
c. what requirements you may personally have for that knife, in order to utilize it to its maximum efficiency

This is where you get the real kick in the pants,

NO ONE KNIFE IS GOOD FOR ALL TASKS UNDER ALL CONDITIONS

Knives built for use in the jungle, are less than perfect for use in the Arctic, knives made for use at extreme marine depths will give you problems in the desert, so on and ad nauseum. The knife that you thought was a real kitten while skinning a moose is probably going to be a pain in the arse if you try to carve a bow drill with it.

More problematic yet is the fact that there are people out there who believe that ANY Paleolithic knife will be perfect for all tasks; hooooooo boy, let me tell you, are THEY in for an education!

Personally, I generally carry about three knives and they seem to be up to what I require of them when I need them. Which three knives they are, of the thirty some which I still own is the question.

What I usually try to do, is to insure that the mix of knives I carry with me is correct.

Usually it will be one large general utility knife, one small to medium sized utility knife (even a paring knife, well built, will suffice, as long as you have a sheath for it), and some type of folding knife. On a recent hike (for my children, it was a hike) I carried my Tah-chee bowie, a vintage neck knife around eighty years old, or so (I can attest to it being on its third handle) and a Leatherman “Kick.”
The Tah-Chee bowie didn’t get much use, but the other two got a workout. Other times the large knife’ll get the work while the other two just kind of hang around. Such as the time we had some feral dogs try a bluff charge. They weren’t quite ready for someone who wasn’t bluffing.

I try to keep the mix interesting so among the large knives (the brand name knives, not the flea market specials I sometimes indulge in) I have an Ontario Knives SP5-95 Bowie, a Cold Steel Bushman, a TOPS Tracker knife and the Crazy Crow Tah-Chee reproduction. I generally have at least one of these somewhere close to hand no matter where I am.

The midsized knives are a Mora (from the Tracker School), an Uluu, an Old Hickory butcher knife and a Buck Nighthawk.

The neck knives are an antique, of indeterminate origin, a Blackie Collins “Necklance” and a Gerber jump knife.

My folding knives run the full gamut from some Pakistani made items (which were picked up at a flea market and STILL haven’t died) to a high end, handmade, miracle work from Al Mar. The knife is an incredible piece of work, well balanced, lightweight and holds an edge as sharp as all get out. It was a gift from an admirer who had more money than sense and wouldn’t listen to my, to his mind, unsophisticated preferences.

However, even though I can’t think of another knife I’d rather have in my pocket while traipsing about the city, you’ll never see that particular knife on my person whilst I travel the wilds. Because although it is a splendid knife, it isn’t suitable for that sort of work.

One knife which I’ve seen come under fire, repeatedly of late, is the Tracker knife.

Some folks have issue with it because they have issue with TBJ, guess what, I don’t care who designed it; that has nothing to do with its functionality.
So far, I’ve abused that poor knife to the point where other knives I’ve had, from Schrade, Gerber, Buck and others, have failed.

The manner in which they failed was that they came apart.

I can be a real demanding bastard when I decide to take a knife to its limits.
I have dug with it, chopped with it (including some things that had my wife scratching her head and going, “Wha??”) pried with it and found a few other things to do that knives were NEVER intended to do.

So far, the Tracker knife has held up just fine, just scuffed up the epoxy coating they use, but then, I manage to do that with every knife like that. I generally strip the epoxy off and blue the blade anyway.
I have tried the wire cutter and found that with a wire under tension it works just fine, otherwise, you’d be better off with a Chinese AKM bayonet. Can it break? Of course it can, the idea is to try to keep from being too stupid with it. That includes realizing that, with the fulcrum being that far forward, any load put on the other end is liable to snap off anything near the tip that is less than ideally attached.
I’ve also carved a Thanksgiving turkey with it, boned a chicken (wouldn’t care to repeat the experiment, but it is doable) and cut vegetables. Works just fine so far.
I could probably use it to skin a deer also, but all I’ve had access to for almost the last decade, are road killed deer, and attempts to skin them (around here) earn strange looks and a quick call to the sheriff’s department (nice young men, just asked that I stop what I was doing because it was freaking out the PETA nuts, their word choice, not mine).

The only change I’ve made so far is to recut the blade angle, I found a crock stick (pocket sized) from Lansky that has multiple surfaces and does a bang up job on the knife, including the quarter round on the draw knife portion of the blade. Keeps a decent edge and you can easily hone it up with a broken beer bottle.
Sheath retention is pretty good, you just have to remember to push it far enough into the sheath that you feel a “click.” I haven’t tried fastening it to my day pack (a WWII vintage RTO’s ruck sack) but I have strapped it to my pack basket and that’s worked out pretty well so far. I’ve put the sheathed knife on both sides of my belt and across my back (as it was used in “the Hunted”) and the draw from all three locations is smooth. Quick and quiet enough that the local talent would rather steer clear of me than take their chances.
But back to the original premise, that no one knife is good for all jobs, in all types of terrain. Are there times and places where I wouldn’t take the Tracker? Probably, but I haven’t found those yet, maybe a triple canopy jungle but I think it might do well there also.
What a lot of people seem to forget when dealing with the Tracker is that it isn’t a specialist knife. It isn’t a “super knife” and it isn’t a “do all” knife. It’s a general purpose utility knife that is designed to accomplish as many tasks as possible, with as few moving/movable parts as is possible.

I do have to admit that, for that purpose, it has my vote.

I’ve tried other knives which have attempted the same type of concept, the Buckmaster (exotic steel, hell to work with if you ding the blade up too badly), the aforementioned Chinese AKM bayonet, a “Woodsman’s Pal” type of knife and probably about ten or so others.

I found the Buckmaster to be a nice enough blade, if you aren’t too far from civilization or some other support. The saw worked pretty well, the grapple actually had a good bite if you made certain that the hooks and eye were pretty well seated (used it in a storm, to secure the canoe off shore, a complicated mess) and I was able to chop down (standing dead wood) a six to seven inch diameter tree with it and still slice tomatoes cleanly afterward. The serrated blade, being located near the tip was a bit of a problem when you wanted to cut a rope (anything over ¾ inch took forever to cut) and the blade didn’t have enough mass for efficient chopping. Oh, and it didn’t exit the sheath cleanly enough (belt attachments need dropped about an inch from factory spec and you need to use the leg tie) for a quick draw in a fight.

The AKM bayonet was a lot more limited in its applications, although I’d had some friends who actually raved about how great it is, they’re entitled to their opinions, I just don’t happen to agree. I do have to admit though, that for a five dollar knife (Smoky Mountain Knife Works, quite some years ago) I’ve seen a lot worse. Overall performed pretty well, nothing particularly notable other than, if you need it quick, in a fight, you better have it already out and in your hand.

The “Woodsman’s Pal” which I’d had the experience of was, admittedly, a knock off, but it was a well done knock off by a friend who is a decent blade smith. The brush hook worked well and I had no arguments about how well the straight blade handled things, both sides of the knife could speak with authority if the situation demanded it. The sheath he made for it was great, if feral dogs were to try their luck with you, they’d be in a world of serious hurt. Problems though, were that you couldn’t do any sort of small carving with it, without a lot more trouble than it was worth. You were better off grabbing a broken beer bottle (state parks are wonderful) and knapping the edge to make a bow drill, or even a hand drill. One other thing, don’t EVEN think of using it to cook with.

So far, among these four, my preference is still the Tracker knife.

I’ve yet to try a comparison with a Kukri, but that’ll be coming as soon as I can afford the cash outlay to get one, and I also plan on obtaining one of the newer model bayonets and finding out how well those work. I’m not holding my breath on those, however, as I have very clear memories of finding out that my drill instructors were all too correct when they said that the only thing most bayonets were good for were for use as tent stakes.

I do plan on giving them a fair chance so, let’s wait and see what happens.

Beginning Woodslore

2010-12-01T19:21:00.003-05:00

Well, let’s see here, what to write of next?

Hmmmm, now I did say that this would also touch on my education as an outdoorsman from time to time, didn’t I? So I guess that’s where we’re going to wander off to next then.

I don’t make any claims as to having anything special in my outdoors education other than Boy Scout leaders who were all veterans, Marines mostly, and the occasional “nut.” Who the nuts were, and who the Marines were, was a subject of intense debate, at times, and depended ENTIRELY on who you approached; as well as when.

Mom never seemed to worry too much about me being outdoors and running around the woods, but then again, most other kids didn’t have a two hundred pound behemoth (named Saber) for a friend and ally. After a while, she didn’t even worry too much if I wandered off completely on my own. Although she wasn’t all that thrilled about me being gone for entire weekends, or weeks, if it was a school break, I always made it home, in one piece and without a police escort.

The “without a police escort” was the especially important part. A lot of the kids I grew up with seemed to get to know the local cops, on a first name basis, early in their lives. I only knew one or two cops like that; only because they were neighbors. Other cops I met much later in my young life when I volunteered at “Safety Town.”

It wasn’t that I was particularly angelic, I just had sense enough; then later, training enough to keep myself out of the limelight.

So, to get back to the point, I was pretty much my own boss, as long as my dogs were taken care of properly and I made arrangements to get my other chores done.

When I first took to the woods I was probably seven. I wandered into the edge of the forest across the street from the back of our property. It was only a woodlot really, right there, but to me it looked like something out of Edgar Rice Burroughs’ “Tarzan” novels.
Pausing briefly I looked back at my mother, she had wanted to see how I was going to react to having a “forest” that close.
“What are you waiting for?” she asked.
“I don’t know, how far can I go?”
“How far do you want to go?”
“When do I have to be back?”
“Before dark …”
Without waiting for the rest of her answer I went crashing off into the underbrush, trying to “merge silently as a ghost” with the undergrowth only to discover a blackberry patch.
Cursing as only the son of a gunnery sergeant can (and I could hear my mother laughing as she walked back to the house) I managed to untangle myself from the briars without disemboweling myself. I also picked a few of the berries, eating them carefully at first
(at the time, I had no idea if they were even edible, I was just lucky that they weren’t belladonna); making a mental note to myself that I would need to learn how to store them if I ever got around to making a semi-permanent camp.

Now, there are a couple of points I’d like to make first.

In those days, there weren’t a lot of “nature” or “survival” books available to the general public. It wasn’t that they didn’t exist (I later came to regard Kephart as some sort of camping saint, finding out his life story put a stop to that, but not the respect I had for the man) but simply that a lot of it was considered common sense, if you lived in the country. I had spent the first six years of my life in the city of Cleveland; the most greenery I had seen prior to moving out to Aurora was down at the corner of our street, an empty, abandoned lot that was severely overgrown.

My only information about animals had come from our own dogs, two Pekingese, a Chow Chow and a German shepherd, in addition to what I learned from my books, the Cleveland Zoo and the Cleveland Aquarium.

The Natural History museum was alright but I have always preferred my animals to have a pulse, even if it means that I might get a harsh lesson in animal communications.

So there I was, a city boy about to start an education which would consume very nearly the whole of the rest of my life.

Looking back I believe that there were two reasons that Mom didn’t worry about me a whole lot, although I don’t believe she ever had to give it much thought.

The first is, although I might be consumed by the desire to learn something, I have never been so consumed as to put myself at unnecessary risk. Some teachers; some of my former friends and associates might find that statement amusing but even with the most hare brained stunts I might pull, there was a certain amount of calculation to them. Not as much as the people around me would have asked for, but I’m still here and (kind of, mostly) in one piece.

The second reason; not one that you’ll see in most children today, is that I’ve always been willing to listen (well, as much as I listen to anyone) to stories that my elders might want to tell me. I have learned a LOT by the simple act of stopping and listening to people.
A habit which has been known to grate on the nerves of my (most beloved) wife.

So, as I ramble, let’s get back to the story of my first lesson as an outdoorsman.

This one was a quick lesson about two things, knowing what you’re putting into your mouth and patience.

So I went into the woods and spent the better part of three hours in there. I followed a deer trail, some rabbit trails and learned what their bedding areas looked like with the help of a couple of hunting books I had.
I also learned that it’s pointless to run around, trying to follow a squirrel. I then learned that feral kittens have no distinguishing markings (OUCH!!!!!!) which magically tell you not to pick them up, that’s what their claws are for.

Glancing up at the sun while playing gave me plenty of indication that I needed to start heading home, and real soon. I only had about forty minutes of daylight left (the sun was three fingers off the tops of the trees.

Even though I didn’t want for the fun to end, neither did I want to be banned from a place I had only just gained access to. I started home.

After crossing the street back to my home (under the watchful eye of Officer George, who kept a close eye on the four, and then later five, of us brothers) I noticed that there was a tree with green and red apples.

Now, let me be the first to tell, many of you, what I learned in the course of the next ten minutes. Officer George stood watching me, in disbelief, from his living room while I did this. He later told my mother that he would have stopped me, if he hadn’t been under the impression that I knew what I was doing.

Well, I thought I knew.

Since I had twenty minutes of light left and only a five minute walk ahead of me; since I was feeling a might bit hungry and wanted to experience the “full rapture and joy in supplying food for oneself” …. I decided to eat a few of the apples.

More precisely, CRAB apples

Now, one didn’t generally give me a problem; even two or three, I usually got away with. But I didn’t stop there.

I probably ate all the apples off one branch.

Alright, that’s enough with the laughing, already.

I didn’t have far to go, not more than about a quarter acre from the tree to the edge of the barn (this was years before it burnt down) for about half the distance I was O.K., but as I came around the barn I knew I was having problems. My stomach had gone from a mild rumble, to something that sounded like a rabid bear was growling in my stomach while moving around restlessly. Sitting down outside the barn’s side door I was praying for death, or at least that if I was going to have “issues” that it would be while I was outside, so that I could preserve at least the APPEARANCE of dignity.

Without warning an arm slipped under mine, assisting me in getting up, “Too many of those apples’ll ruin your day for sure, son,” a familiar voice said. I looked up, it was Officer George, he helped me into the house and straight to the bathroom.
He and Mom were talking but I wasn’t listening …. I closed the door behind me, then it opened a bit and a shot glass full of some foul smelling oil came through, “Just drink all this, and stay in there for a bit.”
“How long should I stay in here?”
“Just drink that, you’ll know when you can come out.”
Well, his advice was sound, I drank the castor oil and after a few minutes, well, it wasn’t pretty but the pain in my stomach subsided and I felt a lot better.

Note to self, LAY OFF THE WEIRD LITTLE APPLES.

Second note to self, OBTAIN BOOK ON WILD EDIBLES

Third note to self, MAKE CERTAIN YOU KNOW WHAT YOU’RE EATING

To quote the Bard, “ ‘nuff said.”

It's not about anger - it's about peace
It's not about power - it's about grace
It's not about knowing your enemy - it's about knowing yourself.

the Monk

Enemies, Part II

2010-02-22T20:07:00.001-05:00

What happened next was a few years more down the road, but it reinforced the concept of enemy. It also made clear to me how much more I’d grown since then.
One thing I’d like to make clear to everyone reading this, however, is that it never happened. Our government has committed no illegal actions, nor has it encouraged anyone else to commit those actions on their behalf.
So there was this group of young men, of questionable morals, who one day decided to take their outing to the next level. The decision was made to give their handler something to consider before he double crossed them again.
Yes, I did say “double cross.”
They upped the ante by taking their mission from “black” to “red.” In today’s vernacular I believe it would be said that they “went hot.” Plain English would read that they had gone from being a covert action, with as low a profile as possible, to an active and armed threat to the local government and military. There wasn’t much thought involved, just anger.
So for approximately one month we raised havoc among the locals, everything from intercepting their radio transmissions and retransmitting them with orders that we found amusing (e.g. hunt down and assassinate a local warlord who was a problem for the locals; who also had a force and firepower superior to the local militia) or taking matters into our own hands about the party officials who were harassing and/or intimidating the local natives. There were even occasions when we would start a cross border incident by firing on a border patrol of a much larger nation.
Day raids, night raids, impersonation of party officials with forged documents; the list went on. If we could think of it and it was going to cause problems, or even just give us a good laugh (it seems they had never seen the “burning bag of manure” gag before) we would do it without a second thought.
We had a very high opinion of our skills, at that point in time, because it appeared that no one could touch us, or even get close.
Consequently we got sloppy.
In our sloppiness, we stayed in one location for something over a week, instead of moving nightly as we had been. An action which almost cost us our lives.
Save for what my enemy did.
Sounds weird, eh?
Perhaps, but you need to understand the psychology of a classically trained Asian warrior.
Much of the training is based on “The Art of War” by Sun-tzu; many facets of it are based on Taoist thought. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, one of Newton’s laws of motion. At the time, it was considered quite an advanced principal. To a Taoist, had one been inclined to be rude, the response would have been “DUH!”
To make what happened next a bit clearer, for every force or creature in Nature, there is a precise opposite, a balancing force. Even among humankind.
And it is taught that if you would truly know yourself, know your enemy.
So there we were, snug in our firebase and encampment, monitoring both our own radio network (which was generally silent, as none of our people were supposed to be in country) and that of our avowed enemies.
When the radio came to life, it was a bit of an awakening to all of us.
A transmission from someone asking to speak to the “Ghost Walker,” but they were speaking Vietnamese, I believe the phrase they used sounded something like “sân khấu.”
What caught our attention though was the fact that the identifier they used wasn’t one we had heard before and a quick check of the captured paperwork we had (the Vietnamese equivalent of a CEOI) didn’t show anything that even came close to what had been heard. Our translator wasn’t around, but I sent one of the men after him. We needed to know what was going on, especially since it was in our AO.
At first we thought it was some sort of test or mistake, but then the request came across a second time, in slightly accented English, and note, I do mean English, not American.
“Is the American known as ‘Ghost Walker’ receiving this transmission?”
At this point our translator, a bit winded after his run up the hillside, looked at me and pointed, “He means you Dai Wei.”
I picked up the mike and answered, “Affirmative.”
He then requested a meeting between the two of us, with the appropriate security measures, of course. I asked what assurance I would have that it wasn’t a trap, there was a brief pause before he informed me of the location we were at and how long we had been there. My team didn’t need any directions, we had been compromised. They immediately started securing equipment and preparing to move. After a moment’s thought, I agreed to the meeting. I did tell him that I wanted to know who it was I was to be meeting with, there was only a slight pause before he told me that he was Colonel Nguyễn Tranh. My translator started chuckling, I motioned for him to be quiet as the Colonel then asked whom he would be meeting with, I identified myself as “Jan DeVries.” A slight pause before the Colonel answered, “I see we will be starting on an even footing …” During the next few moments we discussed when and where we should meet. There was a small ‘ville about twenty kilometers to the south of us, we were to meet there at sunset, the following day.
I looked at the translator and asked what the joke was, it seems that our erstwhile Colonel had identified himself as a Vietnamese “John Smith” while I had used the Dutch version.
That night we made our move, maintaining radio silence and even refraining from monitoring the local military. We didn’t encounter any patrols and made the trip in good time.
Early the next morning we were busy. Establishing an observation post, setting up to intercept any radio traffic we could and putting snipers into secure locations. I left nothing to chance, even establishing the route of withdrawal if I should be captured in addition to making enormously clear to all that I was to be left behind if anything should happen. I’d either find my own way out or I wouldn’t.
About fifteen minutes prior to the meet we heard a helicopter coming in, it was an old Huey that had been either abandoned in place, or captured. We had no way to tell. The old bird circled the meeting place, a small restaurant kind of place on the outskirts of town, before setting down in a cleared area to the west of the building. Two soldiers exited, dashing to the road and establishing a checkpoint before the Colonel stepped down. As he looked around, I stepped from the bush. When he saw me, I raised my shotgun, cleared it and set it to the ground. He nodded, we both retained our sidearm’s as we had agreed.
I don’t know what he had thought he would see when he arranged the meeting, but I don’t believe that either of us met the other’s preconceptions. He was a dapper, neat, well spoken man conversant in at least two languages. I was a five foot tall, one hundred forty seven pound kid who looked like he should be an accountant.
As we first sat, he ordered a local wine for us, he looked at me a long time before the conversation started.
“Should I mention that you are nothing of what I expected, young man?”
“Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?”
“Actually, it is a splendid thing, I hadn’t realized that your country still produced people of courtesy and education”
“Thank you, and I would like to add that you are nothing of what I was told that I should expect, were I to come in contact with someone of your rank and authority”
H e smiled, thanked me, and asked if I played chess. I asked if he meant the Chinese, Vietnamese or English version of the game. He asked which I preferred, I told him that the only version I was familiar with was the English version. He sent his aide to the Huey to retrieve the set.
While we were setting up, he dismissed his aide. The aide objected and the Colonel told him in no uncertain terms that he was to leave or be shot.
Early evening became late evening and the darkness became deeper. We lit the obligatory gas lantern; played chess and spoke into the night. Toward the end of the evening the Colonel had his aide secure the chess set and leaned toward me conspiratorially.
“You are nothing of what I would have expected, and I must toast you for not falling prey to the excesses of which your country is famous”
Taking a sip of wine, I asked him, “What precisely led you to ask for this meeting?”
“I had a need, a great need, to meet the man whom had become such a terror to the military and civil authorities in my district.”
I know my face reflected my confusion as I asked, “Meet me? Not capture me? Why?”
Laughing quietly, and sitting back in his chair he said, “Your escapades have been very good for my career. First a promotion, then more money for essential items such as arms and ammunition, “ he pointed at me, “and finally, the joy of seeing that such a young man, a young warrior, could wreak such havoc that three different countries have put a considerable bounty on his head.”
I thought for a moment, “Three countries? I can pretty well guess who the first two are, but who’s the third?”
The Colonel leaned on the table and took another hit from his cigarette, “When you first went outside your ‘hunting license’ your people weren’t too worried, but you have been so very successful that not only have they put a bounty on you, they are releasing the information on how to find you.”
“Destroy all your radio equipment my young friend, all of it, and capture some new”
With that we bid each other good night and went back out to the LZ where the Huey’s pilot was beginning his pre-flight checks. As the engine began to spin the blades, he turned to me and asked if I had taken “the usual precautions.” I swept my hair back and my men immediately stepped forward from cover, before fading back into the darkness, silent. I asked if he was insulted, “Not at all, I would have been disappointed if you hadn’t.” He then raised his hat in salute, and his men stepped out, equally silent. “Both of us are men of war, but we both, are men of honor.”
We bowed to each other then returned to our men.
As I gained the cover of the tree line, I heard his voice one last time.

“A pity, Mr. Chin, that we could not be friends, but good fortune to you nonetheless.”

A true warrior can dine with his enemy without fear, for both know that they might learn from looking within the mirror. Something that my uncles had tried to teach me, but I think I finally understand.

It's not about anger - it's about peace
It's not about power - it's about grace
It's not about knowing your enemy - it's about knowing yourself.

the Monk

Enemies, Part I

2009-07-27T22:16:00.005-04:00

This one is very closely tied to “The Mercy of a Warrior.”
Uncle Bill used to laugh whenever I went on about my “enemies.” I’d ask him what was so funny but he’d never answer me. At least, not until things had been settled between the young man in “Mercy” and myself.
Right after class that day, he asked me if I’d thanked my enemy; I just stared, “Do what?”
I couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d just told me to go kiss my dog. He just smiled and asked again, “Did you thank him?”
“Thank him for what?”
“Teaching you”
O.K., whatever, he taught ME something?
Uncle Bill let me stew that one over until the next class when he asked me again if I’d thanked him. Alright, a joke is one thing, but this has got to stop now!
Uncle Bill told me that he was quite serious; that I needed to thank my enemy. I stood there, looking at him for a few moments and then told Uncle Bill that if he could give me a good enough reason I’d consider doing it. He sat me down and told me that I had to be careful about whom I honored with the title “enemy;” that anyone whom I would consider my enemy had to be at least as intelligent as me, or wise enough to teach me.
So what did that useless, racist, punk teach me?
Uncle Bill stared me dead in the eye and said, “Mercy and self control.”
Oooooooooohhhhhh no he didn’t, he taught me aggravation, he taught me insult, he taught me what racism looked like and he taught me to cheap shot people.
Uncle Bill smiled coolly and asked, “If he hadn’t taught you those things, would you have learned about mercy?”
In that moment, things got very complicated.
Ummmmmm, no.
“If he hadn’t provoked you, would you have learned self control?”
Wellll, maybe.
“But not to the level that you did, right?”
No
“Would you have learned what racism looks like, up close and personal?”
Probably not, not like that, anyway.
“So then, there were at least three things that he taught you, right?”
I’ve always hated it when Uncle Bill was correct.
In a move that totally baffled everyone, except Uncle Bill and Uncle Frank, I walked over to the punk and said, “Excuse me sensei.”
As expected, he just gave me a blank look and said, “Huh?”
Yep, he was as confused as I’d been
“I’d like to thank you for the lessons that you gave me”
Now he was really baffled, but when I bowed, he returned the bow.
Things were never quite the same for us after that and when he’d heard that I’d been offered my 1st dan (the first level of the master rankings, the coveted black belt) but had turned it down, he stopped me and asked why, when I told him that I hadn’t mastered my temper sufficiently to accept it. He just stared at me then told me, “I think you should have accepted it sir.” Then he bowed to me, holding the bow until I returned it.
I had become more careful of whom I referred to as my “enemy” by then, but after that, I decided that no one I was fighting in Aurora was deserving of the title.
Until I met Steve A.
We met in high school, as freshmen; one of the first things he did was look at me and comment, “Who let the gook loose?” His compadres seemed to find his comment endlessly amusing. I just favored him with a slight glance and said, “I’m a chink, not a gook, the least you could do is to make certain you’re using the correct racial epithet.” His friends laughed even harder and his face flared red.
At lunch, I was at the basketball court behind the school, with everyone else who smoked, unlike everyone else, however, I was smoking an A&C Grenadier.
Well, Dad always did say that if you’re going to do something, do it right and do it with style.
So there I was, enjoying the fine smells of autumn and the taste of that Grenadier, when this imbecile smashes the cigar from my hand with a basketball; breaking it in half.
My ..... last ..... cigar.
Steve walked up to me, smirking, and asked, “So, what you gonna do about it .... chink?”
Jab .... jab .... left cross .... right uppercut
Any questions?
His “friends” backed off, leaving him lying on the ground. I just salvaged what I could of my cigar and went behind the auto shop to finish it. When he didn’t show his face in shop, I vanished from the shop (not a terribly difficult thing to do, vanishing) and went back, he was still lying there. I applied a couple of kappo-jitsu pressure points and brought him around; then I checked his eyes, pupils unequal.
“C’mon bud, you’re going to the nurse.”
His eyes wandered a bit, but focused when he heard the word “nurse.”
“No man, I can’t go to the nurse.”
“Look, if you’ve been doing a little pot, she’s cool about that.”
He grabbed my arm and said, “I can’t go to the nurse”
“Alright then, but you’re concussed, I have to take you somewhere”
“Don’t you know anyone you could take me to?”
“What about your parents?”
“They won’t even notice I’m gone.”
I didn’t find out why he said that until years later, but I made a few phone calls; took him to a doctor friend of mine, who had his daughter, an R.N., keep an eye on Steve until morning.
The next day, at lunch, he came over and sat down across the table from me. As we ate, he quietly told me that a few of his buddies were planning to “meet” me in the upstairs boys’ room. I just as quietly thanked him for the information. After lunch I made a quick stop in the school shop before going to the boys’ room. They never did figure out why I had that section of rebar stuck in my waistband.
All through school the pattern would hold the same, Steve would try to beat me in a fight, he’d get hurt and then his “friends” would try to get the drop on me and he wouldn’t let them. He kept insisting that he’d either beat me himself, or he wouldn’t, but he wasn’t going to do it with their help. I found out later that this was an exception to his usual pattern of behavior.
One of my girlfriends, one of only two that I’d had who were from Aurora, asked me why I tolerated his behavior, and his insistence on eating lunch with me. Without missing a beat I told her that he was my enemy and that it was a normal situation.
It may have been my imagination, but I would swear that he walked taller, and was more direct in his eye contact with people after that.
At graduation he came up to me and told me, “One of these days, I’m going to beat you, you know.”
I had spoken with a friend about Steve and made some arrangements, so I handed him a business card and told him, “I’m sure you will Steve, and if you talk to this man, he might be able to help you do that.”
That was the last time I saw him and he was glowing with pride.
We never did have that return match.
Life intervened, I went into the service where I found a whole new type of trouble to get into. Steve gave up on his music (so I’m told) and became a trucker.
They also told me that he died in a trucking accident somewhere near Cincinnati; the truly sad thing about it was that, according to the sons of a friend of his, I was in town on a construction job at the same time. I just wish that I’d known he was in that hospital bed. At least he wouldn’t have had to die alone.
An honored enemy deserves that much respect, at the least.
Vaya con Dios Steve.

It's not about anger - it's about peace
It's not about power - it's about grace
It's not about knowing your enemy - it's about knowing yourself.

the Monk

Mistakes of Tactic

2008-09-12T23:41:00.002-04:00

First of all I’d like to give a nod to the Dorsai series of the Childe Cycle, written by Gordon Dickson, for not only the inspiration for what happened, but for the inspiration it has offered. My wife has told me that I should do a bibliography of all the books which I’ve found to be a positive influence in my life but I’m afraid that it would be another project all in its own right. I can, however, heartily recommend the perusal of whatever library is physically available to you. Not an e-library, a real paper and cloth, sometimes even a few limited edition books, type of library. It’s a highly addictive (positive addiction, folks!) and mind opening experience.
But I digress
This story isn’t all that long in the telling, but I believe it to be highly indicative of the type of martial education that I’ve had.
I’ve already touched on the fact that my numerous uncles had done their best to insure that my brothers and I knew the truth of the philosophy of the martial arts and not just the “t.v.” version but, in truth, it went even deeper than that, they also required us to think; critically. Were we to dare give them an answer to anything without sufficient thought, well, how long can you tread water?
On this particular day, Uncle Frank was teaching us aerial techniques. Flying side kick, aerial roundhouse (your legs had better be in PRIME shape), jumping front kick, all the pretty moves that appear so devastatingly effective in television and silver screen. At the end of the class, however, he made a puzzling statement, “Now remember, looks pretty isn’t always good on the street, next class we talk about this some more.”
So why then, had we just spent two hours on learning and practicing those kicks? It sure felt good, not to mention that they were a whole lot of fun to do. There was something about watching boards disintegrate under your bare foot that just rocks!! I still enjoy it!
After I stowed my gi and showered up I tried to talk to Uncle Frank about the kicks but he was too busy and Mom was on a tight schedule. So the answer apparently had to wait another week.
Well, the next week came but Uncle Frank was busy working on a project with a film crew (I found out later that it was a commercial for Ford) and wouldn’t be conducting the class. Bob P. was leading the class and he didn’t have any sort of an answer about why Uncle Frank had cautioned us about using the kicks.
So there I was, two weeks worth of practice at doing aerial kicks and no idea why I wasn’t supposed to use them.
That is, until I tried to use them in a fight.
By that time, fights had become a daily fact of life for me. When I awoke in the morning, I could count on three absolutes:
(1) I was going to take care of my dogs
(2) I was going to listen to my Mother
(3) I was going to get into a fight
Pretty much anything else was optional or up for grabs.
This time it was with Ken G., the son of a local police officer and pretty much a punk no matter how you figured such things. I had been practicing the kicks steadily for almost a month, at every chance I could get in my sanctum sanctorum (and no, I’m not telling where it was) where I had a heavy bag and weights set up. I was feeling pretty good about the kicks and had lost any idea of asking Uncle Frank why we shouldn’t use them in a fight. After all, even Uncle Frank had commended me for my technical mastery of the skills.
Note, technical mastery should not be confused with actual mastery.
A fact that I was about to learn.
Well, Ken came across the street just to tell me that he wanted my hat (I’ve always had some sort of fatal attraction to various types of hats, this one was a martial arts themed baseball hat); once having made his desires known he promptly snatched the hat from my head and stood there waiting for my response. I stood there for a moment, with a look on my face that my mother swears she’s only seen on the visage of a hungry animal about to kill something.
One other thing, Ken is a few years (probably close to a decade) my senior and stood head and shoulders over me.
For whatever reason, I still can’t attest that I was even thinking at that point, I decided to try one of the aerial kicks right then and there; the crescent kick was my weapon of choice.
Let’s just say that it probably worked better in one of my movies than it did that day in Aurora. Poetically enough it took place at about noon.
Ken probably enjoyed it to a certain extent; he always had trouble getting one up on any of us.
The end result was that I was bounced on my head a couple of times before he let me go, still in possession of my hat. He was pretty well convinced that he couldn’t lose at that time.
Mom didn’t even blink when I got home. The only thing she asked was how the other guy looked. When I told her that I hadn’t even managed to touch him she said, “Well then you go out there right now, and make sure that he knows that he was in a fight.” With that having been said, she went back to washing dishes.
Mom was always one of the all time great pragmatic philosophers.
So I promptly walked back out the back door, across the back field and over to Ken’s house. I stood there looking at him for a couple of moments; he was seated on his front stoop with one of his buddies, sipping on a cola. He chuckled and said, “Back for a rematch?”
I let my fists do the talking, three or four quick jabs followed by a right cross. He went down like a cheap date on payday.
“Yep”
As I was taking my hat from his head his father arrived, having just got off shift. He didn’t even blink, just asked if I came to get my hat back, I told him yes; he chuckled and told me to tell my mother that he said hello.
I delivered his message.
That week, when I had a chance to talk with Dad he asked why I tried such a damn fool stunt to begin with, and I explained my reasoning. By that time, hindsight made it sound REALLY stupid. He didn’t laugh, too hard, but explained that real gung-fu is about what works for the fighter, not just technical mastery of a technique that physics argues against. Then he smiled and told me to make certain that I asked Uncle Frank why he had taught us aerial techniques.
Well, I got pretty much the same Q&A from Uncle Frank about what happened. He reiterated what Dad had told me and added, “Those techniques are coordination and speed drills, without a good setup, they won’t ever work in a street fight. As a matter of fact, they were only intended to be an escape technique, to help you get out of a bad situation where nothing else is working.”
Well, I’m happy to say that I’ve had the opportunity to deliver that same lecture, on that same subject, to a number of die hard tae kwon do aficionados who have way too much time on their hands and way too little sense.
Like Uncle Frank, Dad and all my uncles taught me, critical thinking is CRUCIAL!

It's not about anger - it's about peace
It's not about power - it's about grace
It's not about knowing your enemy - it's about knowing yourself.

the Monk

The Mercy of a Warrior

2008-08-25T17:42:00.002-04:00

This lesson, I almost didn’t get, understand, or figure out. Despite the lesson being taught to me from about half a dozen different directions and very nearly as many teachers.
It would probably be a safe bet to say that the lesson started in the training hall. My Uncle Bill (it was over a decade before I knew that he wasn’t a blood relation, he’s still my uncle though) was teaching my brothers and I about the old Okinawan karate masters. He’d read to us from this ancient book, explaining to us about the parts that they didn’t go into detail on. A lot of it was basic Buddhism, but it was still great to hear about it from him. I thought I had been paying attention to it all; so when Uncle Frank (Kovacks-sensei) told us break was over and Uncle Bill asked if I understood the lesson I answered with a very non-committal, “Yeah.”
Hmmmm, I should probably have answered, “No.”
The reason he had selected the subject that he did, was because there was this EXTREMELY noxious teen ager who was constantly giving my brothers and I a hard time. Derisive comments, racial epithets when he thought no one could hear him and no opportunity to “accidentally” lose control, with one of us, passed up. All this because Kovacks-sensei wouldn’t permit him to advance, and the youngest of my brothers (number four son) outranked him by two belt levels. He refused to listen when Torack-sensei tried to explain to him that his own attitude was causing him to remain at that belt level (yes, there was a time in the American martial arts when your attitude was more important than your cash flow).
This particular day it was especially bad, Uncle Bill, Uncle Frank and Uncle Harvey (Torack-sensei) all could see that my temper was getting short. He had managed to cuff one of my brothers (number two son) while we were lined up for makiwara practice and it was an especially cheap shot. Even though he was caught and had to do push ups he was still grinning. I was doing a slow boil (yes, I am known to have a bit of a temper) and they all knew that if he pushed much more that something was going to happen.
Well, it happened. He cheap shotted me, with a front kick, while we practiced self defense techniques. I got up, straightened my gi and went to Kovacks-sensei, everyone watched as I asked for an “honor” match. This was his way of allowing two deshi (student/apprentices) to settle their differences, preferably with no blood shed. He waited for a moment before asking what rules. I had to choose from one of three levels, beginner, tournament (it was a LOT different in those days, you had to know how to REALLY fight and “take a bump”) or street; as the higher ranked deshi it was my choice. Kovacks-sensei could over ride my choice, if he thought it inappropriate, but he generally didn’t interfere as long as the lower belt agreed to it. I chose street rules, which basically didn’t eliminate a lot except bone breaks and strikes that could be fatal if followed through. He looked at the punk and asked if he agreed, the overgrown twerp smiled happily and said, “Sure, it’s his loss.” Kovacks-sensei looked at me for a moment, then said, “K____, don’t hurt him bad, he doesn’t know any better.” I didn’t say anything, but Uncle Bill later told me that he was scared for the kid when he saw the look in my eyes.
The fight went pretty much as anyone who had fought me before expected it to; he tried to muscle me and I went low, staying out of his reach and waiting for a chance. I hammered on his thighs and shins whenever he got close. Eventually he could hardly stand, but he kept trying, to this day I don’t think that he believed that there was any way he could lose the fight. Ax kicks, roundhouse kicks and side kicks all went in volley after volley, straight to his legs. When I saw him teetering, I went in for the finish, a reverse punch to the groin, from a low horse stance, which put him on the floor. While he writhed in pain I walked up to him; stood there watching him for a moment. Then everyone cold hear this low, growling kiai (spirit shout) building.
As it came up, so did my foot; at the same time that the kiai erupted from my throat my foot came down in a dragon stomp toward his head. His eyes grew larger with fear as he realized what was about to happen. Very nearly at the same time I heard Uncle Bill shouting, “Iyai! Yame!” Japanese terms which I knew all too well, “No, Stop,” and I did stop, barely an inch from his face. I stood there, shaking from the effort of stopping a full power strike before it impacted.
Kovacks-sensei directed me to sit at the other end of the mat before he knelt down beside the terrified boy. “Do you see why he’s ranked higher than you? Did you see the skill? Do you understand the control that it took for him to stop when Bill told him to?” He turned to Uncle Bill, “Get your herbs, fix his legs for him.” He then turned to me, “We need to talk, in my office.”
I stood there, in front of his desk (only the first of many desks, I can assure you) half afraid that I was going to hear the words I’d come to dread, “You can’t come back again.” He sat there looking at me for a long time before speaking, “What you did to his legs isn’t important, Uncle Bill can fix that easily,” he gazed intently at me, “it’s what you were going to do next,” his eyes narrowed, “do you understand why it was the wrong choice?”
“No”
“Why?”
“He wouldn’t listen to any of you Kovacks-sensei, not you, not Uncle Bill or even Uncle Harvey, he just kept on.” Kovacks-sensei leaned in closer as I continued, “he would have kept on until he managed to hurt one of us as badly as he could” I was shaking with barely restrained rage at the thought, I had always been taught that I was expected to do what I could to protect my family, “There was only one way to stop him.”
Kovacks-sensei sat back thinking, while his pencil tapped out a rhythm, before speaking again, “I understand your concerns, but there was another choice you could have made. I want you to think about it before the next class. If you can’t give me a better answer by then, I don’t know if I’ll be able to continue teaching you.” He had me go change back to street clothes while he talked to my mother.
A week, that was all I had to figure out what he was talking about. A week to make sense of a question that older heads than mine had never comprehended. I was screwed.
The next act of this little drama took place in Lyons’ general store. I was over there with my best friend, Dale. We were perusing the comic books commenting on what things most young boys will comment on, Mr. Lyons and Grandpa Wilson were standing by the counter talking when I managed to put my foot into it again, up to the thigh this time.
At issue, was the latest issue of a horror comic which had a scene, at the end, where the villain meets his poetic end. Dale laughed about it; I just got a sour look and told him that a similar situation might be ending my karate lessons. That comment caught Grandpa Wilsons’ attention, he walked over and asked, “What are you talking about, boy?” I then told him the whole sorry tale, hoping for at least a LITTLE sympathy from SOMEONE.
Oops, my bad.
His first comment reflected on my stupidity for freely tossing out the information that I was taking karate lessons (never mind about the stories in the local papers, the Cleveland Press and the Plain Dealer. He then proceeded to lambast me for what I did, “What were you thinking? You would have sent him to the Creator for what? For being STUPID? What gives you the right? What would he have learned?”
“But....”
“But nothing, boy, the only ‘but’ around here is the gigantic butt you made of yourself yesterday” he leaned in closer, “Do you know what mercy is, boy? Do you know that THAT is the way of our people?”
Our people? Whuzzee talkin’ about?
“We never, NEVER kill if it isn’t necessary, and never out of anger. Our people offer the fools who torment us the opportunity to learn the error of their ways by demonstrating that we could easily do away with them, and then we offer them a chance, but only one chance, to show that they’ve learned the error of their ways.” He leaned in closer, “And sometimes, you learn that you’ve taught someone respect, that listening with the heart is the solution to their problems. Sometimes, you even learn that you’ve made a friend.”
He turned to leave; saying as he did so,“Go home boy, think about what I told you.”
Why is it I was always listening to that old nut?
The next day Gunny (my father) had business in Cleveland, at the family house and with some of my uncles to arrange for supplies for a catering job. He asked if I wanted to go with him and I jumped at the chance. Didn’t, and still don’t, much like Cleveland but it’s where I was born and it still remains my third home (Toronto is number two on that list!).
While Gunny was busy I usually ran around little China, popping in at the restaurants and being “disreputable” with my cousins. Generally we’d swipe Cokes from the Shanghai (as if my uncle didn’t notice) and hang out near the corner where the family house was located. Big John was generally to be found somewhere nearby, walking his beat (a giant of a man, even among cops) and shooing us “off the street.” He knew that we were never far from him, he was always good for some penny candy or a great cops-n-robbers story.
That day I was bumming, all my cousins were either working or in school (alright, so I was playing hooky, it was educational !!!) and Big John was actually having to work. All normal options having been exhausted I went searching to see if any of my uncles or aunts were to busy to hang out with.
Strike out, after strike out ... I went down the street looking for ANYBODY to hang out with, not even Uncle Andy (at the Rockwell truck terminal) was available, he was on a run to Florida and wouldn’t be back until Saturday. Now what?
So I went prowling around the “hidden” parts of little China. Now, to make it perfectly clear, the hidden parts weren’t so much hidden, as they just were without signs. They were, and probably still are, a fact of life in a Chinese community. These are places where you might find anything from a healer, to a gung-fu instructor, and everything in between. It isn’t so much a xenophobic reaction to living in a new country as it is a practical recognition that some of our older ways aren’t able to be licensed, or even accepted, outside China.
Wandering around the alleys and through the upstairs apartments where business was frequently transacted I finally found someone who was willing to put up with me until Gunny concluded his business. Uncle Kenny
Uncle Kenny was a cook, as far as anyone else knew, but he was a great deal more than that, he was also recognized as a healer. He’d use herbs, acupuncture and moxibustion to help people as easily as most other people throw recipes together. Later, when I told him that I was reporting to boot camp, I found out that he was a great deal more.
This particular day he was “needling” a local gung-fu master (this guy was unknown outside the community, but he ROCKED) who had managed to strain his arm. I never did find out precisely how or why it was strained, but even Big John laughed when I asked him about it, before telling me that I didn’t need to know.
So Uncle Kenny asked the sifu if I could hang out and he said sure, why not? While we talked, I watched uncle use a hot herb pack, then a few strategically placed needles to alleviate the pain and speed the healing. Even though my knowledge was limited I could see the degree of change in the arm’s level of tension before and after the hot pack and needles.
We talked for a bit, mostly adult/kid stuff, how’s Mom, how’s Dad, and your grandparents and brothers, the usual. Since he also knew I was taking karate lessons he also asked about those, especially considering that he couldn’t usually shut me about anything I had just learned. I eventually even ‘fessed up to my honor challenge.
Mom tells me I’m a certifiable genius, that week I was just certifiably stupid.
Uncle Kenny was a beautiful man, educated, gentle and one hell of a fighter (according to my other uncles) but he did like to lecture. That day’s lecture was about the wu xia or “martial knights,” gung-fu fighters (both male and female) who were without peer and always mindful of their ancestors, in addition to being spiritually without equal. The Chinese equivalent of Sir Galahad, but with the strategic and combative abilities of a John Rambo.
This lecture could probably have gone on for at least an hour, but the sifu wasn’t as patient as I was (and in no danger of having his ears cuffed for being disrespectful to his elders) and he finally said, “Kenny, I think you’re about to put the boy to sleep.”
“Eh?”
“The boys about to go to sleep, he needs to hear it quicker”
The sifu opened his eyes but didn’t move from where uncle had put him, “Boy, you don’t understand what all the fuss is about, do you?”
“No sir”
“You were fighting to protect your brothers?”
“Yes sir”
“The problem is, by the way you were protecting your brothers, you were possibly starting a tong (for which read, clan) war. Creating more enemies for the family by removing one, do you see that?”
“Huh? Why would that happen?”
“No bad person is bad in their own eyes or even those of their own family. The boy probably thought he had to prove that you didn’t deserve promoted and that he did, are you learning about ‘wu de?”
“Ummmm, what’s that?”
“Hmmmmmmm, the closest translation would be ‘martial virtue,’ the ethics of the martial way”
“Yes sir, Uncle Frank makes us learn about Musashi, Sun-tzu and a lot of the Okinawan masters. He admires them because they flourished under repressive regimes”
He looked at me for a moment, “Quite a mouthful for one so young, but it appears this uncle of yours is teaching you correctly, now, see if you can grasp this, the boy is a threat to your brothers?”
“Yes sir”
“And if you kill him, how is the threat removed?”
“He’s gone, he can’t hurt anyone anymore”
“What if he has a brother and sister?”
“Mmmm, I don’t know”
“If he has a brother and sister, they could decide that they need to avenge him because they probably won’t believe that he deserved to die, understand?”
“Mmm, I guess”
“And if he has cousins who love him? Then what?”
O.K., I’m beginning to see what the fuss is about, guess I’m not necessarily THAT stupid.
“So I could have increased the troubles for my family?”
Sifu smiled,”See Kenny? The boy didn’t need lectured.” His eyes moved back to me, “What you need to do, boy, is to show your opponent that you are the stronger fighter, get him to a place where he has two choices, surrender or die, then you know what you do?”
I thought for a minute before tentatively answering, “Let him go?”
His smile grew, “Exactly, the first time.”
He looked at me more closely, “And if he does the same thing again? After you show him mercy?”
I thought about that one for a while, a long while, before answering.
“Wouldn’t he have decided his own fate then?”
“Exactly, young warrior, exactly correct, and by that time even his own clan will have probably written him off.”
Sifu looked at me a bit longer, then asked, “So, is the ‘mercy of a warrior’ so difficult to fathom? Or do you understand it better now?”
“I think I understand Sifu”
Sifu’s eyes closed and I stood there for a very long time, Sifu didn’t even look up and asked, “What are you waiting for young one? Do you think I’m going to bless you or something?”
“Something like that Sifu”
“Forget it young warrior, go prove yourself a full warrior, not a fool one. If Buddha approves, he’ll bless you himself.”
“Thank you Sifu”
I bowed and left.
At the next class, I dressed and joined the others as usual. I guess word had gotten around about what I had been told, because everyone was looking at the two of us whenever they thought we weren’t watching. The object of my ire was looking cockier than usual, certain that he would first get rid of me; then my brothers and then, in his mind anyway, he would get promoted.
Things weren’t going to work out that way.
He was up to his usual and when we paired off I arranged things, with Uncle Harvey’s complicity, so that we wound up together. As I expected, he tried another cheap shot but because I was watching for it, it didn’t work. I redirected his kick then dropped down to one knee, using a reverse hammer fist strike to the back of his leg to sweep him. He hit the mat, hard, and before he could move I had his left arm locked up, working a cross body choke with his own gi. While he stared I brought my hand back and screamed a kiai as I brought down a tiger claw strike for his eyes.
The hall was silent.
My strike stopped just short of his eyes, which were still open and staring.
He blinked once.
I asked quietly, “Friend or foe?”
“Huh?”
“Friend or foe?”
“What?”
“Which would you prefer to be? Friend or foe?”
“Friend, I guess”
I released him and stood, then helped him to his feet. There was no applause, no cheers, this was real life. Uncle Frank walked up to me and asked, “Should we let him stay?”
“Yes sensei”
We were never friends in the accepted sense of the word, but the harassment stopped. He eventually earned his belts and even eventually made the dan rankings. Where the real education starts.
I guess you could say it paid off for me also. It wasn’t too long after that, that I was offered the rank of 1st dan, your basic black belt. But I declined it, with thanks, because I felt I still had a long way to go in controlling my temper.
((gassho)) Sifu, I’m still learning, but I’ll never forget.

It's not about anger - it's about peace
It's not about power - it's about grace
It's not about knowing your enemy - it's about knowing yourself.

the Monk

Rabbit Lesson, Part II

2008-08-03T23:49:00.002-04:00

Ummmm, yeah, whatever, I went back to perusing the comic books.
The next day while I was getting ready for school I happened to glance out the window. We had about a full acre in front of the house and there was a cat (we didn’t have Saber at that time, another story there) prowling about. This cat was a local nuisance, routinely trashing gardens and wreaking havoc with henhouses. This time it was trying to get a nice fat bunny that was leisurely chewing some grass.
Fully expecting to have to tell my mother that there was a dead rabbit in the front yard, I watched the show, and I do mean show!
The cat stalked up on the rabbit, the rabbit just kind of wandered off a bit, not seeming to move much, then the cat stalked up a little further and, again, the rabbit reciprocated.
The third move in this dance took place and I realized that each move the rabbit made was taking it a bit closer to the wood’s edge but the cat never seemed to notice. My elbows were now perched on the window frame as I watched the game. The last move of the dance took place when the cat, losing all patience, essayed a leap for the rabbit when even I could tell that it was not going to work.
Without missing a beat, the rabbit leapt into the woods with not a glance behind, hitting the ground at a dead run.
There was about forty five seconds of the shrubs and grass thrashing about, then a loud yowl, audible even behind my window, as the cat flew from the blackberry bush, leaving behind a few tatters of fur on the stout spines.
That rabbit was one of about a dozen that liked to call my father’s newly planted orchard home. I took to watching them with my telescope, trying to understand what happened when they hit the tree line.
It took time, but I finally understood that when they went into the overgrowth, they weren’t just fleeing in blind panic, they were following a well scouted out path. They would go into their maze of trails, try to get about a turn ahead of the predator, double back and lay doggo. Watching as the predator would dash past, either losing the trail or blindly rushing into an “unpleasant situation.” Usually it was the blackberry brambles.
I have no idea how long it took me to reach this realization, I just know that it was a lot of time at my telescope (which I never complained about) watching from my room and sometimes moving it to the concealment offered by the driveway.
When I finally reached the realization, the idea immediately came to mind about how I could apply this to my own life.
The next time one of the teenaged thugs attempted to pursue me into the woodlot I followed the example of the rabbit, doubling back after gaining that one turn of distance; I then followed the advice of my father. I gained the high ground. There, I waited.
I was crouched on a tree branch which crossed over the path that we had entered on, which led back onto our street. In my possession was a piece of deadwood about the length of my arm and as thick as my thigh. As the would be miscreant came back through I swung the stick with everything I had striking his head and performing a flip that would have made Jackie Chan proud (I don’t believe he had even started his film career at that time, by the way).
He dropped like a puppet with its strings cut and didn’t move. I approached cautiously, poking him a few times to make certain he was out cold. Like my uncle (the Taoist healer) had taught me, I checked to make sure his heart was beating and that he was breathing with no difficulty. Satisfied that he would recover, I stood up. That’s when I heard his friends calling to him, wanting to know how much longer he was going to beat me, then they laughed.
Well, I don’t know why, but I got an idea and immediately put it into action, then I zipped up my pants and took refuge behind the bushes.
He never did own up, to his friends, about chasing after me, I understand that his father whupped on him pretty good for losing to “the gook,” never mind about the concussion or the flaming huge bruise between his eyes (Dad laughed himself sick, one of the only two times I ever saw him do that). What was even worse was that his darling boy had pissed himself in the process!
Life can be good sometimes, even for a little half breed kid.
There were other lessons, to be sure, but that was how the first ones taught by Grandpa Wilson and my father turned out.

It's not about anger - it's about peace
It's not about power - it's about grace
It's not about knowing your enemy - it's about knowing yourself.

the Monk

Rabbit Lessons, Part I

2008-07-26T22:32:00.002-04:00

Just to be absolutely certain, I have mentioned previously that this would also touch on my education and experience as an outdoorsman, right?
Excellent, I thought I might have forgotten to mention that.
One other thing, due to the length, this commentary is going to be in two installments.
It all probably started out pretty much the same as it would have for any other child, of my generation. Too much “Daniel Boone” and “Wagon Train Days“and, until we moved out to a farming community it was all just an abstract idea. Living in the city of Cleveland, the closest thing we had to a forested area was an abandoned lot, over grown with pioneer plants and shrubs. Being between two houses with a fence at the back there wasn’t too much mischief that we could get into there.
After we moved out to Aurora, however, everything changed. The very things we had moved to escape, encroaching racism and prejudice, were already firmly established there. At that time, Aurora wasn’t even big enough to qualify as a village and its main “claim to fame” was that it was where state routes 306 and 43 met. They were also pretty much the only paved roads in the area.
After we moved into the area, I wondered where the other children were, our neighbors didn’t seem to want to have much to do with us. I didn’t understand why, or care, at the time, because I had my younger brothers to play with.
It wasn’t until September, when I was to start school that we gained a pretty good idea of what was going on, you see, the local children (in my immediate area) were pretty much all older than myself, which wouldn’t have phased me as I was accustomed to associating with adults, as were my brothers. What we didn’t know was that we had been watched, spied upon, state it however you’d like the result was the same. The local “gooks” were kept a close watch on.
Until that first day of school, I hadn’t had any real contact with bullies. There had been a few pushing matches to be sure, but nothing that would have classed as a real fight. So what education in the martial arts I received was largely limited to the philosophy and some of the basics. My uncle and my father saw no need to hurry things; my mother would have been just as glad if I never needed to learn to fight.
That first day of school I crossed the lot behind our house (which we didn’t own at the time) with a kiss goodbye from my mother and an armload of supplies (backpacks weren’t the utilitarian/fashion requirement that they have come to be). As I exited the overgrown lot, there was silence at the bus stop. After a pause, one of the teenagers standing there with the elementary school children approached me, smiling, as he watched my struggle to balance the cumbersome load.
“Well, looky here, a gook,” he stood over me for a moment, then knocked me to the ground, books, papers, crayons; all the detritus required for the first grade, on the ground in front of me. As I struggled to get everything together again, he swaggered back to the congratulations of his friends and the elementary school children. I gathered my school supplies and stood behind the others, waiting for the school bus.
The first grade teacher was standing there, waiting for her new charges to arrive when the bus parked. As soon as she saw my disheveled state she rushed me to the office, helping me to straighten my appearance out; all the while pointing out to the principal the error of permitting the high school students to use the same bus stops as the elementary school students.
What followed next were several hurried phone conferences between my father and my uncles, and late night conversations between my parents which eventually led to my starting a more formal education in the combative sciences.
But these last three paragraphs aren’t the main focus of this article, they are actually the prelude to the main concerns of this article, my education as an outdoorsman.
I know that somewhere out there, are about nineteen other men who can state that they had the opportunity to learn the things that I learned, but those are all I can vouch for.
You see, my father took those things I saw on “Daniel Boone” and built on those. We would be watching the show and he’d make a comment or two about how he might do something, which usually involved some sort of combat or scout maneuver. Generally it would involve just a small change like, “...if he really wanted to stay out of sight while he was waiting to ambush that guy, he’d climb a tree ...” or perhaps when he saw the “Rifleman” peering at the landscape while “scouting” he’d comment, “... he wouldn’t be so easy to see if he’d just crouch down beside that boulder ...” Little things, small comments, but they were the comments of a member of the Marine “Combat Raiders” and a former intelligence operative; made to a son who took note of them.
Took note of them and applied them to his own situation.
There was a small woodlot on our street; it didn’t take too long before the other children, regardless their age, hesitated to follow me into that area with violence in mind. The first times they had done so, they managed to get hold of me and a fight ensued. In those days, the outcome was highly variable. But my uncle made certain to mention that, as big as the size difference was, there was no such thing as a fair fight and that I should have no qualms about using whatever means lay at hand to end the fight, preferably in my favor.
Another elder, Grandpa Wilson, whom I met at the local general store, had advice which always seemed to sound demented but, in retrospect, was some of the best advice I got in my life. I’m only sorry that I didn’t pay as much attention to him, as I did my first love, Science.
The first time we met was at the store and he stared at me intently, ignoring my brothers. Then he came up to me and introduced himself, after doing so he asked my name; then my nation. I stared at him blankly, until Mr. Lyons told me that he wanted to know my ancestry and I replied that I was Chinese. He looked at me intently and said, “One day you will know who your people are.” Quite frankly, on hearing that, I thought he was just plain nuts. It was sure obvious to everyone around me what my nation was.
Shifting gears without a second thought he then asked why I had a black eye, I told him about the recent fight, my dash into the woodlot and the subsequent fight. He smiled when I told him about nailing the departing thug, in the back of the head, with a thrown branch (I hadn’t even heard of rabbit sticks back then!), he smiled in approval then asked why I had decided to fight someone who was so much larger. I told him that I didn’t have much choice. He told me that the choice was always there. I looked at him blankly and he laughed, “If you want to know how to escape your enemies, then watch the rabbits.”

It's not about anger - it's about peace
It's not about power - it's about grace
It's not about knowing your enemy - it's about knowing yourself.

the Monk

Changes

2008-07-09T20:26:00.004-04:00

For the first few years, everything was very intense. I was expected to learn beside, and with, adults. I had to compete with them, and against them, but nothing was watered down, no exceptions were made. Kovacks-sensei made it very clear that if I wished to be promoted two things had to happen. The first was that my grades couldn't fall below a "C" or I would be placed on probation. If I got an "F," well, I'm sure you can imagine. The second thing was that anything I did was measured the same as the adults. If they broke boards, I was to break boards. If they kicked to the face, I had to find a way to kick them in the face also. Kovacks-sensei didn't teach us forms as he first wanted to make certain that we would live to see the age of eighteen.

Kovacks-sensei made it very, very clear that just being a strong fighter wasn't enough. You had to be a canny warrior as well. He taught my brothers and I (they began training about a year after I did) from "The Art of War" and "The Book of Five Rings" in those days. He made it quite clear that, as did Sun-tzu, he considered the greatest victory to be that achieved without bloodshed or violence. I learned why later.

We were doing well enough as fighters that at one point we even had some of the police officers in the training hall teaching us to be "tougher" mentally (on their own). To handle the verbal abuse that they felt we would run into. It was a few years too late but it did come in handy.

As we had made progress and were doing better than anyone had anticipated, we were featured in the local newspapers, which led to a demand for childrens classes. Everyone seemed to think that just because we were doing well, that ANY child could do as well.

This is what led to a ....... complication.

I don't know what happened in the childrens classes, but I can guess. Kovacks-sensei had expected my brothers and I to "take a bump" just as any of the adults in the class. Its an old way of training and is a good practice. The only problem is, the degree of force that one had to put out for an adult to feel the same "bump" when a six, or even eight year old is the "aggressor."

This is where it got interesting.

Although we usually trained with the adults on Thursday night, one week Kovacks-sensei told us that he also wanted us to come to the Saturday afternoon children's class.

Everything went pretty much as expected except that there was very little in the way of "contact drills." Hard blocks against each others arms, legs; block and strike drills. We didn't understand it but had sufficient discipline to not question it.

Everything took a left turn when we lined up for "free sparring," kumite. Free sparring is when you have three minutes to score points against each other. Strikes and kicks had to be clear, strong techniques. There couldn't be floppy strikes, weak forms or anything else that wouldn't have worked on the street.

I was lined up opposite a twelve or thirteen year old girl who stood head and shoulders over me. She had a fit of the giggles, I just stood there watching her, looking for weak points in her technique; the way she presented herself. There were no shortage of them. The girl's mother (sitting in the viewing gallery, newly installed) thought the fight was going to be terribly one sided; well, she was half right.

The fight only lasted about fifteen seconds, but it changed a lot of things for me, she tried to come in with a back fist strike but it didn't work like she wanted it to. It didn't work because she ran into my skipping side kick. Which knocked her about six feet back, flat on her back, struggling to breathe.

Kovacks-sensei yelled for the break, directing me to my corner, I sat there waiting for the girl to get her breath back. To me it was no big deal, you took a hit, you lose the point, you get up and carry on. What everyone else had forgotten was that I had spent all of my time training with adults.

In (what was to me) a surprise turn of events, the girl got up, gathered her things and went home. While she was doing this, Kovacks-sensei knelt down beside me and said, "K____, I know you didn't mean for that to happen like that, but you must never, never hurt a girl like that again."

For whatever reason, his instruction that day had an immense impact on me. My mother could always tell when I'd been in a fight and what gender it was with. If I got into a fight with a boy, she'd get a phone call from some irate parent who got told that the mere fact of my being a small teener, did not mean that I was the punching bag for their delinquent.

On the other hand, if I got into a fight with a girl, I'd usually come home with a black eye.

I was probably thirty something before, with the help of an aikidoka friend, I figured out how to defend myself against a woman without hurting her.

This has been a sometimes problem for me, but it has also caused a certain amount of merriment among my friends, and consternation for my commanders.

One last thing, to those who've commented on my first post, "gassho," I thank you deeply and I will definitely take what you have stated to heart. To the gentleman who wished for the colors to be other than what they are, my apologies, but it is a "style" thing. Most of the other color combinations didn't feel appropriate to the topic.

It's not about anger - it's about peace
It's not about power - it's about grace
It's not about knowing your enemy - it's about knowing yourself.

the Monk