The Escape

from Glynn Williams’ Pasture

Edwin H. Cooper, writer of human interest stories and articles, has been published in many Texas magazines and newspapers, and is active in numerous civic and school organizations. His new book, 40 Years at Aggieland, was published in 2013.

“I am going out to the river pasture and hunt deer for a couple of hours tomorrow. Would you like to go along, Ed?”

“Please be serious when you invite me hunting, Glenn. I never say no and I take a hunting invitation seriously. Of course, I’ll go, but I have to be back home by noon because we are off to the Cotton Bowl, leaving promptly at 2 pm.” Cotton Bowl games in our family life rank right up there with deer hunting, but, of course, are more expensive.

Glynn and I met at The Kettle for breakfast and during the course of that meal exchanged enough past hunting tales (some exaggerated on his part) to leave for the hunt frothing with anticipation.

We drove to the pasture on the river in separate pickups because he had business back in town at mid-morning, and I could stay until noon. As he situated me in the tree blind, he asked if I wanted the gate lock combination written down since he would be going before I left. It was a four digit number, and I flagged him away with a laugh. “See you later. Good luck.”

At first light there in the tree blind, the world around me did not seem to focus properly. The reason was I had forgotten my bifocals. With the four power scope on the rifle, however, who could possibly need bifocals?

At 10:34 am, while perched on a single, narrow plank 30 feet above the hard ground with no foot rest, I heard a sound behind me and upon looking to my rear, spotted a very nice buck within easy range. It was so easy that I missed--- the angle of fire was impossible. After trudging through the woods in a fruitless search for the buck, I finally conceded defeat and headed for the truck, with a vision of the Cotton Bowl in mind as consolation prize.

The small numbers on the combination gate lock proved to be just a metallic blur without my bifocals. The four little digital numbers appeared as ghosts of Christmas past. I quickly learned that Braille number-reading by the untrained thumb is hopeless. Making sure no vehicles were in sight on the dead end road, I stepped back several paces and attempted to spy the numbers through the rifle scope. This did not work-and I’m glad no one saw me trying. I do admit at this writing that temptation to shoot the lock with a .270 caliber lead tipped bullet did occur, but good judgment prevailed, though I was already late for the Cotton Bowl trip.

My Pan-Am flight bag held the solution to my dilemma. It held pencils, tape, ammunition, rope, Northern tissue and a half pint bottle of vodka (for serious snake bites. I dropped to my knees at the gate with inspiration, and peered through the half pint of vodka. My first attempt to see the lock numbers through the bottle ended in failure. So, rather than waste the fluid, I consumed enough to leave only the two layers of glass between me and those numbers. This did not work, either. Being 30 minutes late and infuriated at the entire fiasco, I smashed the bottle against a brick, retrieved the largest piece of glass and used it successfully to magnify the lock numbers. East Berliners heading west through the Brandenburg Gate could not have been more ecstatic than I was when I finally made good my escape from Glynn Williams’ pasture. And now there is an extra pair of glasses in my Pam-Am bag. And another in my pickup glove compartment. And another in my suitcase. As the old song goes, “Don’t Fence Me In.”