The "Hairy" Man

There was only one thing I was ever afraid of in the river swamp...The Hairy Man.  

Everyone in our family knew about the Hairy Man.  We were always warned not to be in the woods after dark or the Hairy Man would get us.  As a boy, I loved camping in the river swamp, but after dark, I didn't care much for leaving the light of the fire. 

Many people thought the Hairy Man was something similar to Big Foot.  Sightings were rare, but he had been seen.  The stories were always the same.  Hunters would come back to camp and tell about seeing a man-like figure, crouching on a tree limb or running away, covered in Spanish moss, eyes glowing, with a foul smell about him.  I knew they were telling the truth, we all knew it.

Near Encounter

As I grew older, I thought less and less about the Hairy Man, until one evening in 1976.  I was hunting by myself in the Neadmore Swamp.

I had discovered a well traveled deer path leading through a strand of tupelo trees and sat patiently all afternoon. Darkness was fast approaching. I didn't want to leave, but then I heard an owl hoot in the distance, then another and another.  Long ago owls were thought to be messengers of death.  The owl calls were making their way down the swamp in my direction.  The last owl hoot was close, but it stopped suddenly.  Then I heard a screech, a panicked screech!  The hair on the back of my neck stood straight up.  I decided it was time to go.

To get back to the truck, I had to go in the direction of that last owl call.  I wasn't scared, I was just in a hurry.  Walking through the swamp in the dark isn't easy, everything gets in your way.  About 50 yards from the truck my boot caught on a cypress knee and I fell.  While getting up, I noticed feathers everywhere, then an awful smell.  I hadn't thought about the Hairy Man for years, but all of those stories came flooding back in an instant.

While standing there, something in the top of a tupelo tree caught my attention. I thought it was just Spanish moss, but then it moved. I decided to move even faster and quickly got back to the truck.  The drive back to the highway was a long one.  I wasn't scared, I just didn't want to get the truck stuck and have to get back out in the dark again.

The Real Story

Years later, I casually mentioned the story about the Hairy Man to my father-in-law, Al Theus, while we were running dogs near the Neadmore Swamp.  Al was aware of the ghost tales, but said he knew the true story about the Hairy Man.

Al said when he was a boy, a man had carried his young son hunting in the river swamp.  The man had decided to hunt near the Indian Mounds, a place not far from Neadmore Swamp.
 
The Indian Mounds were ancient Indian burial sites, mounds of dirt about five feet high and twenty feet around.  The Creek Indians occupied that part of the country long before the Spaniards arrived.  The Creeks were a peaceful people, but they did practice "sacrificing" with their burial rituals.  Whenever an important elder died, the village would sacrifice a young child to be buried with the elder in the large dirt mounds, to help in the afterlife.  Around these burial mounds was always a good place to hunt deer.  Some of those mounds are still there today.

According to a Long County police report, the man had told his young young son to sit on a stump near the Indian Mounds until he came back for him.  After several hours of hunting, the man made his way back to the Indian Mounds, but his son was gone, completely vanished.  The father yelled and yelled, but heard nothing.  The only things moving were several old crows flying about.  After hours of frantic searching, the man returned to Ludowici for help.

Al said a large search party was put together that night, men from all over the county joined in the search.  Back then it was a difficult and long ride to get from Ludowici to the river swamp.  Many men with lanterns and blood hounds searched and searched.  The young boy was never found.

After several days the search was called off, but the boy's father wouldn't stop looking for him.  For months, the man could be seen searching around the Indian Mounds.  He was becoming obsessed with guilt, refusing to talk with anyone, not even his wife could convince him to give up the search.

Then one night the man didn't come home.  His wife became terrified all over again; she called the police and another search party was put together.  One searcher claimed he caught a glimpse of a man running away from the search party.  After a few days, all of the searchers gave up.

Al said for many years afterwards, hunters would report seeing an old, ragged-looking man in the river swamp. Most people believed it was the same man still looking for his lost son.

Al said he didn't know if it was the same man or not, but he did know one thing for sure.  For a long time after the young boy disappeared, hunters would find crudely carved wooden toys left around the Indian Mounds, as if someone were leaving gifts for a young child.

Mike's Hunting Tip - If you become lost in the woods, stay put.  We'll find you.

Mike Griffin, an old Ludowici boy from way back.

PS - All of my stories are true, mostly true, or maybe just made up :)

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Face to Face with a Huge Boar

I opened my eyes and there he stood, staring straight at me!

My brother-in-law, Charlie Theus, and I were still hunting on Honey Island that morning. Honey Island is located in the Back Swamp, mostly covered with scrub oaks and large palmettos. 

The day was starting to get hot, so I decided to head back to the truck. I was slowly following a dim firebreak, shotgun on my shoulder, when something in a thicket caught my attention. I stood there for a few minutes, not really hearing anything, but not ready to leave either.

Now, every hunter knows a good hunting story is part truth and part art, but this story is the whole truth. There's no way I could make-up the following events.

I'm an Idiot

I was standing very still on that firebreak, staring intently into the thicket. I couldn't see or hear anything, but my instincts said something was in there. I immediately thought a deer had bedded down.

I probably stood there 10 minutes or more not moving a muscle. I finally decided to step into the thicket, maybe the deer would bust out and I'd get a fast shot. I moved into the thicket as quietly as I could until I was completely covered, thick brush was head-high all around me. Still nothing, no movement, no noise.

Then I decided to kneel down and try looking under the brush. I'm not sure what I was hoping to see, but I got on my hands and knees and strained to look for something. Nothing. That's when I did something really foolish, I put my shotgun on the ground and laid on top of it; I still couldn't see anything moving. Being tired and hot from the stalking, I closed my eyes for a moment.

I had probably drifted asleep for about two minutes, when I suddenly became wide awake. Something was standing there, staring straight at me, not more than five yards away in the middle of that thicket. My eyes took a few seconds to focus when I realized it was the biggest boar I'd ever seen. This hog was huge, with stained white tusks curling back over his snout.

My heart and mind were racing so fast I was having trouble thinking clearly. I know that boar was trying to figure me out, too. A cornered hog is dangerous. I had to make a move before he did.

Even a Poor Plan Vigorously Executed Will Work

I was using Daddy's old double-barrel shotgun that day, with 3-inch magnum 00 buckshot in each barrel, but I was still lying on top of the shotgun. I decided the best thing to do was roll over, fire one shot toward the hog, then get up on my knee and wait for the charge. I was going to put the second load directly into his face. I didn't have a plan after that.

I slowly slid the shotgun forward, gripping the forearm and trigger while taking the safety off at the same time. In one fast motion, I rolled onto my left side, pointed the gun toward the boar, and pulled the trigger. Moving faster than I thought possible, I was up on one knee, shotgun to my shoulder, waiting for what was to happen next.

For a few moments it was completely quiet, then I heard that familiar death kick. I reached for another shell to reload. My hand was shaking a bit. I took a few more breaths and slowly moved the brush away with the end of my shotgun. There laid the biggest boar hog in the woods. The whole load of buckshot had busted his heart wide open. Charlie and I spent the next two hours dragging and loading Godzilla into the back of the truck. 

The incident with that big hog cured me from crawling into thickets again. I still like to get after hogs, but only when there's a little distance between us.

Mike's Hunting Tip - Keep facing the wind in hog country, you'll smell him before he sees you.

Mike Griffin, an old Ludowici boy from way back.

PS - All of my stories are true, mostly true or maybe just made up :)

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Aliens in Bobtown Hunting Club!

Although the incident was never investigated by Federal or local authorities, it did happen...I know, I was there.

The following story occurred one afternoon while I was hunting by myself in Bobtown.  There were no witnesses to corroborate what I'm about to tell.  The believability of this account is based solely on my reputation for telling the truth.  

It All Began Quietly

The afternoon was cool, without a cloud in the sky; not a bad afternoon for still hunting.  I quietly slipped into a small swamp just off the Jonas Island road.  The evening passed without seeing a deer.  Back in my younger days, I had a tendency to stay in the woods way past dark before heading back to the truck.  That evening was no different; however, I forgot to bring my flashlight.

Although it was pitch black dark, I was certain I knew the way back to the truck; however, after walking about 300 yards I got the feeling something wasn't right, I should have hit the road a long time back.  I kept walking in the dark, eventually finding a stand of planted pines. With a bit of relief, I followed that line of pines knowing I would eventually come out near the truck.

I followed those pines for a long way, sometimes tripping over stumps, sometimes getting caught in wait-a-minute vines.  Over an hour passed.  I wasn't worried about being lost, and I'm not saying I was lost, I just didn't want to deal with any teasing that might come my way.

Then without warning, I stepped across a small ditch and was on the dirt road again, but where?  The night was so dark it took a few minutes to figure out my exact location.  Then confusion hit me, how in the world did I end up at the Briar Patch, a favorite deer crossing on the Frank Townsend Road?

I decided to sit down for a moment and sort this thing out, but the confusion remained.  There was just no way I could have ended up where I did based on the route I took back to the truck.

Then it hit me...the only logical conclusion to my dilemma was "Aliens."  I must have been abducted by aliens and dropped off on the Frank Townsend Road after they finished with me.

The Aftermath

I quickly checked all of my important body parts, nothing was missing or misplaced.  I couldn't find any sign of foul pay either, but that didn't mean I hadn't been probed.  They must have cleared my memory, too, because I couldn't recall a thing about being on their spaceship.

I was still trying to sort everything out when Keith and our brother-in-law, David Byers, pulled up.  Momma had sent them looking for me because I was so late.  I should have kept the alien episode to myself, but in the excitement of it all, I told Keith what had happened to me.  For some reason, he felt compelled to tell everyone back at the house about my story.

I now know how my fellow alien abductees felt when they told their stories.  No one believed me, no one except my loving sister.  While everyone else was laughing, Janet was shaking her head with worry; she said alien abduction was a common occurrence for many people, often with lasting effects.  I believe she's been abducted once or twice as well.


Keith, Janet & Mike

To ensure my future safety should I ever encounter aliens again, Janet gave me a special "Redneck Emergency Kit," which consisted of a small spring-loaded toy gun with little plastic balls.  Her written instructions on the package were simple:  "Set plastic balls on fire, load into gun, aim upward, and shoot -- chat with the aliens until help arrives."  No brother could ask for a sweeter sister.


Mike's Hunting Tip -- Always take a flashlight and compass when heading into the woods; could prevent unwanted spaceship rides.

Mike Griffin, and old Ludowici boy from way back.

PS - All of my stories are true, mostly true or maybe just made up :)

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Franklinia Altamaha - The Sweet Smelling Swamp Flower

Matthew Keith Griffin

It was just a simple little white flower...

Keith and I were both home on leave at the same time during the summer of 1992, something that rarely happened.  I was serving in the Army, Keith in the Air Force. We've both since retired from the military, but during that two-week period it was like going back in time.  

We were young boys again, riding the back country roads together, enjoying Momma's home cooking.  It was during that time Keith decided we "needed" to catch a mess of Shellcrackers, a great tasting pan fish usually found in the river swamp's deep water slews.

The River Swamp

Keith had remembered catching Shellcrackers with Charlie, Yvonne's youngest brother, in a deep slew near the Double Yellow Bluff.  Those slews were always full of fish whenever the Altamaha River overflowed its banks. So we rigged up several cane poles, bought a basket full of crickets, and headed for the river swamp.  

We were still slogging through muddy water when we crossed one of the many small ridges found in the swamp.  Huge White Oaks and old bald Cypress trees were scattered across this one particular ridge.  I don't believe it had ever been logged before.

Little White Flowers

Near the center of that ridge was a small grove of trees, more like bushes.  They were covered with dark green leaves and full of slightly cupped white flowers, very sweet-smelling flowers. We admired those flowers for a few moments, then moved on.
 
We caught a lot of fish that day, but never thought about those white flowers again until a few years later.  We were both home on leave again when the Ludowici News ran an article about a flower discovered in 1765 near the Altamaha River by American Botanists John and William Bertram.  They named the flower Franklinia Altamaha, in honor of John Bertram's great friend, Benjamin Franklin.  

We were very familiar with the name.  For many years, the main restaurant in town was named the Franklinia.  According to the article, the white, sweet smelling flower was never seen again in the wild after 1803.

Then it Hit Us Like a Train

Keith and I immediately recognized the picture in the paper, it was the same white flower we found several years earlier when fishing for Shellcrackers.  

We quickly drove to Kendrick's Camp and headed into the swamps.  It took about an hour, but we finally found the ridge.  We were stunned...there was nothing left but rotting stumps and small clumps of palmettos.  The loggers had clear-cut the place.

The mood heading back to Momma's house was a bit somber.  Although neither one of us were botanists, we both felt the loss.  We'll never be able to prove it, but Keith and I may have rediscovered the sweet-smelling Franklinia Altamaha, last seen in the wild in 1803.

Mike's Tip:  It's not always the destination that creates the best memories.  Sometimes the journey can be just as sweet.  Take time to stop and smell the flowers.

Mike Griffin, an old Ludowici boy from way back.

PS - All of my stories are true, mostly true or maybe just made up :)

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Running from Bears

I've never liked hunting anything that could hunt me back.

Hunting in Virginia has been good. I bagged my biggest buck here, and several great spring gobblers, too. My one real complaint has been the bears, this place is full of them!

Until recently, my only encounter with bears had been the few I'd seen in our old Forest Lakes neighborhood. One bear actually walked under Sam's swing set and down our driveway. And I don't mean small bears either; the bears around here can be huge, 200-300 pounds, some more than that. That's a big animal to be walking in your back yard.

These days I try not to think about bears while out hunting. I had a close encounter with several a few years back, I still get nervous just thinking about that day.

Bears Every Where

I was spring turkey hunting with my two great friends, Mark Hall and Bob Murray, in the Gathright WMA near the West Virginia border.  We had chased a few turkeys that morning, but never really got close. Mark and Bob wanted to take a break, so I worked my way back down the mountain hoping to find a lonesome gobbler. 

Near the bottom I found a small draw with good turkey sign. I set out two decoys and moved back about 15 yards. I was leaning against a large pine tree, completely camouflaged from head to toe, sitting very low with my Browning, 12-guage automatic shotgun resting on my knees. I started a series of soft yelps.

I had been working my turkey call off and on when I heard something behind me, it sounded like something big walking in the leaves. My first thought was Mark and Bob, then the noise got louder; whatever was behind me had started to run my way. I quickly decided it wasn't Mark or Bob. Then it hit me, a herd of deer was about to run over me. I decided to remain sitting against that big tree, camouflaged and motionless.

Whatever was coming my way was now making a terrible noise; crashing through brush, splashing water and wailing, which sounded like a death warning to anything in it's path. My herd-of-deer theory quickly went out the window. In its place came the gut-wrenching thought of bears.  All I could think about was a movie Yvonne and I had watched in the mid 1970s at the Jesup Drive-In called, 'Grizzly", a movie about a huge bear that was stalking people in the woods. I started to have difficulty breathing.

No Good Options

My first reaction was to remain as still as possible. I knew bears didn't have the best eye-sight, and I didn't want to make it easy for them to find me. Within in few seconds I could see black bears out of the corner of my eye; they seemed everywhere, and spooked, too. I think they had just smelled where I had taken a leak, and that had them nervous.

One of the grown bears had three cubs with her; I knew my situation had just become 10 times more dangerous. She had stopped about 30 yards off to my right and was looking for me. This huge bear then stood up on her back legs and looked straight at me. I could see her lips curling, smelling the air. My racing heart was telling me I had to do something, fast.

I was still motionless and completely camouflaged; I think she could smell me, but couldn't tell where I was. I was afraid to even move my eyeballs.

Several ideas quickly flashed through my mind. First, I thought about hauling-ass out of those woods, but a bear can easily out run a man. I didn't want something dragging me down from behind. Next I thought about climbing a tree, but bears are good tree climbers. Then I thought about shooting the damn bear; however, I didn't think three No. 4 turkey loads could kill a large bear, especially one trying to protect her cubs. I was seriously worrying about what to do.

Finally, I decided to wait her out, knowing there wasn't much else I could do. My plan was to remain completely still. If she came at me I was going to put two turkey loads in her face, then run like hell. It seemed liked forever, but within a few seconds the bears were gone, heading straight up that draw. I started to shake.

My turkey hunt was over. I quickly got up and started walking back to the truck. I'd gone about 25 yards when I realize I'd left my decoys. I initially told myself to forget them, I wasn't going back towards those bears. Then I remembered how much I paid for those decoys. 

While heading back to the truck, I kept thinking something was following me. I picked up the pace, it was a long walk back.

The Story Keeps Getting Better With Time

I've often retold this story, adding a little more embellishment each time, especially if I've had a few bourbons. Once I told the story and a friend ended up with a strange look on her face. She said, "Mike, I don't understand something. You said you were going to shoot twice, then run. But didn't you have three shells in your shotgun?" I looked at her with my best serious face expression and said, "That's right, I was saving the last shell for me." Her husband spit his drink out laughing so hard.  

Yvonne and Sam even got into the act. For Father's Day, they gave me a coffee-table book with the title, "Do You Fear Bears?" 

I'm just happy I didn't end up as dinner for three little bears!

Mike's Hunting Tip - Don't pee in the woods, the bears will find you.

Mike Griffin, an old Ludowici boy from way back.

PS - All of my stories are true, mostly true or maybe just made up :)

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The "Manipulated" Dove Field

My heart skipped a beat when the green SUV pulled into the dove field.

For years, Jim Dickerson and I traveled to Remington, VA every September for a great opening day Dove Hunt. The organizers had multiple fields planted with corn, sunflowers, and wheat. We would ride to the fields in open wagons pulled by tractors. Through out the afternoon, organizers would ride by offering cold drinks and snacks. After the hunt, there was always a party at the big barn with plenty of BBQ, beer and a band. 

That all changed in the fall of 2016

That year I was looking forward to another great dove hunt with Jim, and my son, Sam.  However, Jim couldn't attend, so Sam and I decided it was going to be a great Father-Son day. 

We arrived at 10 that morning, paid our fee, and shot a round of skeet to warm up. There must have been 75 hunters participating in the hunt. We started loading into the wagons around 11:30, and headed to the fields.

Our group of hunters was dropped off in a big field of sunflowers, with wide strips bush-hogged through out the field. Sam and I selected a shady spot, setup our chairs, and started to relax until the birds came in. 

Since the doves weren't flying yet, I walked over to the next set of hunters and started polite conversation. They both were from Richmond, first time on this hunt. We chatted a bit about the upcoming deer season, then I returned to our spot. Sam commented on a small airplane flying around. I didn't pay it much attention.

The birds still hadn't started coming to our field yet, when shooting in the field behind us cranked up. We decided to change fields. We walked through a small stand of oaks and found a good setup. Before long, Sam and I were blasting away. We must have gone through a box of shells with no luck at all. That was unusual for Sam, he's always been a good shot. It was par for me. 

About that same time I noticed a green SUV enter the field and stop at the first group of hunters. They were too far away to tell exactly what was going on, but within a few minutes, the hunters were packing up and leaving the field. That's when it hit me, I knew what was happening.

Undercover Federal Game Wardens

As the SUV was approaching Sam and me, I told Sam to lay his shotgun down and step away. As the two men stepped out of the vehicle, I recognized them as the same two hunters I had started a conversation with earlier that day. However, they were now dressed in their full game warden regalia, and well armed. The tall one said, "We're sorry, we are from Richmond, but we're also undercover federal game wardens." He told us we were being detained for hunting over "manipulated" fields, and that we needed to collect our gear and move to the pick-up point for the wagons. He then asked for our hunting license and any birds we had killed. I told him we hadn't killed a bird all afternoon. He chuckled, then they set off to the next set of hunters.

To say I was mad would be an understatement. And the longer it took us to get back to the barn, the madder I became. Once all of the hunters were gathered in the barn, the game wardens then started calling out small groups at a time. I had never seen so many game wardens in one place in all my life.

As the afternoon wore on I was becoming more agitated. I was pacing back and forth so hard Sam finally asked what was wrong. I told him I'd never been "detained" before in my life. He then looked at me and said, "Dad, it's not so bad, I've been detained once or twice myself." I exploded, "Does your mother know this?" He just grinned.

Judgment Time

Finally, a warden called our names and we went up to the front. He ask if it was true we hadn't hit a bird all afternoon. I told him, "yep, not a single bird." He looked at me for a moment, handed our hunting license back, and said we were free to leave. Just like that, we were heading home. I like to think I made a good impression with the two undercover wardens earlier that day, and they took pity on us.

I later found out the guy organizing the hunt was federally charged with violating the North American Game Bird Treaty by "manipulating" the fields (bush-hogging lanes and throwing out wheat seed.) I haven't been on a paid dove hunt since.

Mike's Hunting Tip - Try your best not to break a game law. Being detained by Game Wardens was a terrible feeling.

Mike Griffin, an old Ludowici boy from way back.

PS - All of my stories are true, mostly true or maybe just made up :)

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Christmas Past

I can't remember a time growing up when we didn't head to the woods on Christmas morning. 

That was then, times are different now that we all have families of our own.  These days we have lazy Christmas mornings, watching kids open their presents, visiting with each other while the turkey is being cooked.  The dog pens have long been torn down, and we're never late for Christmas dinner anymore, but that wasn't always the case.

Opening Presents

Christmas mornings would always begin around 4 a.m.  Daddy would wake us up early so we could see what Santa had brought.  There would be three big piles of gifts in the living room.  Toys were plentiful, and each pile always had bags of nuts and fruit.  I think Daddy must have only had nuts and fruit for Christmas when he was a young boy.  Occasionally, Keith and I would have a new shotgun or some hunting clothes in our piles.

The house would be lit up with Christmas lights.  Mamma always did a great job decorating for the holidays.  Our tree would be covered with "golly-whopper" lights; not those perfect little lights you buy at Wal-Mart, but with big, colorful bulbs that would cast a fuzzy glow over the tree.  Ornaments included richly colored globes with indented star-shapes, probably saved from our time in Germany when Daddy was a young soldier.  Tinsel hung from top to bottom, lots of tinsel.  I always loved our Christmas tree.

Play time never lasted long for Keith and me.  Hunting clothes had to be put on and fried-egg sandwiches eaten for breakfast.  Daddy would start warming up the truck.  Our deer hounds would begin to stretch and whine with excitement, getting ready for another chase.  Daddy's old friend, Thurman Martin, would usually pull into the driveway by then, politely refusing to come inside for a cup of coffee.  Keith would be in a mild panic looking for his shotgun shells.  Janet would usually stay home to play with her toys.

You could always hear the mufflers on Eddie's truck long before he arrived at the house; Susan and Granny would show up later that morning.  Momma would still be in her night gown, getting a big turkey ready for the oven.  All of this would be going on with daybreak still no where to be seen.

The Morning Hunt

Christmas morning hunts were different, too.  The CB radio had less chatter on it.  Much shooting could be heard around mid-morning, as the country kids began trying out their new guns.  Anticipation of Christmas dinner would start early.  Anxiety about loosing the dogs would begin to rise.  Small hints that dinner-time was fast approaching could be heard over the radio.

We all loved to hunt on Christmas morning, but we wanted to get home for dinner, too.  Finally Daddy would make the call and we'd head home, knowing a feast was waiting there.

Dinner Time

A "feast" is the best way to describe our Christmas dinners.  Momma's turkey would be golden brown.  Granny and Susan would bring in smoked pork roast and broccoli dishes.  Home-made mashed potatoes and dressing would be ready, with steaming gravy in a big bowl.  The cranberry sauce would almost be dancing on its platter.  Ambrosia and 7-layered salad would be on the counter.  Pots of beans, peas and greens would be simmering on the stove.  The smell of baked rolls would travel throughout the house.  Susan would make wonderful chocolate desserts.  Pecan and coconut pies were just begging to be tasted.  Banana pudding waited in the refrigerator.  Sweet tea would be poured for all.

The women in our family usually blessed the food.  In the early years we prayed where we stood, later we would hold hands in a family circle and pray.

TV trays then came out and adults fixed plates for the kids.  Daddy occupied his seat next to the stove.  As we got older, the boys would line up in the kitchen, each one waiting politely, but ready to pounce given a small opening to the food.  Compliments were quickly given to all the cooks as each new dish was sampled for the first time.  Small talk was bantered back and forth.  Granny was always concerned that we try some dessert.  Hours of hard work in the kitchen would be over in no time; stomachs full, appetite's quieted for a while.

After dinner, time would slow down again.  Bed sheets would cover the left over food.  Naps were taken, football games were watched.  Some of us would head back to the woods, either looking for lost dogs or getting in a few hours of "still" hunting.  Leftovers would be warmed up again around dark, one last chance to celebrate the fine Christmas meal.

For a long time our family traditions remained largely unchanged.  Some years we were late for dinner, some years not all of us made it to the morning hunt.  Some years a few of us were missing; not by choice, but because we each took our turn standing freedom's guard in a foreign land.  Each Christmas wasn't perfect, but I'll always cherish my Christmas memories forever.


Mike's Holiday Tip -- Don't be too late serving dinner.  The boys might want to get in a late afternoon hunt.

Mike Griffin, an old Ludowici boy from way back.

PS - All of my stories are true, or mostly true or maybe just made up :)

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If by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs and blaming it on you;

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, but make allowance for their doubting, too;

If you can wait and not be tired waiting, or being lied about, don't deal in lies, or being hated, don't give way to hating, and yet don't look to good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream, and not make dreams your master; if you can think, and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with triumph and disaster and treat those two imposters just the same; if you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, or watch the things you gave your life to broken, and stoop and build 'em up with worn out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings and risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, and lose, and start again and never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew to serve your turn long after they are gone, and so hold on when there is nothing in you except the Will which says to them:  "Hold On";

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, or walk with Kings, nor lose the common touch;

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you; If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute with sixty seconds' worth of distance run, then yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, and, which is more, you'll be a man my son!

Mike Griffin

Ludowici, Georgia

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The Man in the Arena

The poorest way to face life is to face it with a sneer. There are many men who feel a kind of twisted pride in cynicism,

There are many who confine themselves to criticism of the way others do what they themselves dare not even attempt.

There is no more unhealthy being, no man less worthy of respect, than he who either really holds, or feigns to hold, an attitude of sneering disbelief toward all that is great and lofty,

Whether an achievement or in that noble effort which, even if it fails, comes to second achievement.

It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better.

The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; 

Who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; 

Who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, 

And who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.

Theodore Roosevelt

Mike Griffin

Ludowici, Georgia

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The Walk...

My favorite song when I've been sipping bourbon late into the night.

Mike Griffin

Ludowici, Georgia

To Be A Man...

 Why we can't cry.

Mike Griffin

Ludowici, Georgia

Perfect

I surprised Yvonne with this slide show I made for our 42nd Wedding Anniversary.  She loved it!