A Farm On The Platte River - V
Quark Date - February 27, 2013
My recollections of hunting on the Platte River wouldn't be complete without a more thorough description of old John. I mentioned earlier that it was hard to reflect on the man himself when he was
describing earlier days in the history of the Platte River and the people who lived there.
John was a bachelor, and when I first met him he was living with his dog Brownie in an old farmhouse on the floodplain of the Platte a few miles from the River itself. He was an Irishman through
and through and his speech was sprinkled with aphorisms that had a decided Irish slant. In fact, you might say that most of his speech was made up of continuous aphorisms each punctuated by a cock of
the head, a twinkle of the eye, and a muted chuckle. He had strong opinions on almost everything and was not shy in expressing them to us as we talked during those long Fall evenings. Because of his
strong opinions and his Catholic religion he was considered by some along the River as a cantankerous old "mackerel snapper". The characterizations were true but one would have to add that
he was a wily, cantankerous, old "mackerel snapper" since he was often able to outsmart his bigoted critics. As cantankerous as he was though, he regularly admonished us not to argue religion and
politics with would be friends or family saying that these were forbidden subjects of discourse if peace was to be maintained. It was a prescient observation in view of the troubled history of mankind
regarding those subjects.
Old John (I only knew him as an old man) was small in stature and wore a face wrinkled and weathered by time and the elements. Like most Midwestern farmers he was usually bedecked in striped bib overalls,
an undershirt of some sort, and an old Fedora hat that had been flattened and mangled through time so that it resembled a pork-pie similar to that worn by the actor Buster Keaton. Like many Westerners, he was
seldom seen without his hat, whether inside or out, although the attitude or perch was variable depending on what he was doing. A description of him would not be complete without mentioning
the ever present cigarette. The smoke (as they once were called) looked natural on him and was just part of his visage, like his hat
What amazed me most about the man was the breath of his knowledge . He had not graduated from high school. In fact, his education probably hadn't exceeded the sixth grade. But John educated himself
by observing his River and the soul of the land where he grew up; by learning how to write, to paint with oils, and to draw sketches with a pencil. In a sense, he was a Renaissance man of nature that sprang
up from the seeds and soil of a prairie floodplain.
A cynic might dismiss my admiration for John's skills as simply a byproduct of youthful naïveté. But his reputation far exceeded the boundaries of my young mind. One of his oil paintings of whooping cranes
was printed in the National Geographic magazine. Other paintings hung on the walls of family members and some prominent people that had hunted with him. They were also on display in local business establishments.
His talents weren't just limited to painting. He wrote a book about the natural history of Canadian geese (subsidy published) with the engaging title of "Mr. and Mrs. White Collar". His reputation as a
naturalist even reached Washington D.C. and the federal Fish and Wildlife Service. A member of that agency came to visit with him about the habits of the endangered whooping crane. John's observations were
cited prominently in the resulting publication and the author described, with great feeling, his admiration for old John and his knowledge of the River, birds in general, and of the whooping crane in particular.
As a farmer, John was familiar with machines and mechanics and because he was a lifetime hunter he was also intimately familiar with guns, especially shotguns. In one instance he shared an observation with a
major gun manufacturer that one of their new models would jam in very cold weather. He suggested a stronger spring in the ejection mechanism. The gun manufacturer responded and said that they had tested his
suggestion and that they were adopting it in their new models.
John had many eccentricities that were sometimes startling but nearly always endearing. On one occasion, while carrying on a conversation with a family member in the kitchen of the old farmhouse, he spied a mouse
on the countertop. He said, "I've been trying to catch that mouse for long time." whereupon he reached down, picked up a .22 caliber pistol, and shot the mouse. I didn't witness the event but I did see the bullet hole
in the wall that took the life of the mouse. On another occasion, he was disturbed by a politician that he was listening to on television. Finally, when sufficiently exasperated by what the politician was saying, he got up
and went outside and shut the power off to the whole farm while muttering, "that'll teach him".
It is with great sadness that I recall his prediction that the things we were witnessing while hunting the River and floodplain would soon be gone and would become only a footnote to the history of the Platte River. He had
watched the River as it changed over time. He had seen the enormous flocks of homing pigeons that had once blackened the skies but were no more; he had hunted the huge flocks of ducks and geese for food
and to sell to the restaurants in Chicago. He had picnicked on the river when it was a treeless and watched it evolve as it was manipulated for irrigation and power. He knew that the changes that were coming
would bring to an end the chapter of the River that we had so wonderfully enjoyed. Of course, John himself represented the final page of his era on the River and I was fortunate to have known him.
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