79 years old. hunted until about 10-15 years ago. Instilled in me all the best the outdoor life has to offer - love, respect, safety.... I will miss him. The following is a poem written about him and our camp by one of his old huntin' buddies in November 1970 (written on a paper bag and has been enshrined in a frame at our hunting camp since then. My dad was a unique and wonderful individual. There is a story behind each line of the poem. It is a classic that will live on forever.
The Wonderful World of Wacky Wicky
Here on a hill, above elk creek,
Stands my castle, and the roof don’t leak!
The rooms are cozy, the drafts are slight,
I keep it warm with anthracite!
My trophies hang upon the wall
To inspire hunters one and all!
Hunting lore, I freely dispense
Like “safety on” when you climb a fence.
Pick your target in swamp or trees…
Hold a fine bead, and slowly squeeze.
On the upper Forty, there’s a large farm pond
A stand of scotch pines, is just beyond.
I smile, as I sip my stein of beer,
for the hillside abounds, with white-tailed deer.
The fields are full and they have class….
But I’m up to my ass in canary grass!!!
Signed “Artie, The Last of the Great White Hunters
11/18/70”
