Carl Levitian
member
For most of my life I've been a huge fan of the stick for my means of non-firearm self defense. I love knives, have carried one since I was a little kid. But I never really thought of a knife as a weapon, just a daily indespensible tool. When I was getting to be a certain age when "cool" mattered, alot of the kids went off on a James Dean trip. In the late 50's switchblades were the knife of fashion, but I kept my boy scout knife. It was a better tool, and if I needed a weapon, there was always a broom around. Mr. Van taught us about brooms.
We had this scout master, Mr. Van. He was a silver haired ex-marine, and he was the demi-god of our scout troop. Our faith in him was such, that if he informed us that next weekend we were going to hike to hell, we'd be bugging our mothers to make us an asbestos scout uniform. To not follow Mr. Van was not something we'd think of doing. He was not just our scout master, he was our teacher, leader, role model, father confessor. He taught us many things, and took a bunch of 12 year olds across the doorstep of manhood.
And one day, he showed us what could be done with a broomstick.
We'd been out for a weekend campout, and on the way back stopped at the little country store by the roadside that was the first place where the dirt road came out to a paved one. Old clapboard building, peeling paint, and sagging front porch, but it had a cold Coke machine, and a shelf full of snacks inside. We all piled in for a Coke and a candy bar, and were about halfway done with our scouting of the candy bar selection when a yell of protest got our attention.
Young Jimmy Parker, one of our younger and smallest scouts had already got his stuff and had walked out on the front porch, and right into the local lowlife bully that had pulled up in a car with a few of his pals. Big guys in black t-shirts with a pack of smokes rolled up in the sleeve, duck tailed haircuts. One had taken Jimmy's unopened candy bar, and when Jimmy had protested, slapped him. They were standing around making fun of his boy scout uniform, heckling him, and pushing him around. Inside the store, we his fellow scouts were in a moment of shock, then somebody yelled for us to go help Jimmy.
Before we could respond, something shoved me aside with a force that sent me bouncing off a cooler, and I saw it was Mr. Van rushing to the front of the store. He'd been picking up a new pouch of pipe tobacco, and had been at the back of the store. As he got to the front door, he paused for a brief second, took in the scene outside, then did a strange thing. He turned to the old man behind the counter, and told him to put the broom on the bill. He then grabbed the broom that had been leaning against the wall and stood it out at an angle, then stomped down on it hard, breaking it off. He then stepped out through the screen door with a section of broom stick in his hand.
Inside, we 12 year old scouts held our breaths, not knowing what was going to happen. Somebody made the comment we should take out our scout knives and go help, but it was all over in a minute.
The biggest of the bullys looked at Mr. Van and made a comment that now they had a big boy scout to deal with. They snickered a bit, and the big guy took a step towards Mr. Van and asked him if he wanted that stick shoved up his---. Mr. Van made no reply, he just hit him.
None of us saw it come or go, it was almost to fast to see. One moment M.r Van had been standing there with the stick held in both hands about waist level, then there was this blur, and the stick wacked right into the bullys face. It was a snapping blow, and the stick was back in both of Mr.Van's hands at waist level before we were sure of what had happened. The bully let out a yell of rage and came at Mr. Van. Only Mr. Van wasn't there.
He'd taken a hopping step to the side, and jumped down off the porch and was out in the dirt parking lot. The main bully followed him and we were sure it was going to be the end of Mr. Van. Mr. Van was a lean built guy, about 6 foot or maybe a bit over, but this country store bully was a huge guy. He was taller than Mr. Van with alot more meat on him, even if alot of it was the big beer gut. His two buddys stayed on the porch, and cheered on thier friend, yelling for him to stomp the boy scout.
The bully tried to rush Mr. Van, arms out to get a hold of him and pin him down, but Mr. Van just would do this side step or back step like a boxer, and every time the broom stick would strike out with a loud wack. The bully would yell with pain, then in an increasing rage, try again to get Mr. Van. He'd come in swinging ham sized fists, but again the stick would wack, and the bully would scream in pain and killing rage. Blood was running down the bullys face from where the stick had split the flesh on his face. Again the wack on a hand, or wrist, then finally Mr. Van did this ducking side step and with both hands drove the end of the stick into the bully and gut level. There was a woosh, like someone had pushed a big bellows together, and the bully crumpled into a fetal position in the dirt of the parking lot. Blood flowed from his face, one hand, and it seemed like some of the fingers on one hand were broken. He was done. Mr. Van had beat the stuffing out of him with a little bit of broom stick. It had only taken a minute or less. I know, because I don't think we 12 year old scouts could have held our breaths much longer.
About that time the sherriffs car pulled up with the red gumball on top going, and big guy in kahki's and a badge got out. It was sorted out in a minute, and cuffs were put on the bully in the dirt. The two others had drifted to the side and run off durring all this. The sherriff asked little Jimmy if he'd do him a favor and testify that the bully had slapped him, so he, the sherriff, could charge him with assault on a minor and get rid of him for a while. Jimmy said he would. Names were taken, phone numbers and adresses. A deputy did most of that while the sherriff and Mr. Van had a talk. The sherriff had seen the globe and anchor tattoo on Mr. Van's arm and had grinned. It was summer and short sleeve shirts were the order of the day. On the sherriffs forearm was a fadded very similar tattoo. I don't know what they talked about, but it seemed like they came to a agreement. As Mr. Van was walking away, herding us back on the old school bus that belonged to the church that sponcered our scout troop, the sherriff called over to Mr. Van.
"Hey Marine!"
Mr. Van turned, and the sherriff called "Semper Fi!"
"Semper Fi!" called back Mr. Van.
It was a quiet ride home, with Mr. Van sitting up front in a thinking mood. Much later, when we got home he talked to us. Told us how sometimes the world was not a nice place, and things like this happen. Told us that we needed to know how to defend ourselves. We were told to go out to the woods before the next meeting on Friday night, and cut ourselves a stick as long as our forearm and about as thick as a broomstick, and bring it to the next meeting.
That next Friday night, we found Mr, Van had gathered a collection of sports safty gear from a handfull of different sports. Hocky face masks, catchers masks, shin guards, hocky gloves, football shoulder pads. And spare sticks. That summer a bunch of kids learned what can be done with a piece of wood. Where to hit, where to jab, how to block a knife, how to strike back right from the block. There was long stick techniques, and short stick work.
I think it may have been one of a very few truely life changing summers of my life.
We had this scout master, Mr. Van. He was a silver haired ex-marine, and he was the demi-god of our scout troop. Our faith in him was such, that if he informed us that next weekend we were going to hike to hell, we'd be bugging our mothers to make us an asbestos scout uniform. To not follow Mr. Van was not something we'd think of doing. He was not just our scout master, he was our teacher, leader, role model, father confessor. He taught us many things, and took a bunch of 12 year olds across the doorstep of manhood.
And one day, he showed us what could be done with a broomstick.
We'd been out for a weekend campout, and on the way back stopped at the little country store by the roadside that was the first place where the dirt road came out to a paved one. Old clapboard building, peeling paint, and sagging front porch, but it had a cold Coke machine, and a shelf full of snacks inside. We all piled in for a Coke and a candy bar, and were about halfway done with our scouting of the candy bar selection when a yell of protest got our attention.
Young Jimmy Parker, one of our younger and smallest scouts had already got his stuff and had walked out on the front porch, and right into the local lowlife bully that had pulled up in a car with a few of his pals. Big guys in black t-shirts with a pack of smokes rolled up in the sleeve, duck tailed haircuts. One had taken Jimmy's unopened candy bar, and when Jimmy had protested, slapped him. They were standing around making fun of his boy scout uniform, heckling him, and pushing him around. Inside the store, we his fellow scouts were in a moment of shock, then somebody yelled for us to go help Jimmy.
Before we could respond, something shoved me aside with a force that sent me bouncing off a cooler, and I saw it was Mr. Van rushing to the front of the store. He'd been picking up a new pouch of pipe tobacco, and had been at the back of the store. As he got to the front door, he paused for a brief second, took in the scene outside, then did a strange thing. He turned to the old man behind the counter, and told him to put the broom on the bill. He then grabbed the broom that had been leaning against the wall and stood it out at an angle, then stomped down on it hard, breaking it off. He then stepped out through the screen door with a section of broom stick in his hand.
Inside, we 12 year old scouts held our breaths, not knowing what was going to happen. Somebody made the comment we should take out our scout knives and go help, but it was all over in a minute.
The biggest of the bullys looked at Mr. Van and made a comment that now they had a big boy scout to deal with. They snickered a bit, and the big guy took a step towards Mr. Van and asked him if he wanted that stick shoved up his---. Mr. Van made no reply, he just hit him.
None of us saw it come or go, it was almost to fast to see. One moment M.r Van had been standing there with the stick held in both hands about waist level, then there was this blur, and the stick wacked right into the bullys face. It was a snapping blow, and the stick was back in both of Mr.Van's hands at waist level before we were sure of what had happened. The bully let out a yell of rage and came at Mr. Van. Only Mr. Van wasn't there.
He'd taken a hopping step to the side, and jumped down off the porch and was out in the dirt parking lot. The main bully followed him and we were sure it was going to be the end of Mr. Van. Mr. Van was a lean built guy, about 6 foot or maybe a bit over, but this country store bully was a huge guy. He was taller than Mr. Van with alot more meat on him, even if alot of it was the big beer gut. His two buddys stayed on the porch, and cheered on thier friend, yelling for him to stomp the boy scout.
The bully tried to rush Mr. Van, arms out to get a hold of him and pin him down, but Mr. Van just would do this side step or back step like a boxer, and every time the broom stick would strike out with a loud wack. The bully would yell with pain, then in an increasing rage, try again to get Mr. Van. He'd come in swinging ham sized fists, but again the stick would wack, and the bully would scream in pain and killing rage. Blood was running down the bullys face from where the stick had split the flesh on his face. Again the wack on a hand, or wrist, then finally Mr. Van did this ducking side step and with both hands drove the end of the stick into the bully and gut level. There was a woosh, like someone had pushed a big bellows together, and the bully crumpled into a fetal position in the dirt of the parking lot. Blood flowed from his face, one hand, and it seemed like some of the fingers on one hand were broken. He was done. Mr. Van had beat the stuffing out of him with a little bit of broom stick. It had only taken a minute or less. I know, because I don't think we 12 year old scouts could have held our breaths much longer.
About that time the sherriffs car pulled up with the red gumball on top going, and big guy in kahki's and a badge got out. It was sorted out in a minute, and cuffs were put on the bully in the dirt. The two others had drifted to the side and run off durring all this. The sherriff asked little Jimmy if he'd do him a favor and testify that the bully had slapped him, so he, the sherriff, could charge him with assault on a minor and get rid of him for a while. Jimmy said he would. Names were taken, phone numbers and adresses. A deputy did most of that while the sherriff and Mr. Van had a talk. The sherriff had seen the globe and anchor tattoo on Mr. Van's arm and had grinned. It was summer and short sleeve shirts were the order of the day. On the sherriffs forearm was a fadded very similar tattoo. I don't know what they talked about, but it seemed like they came to a agreement. As Mr. Van was walking away, herding us back on the old school bus that belonged to the church that sponcered our scout troop, the sherriff called over to Mr. Van.
"Hey Marine!"
Mr. Van turned, and the sherriff called "Semper Fi!"
"Semper Fi!" called back Mr. Van.
It was a quiet ride home, with Mr. Van sitting up front in a thinking mood. Much later, when we got home he talked to us. Told us how sometimes the world was not a nice place, and things like this happen. Told us that we needed to know how to defend ourselves. We were told to go out to the woods before the next meeting on Friday night, and cut ourselves a stick as long as our forearm and about as thick as a broomstick, and bring it to the next meeting.
That next Friday night, we found Mr, Van had gathered a collection of sports safty gear from a handfull of different sports. Hocky face masks, catchers masks, shin guards, hocky gloves, football shoulder pads. And spare sticks. That summer a bunch of kids learned what can be done with a piece of wood. Where to hit, where to jab, how to block a knife, how to strike back right from the block. There was long stick techniques, and short stick work.
I think it may have been one of a very few truely life changing summers of my life.
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