Lost Classics

Two of my favorite places in the entire world are not too far apart from one another. Nestled in the Northern Woods of Minnesota, quiet, secluded, and serene are two cabins owned by my Grandfathers. As a boy, I relished any opportunity I had to escape to either cabin, where I was free to run through the woods (as long as I stayed on the trails), shoot target practice, hunt, relax, and read. I always brought a book or two when I traveled to the cabins, and some of the highest volume of reading I ever accomplished was done there.

In one of those cabins, there is an old bookshelf that contains several classics by authors like Ernest Hemingway and Jack London. When I was younger, I would stay up late (maybe even 10 pm!) and try to conquer Jack London’s tales from Alaska. Hemingway had too much symbolism for me at that point, so after one try, I put the book back on the shelf for when I was older. After I finished London, I was out of authors that I recognized on the shelf, so I picked one up on a whim. The Lost Classics by Robert Ruark. It has mustachioed man wearing one of those crazy British safari helmets. I may as well try.

Robert Ruark is one of those names in literature that I feel does not get enough attention. Most famous for his stories about big game hunting and African Safaris, he was out shined by his contemporary, Hemingway. Ruark stuck mostly to magazine serials, which were later compiled into a series of short stories. One of his collections, collective referred to as the “Old man and the Boy” series, detailed the experiences of, what I presumed to be, a boy and his grandfather on their hunting adventures in early 20th century America. This collection spoke to me in powerful ways as I sat in an old reclining chair, drinking Hawaiian punch out of a whiskey tumbler (pretending it was some sort of “adult” drink, or course), and reading the night away.

I loved Ruark’s stories. I was crestfallen to learn that he had passed away (in 1965, so I was a little late), as I wished I could pick up fresh, new works from him when they came out in magazines, or even novels. I also felt a little indignant that Ruark had been so overshadowed by Hemingway, who was impossible to understand for a 13-year-old kid. Ruark was different. Ruark wrote of a simpler time when your issues were preventing the blued steel of your rifle from rusting and waiting out the winter so you could hunt again. Ruark spoke to me.

It was easy to envision myself as the Boy, walking with either of my grandfathers through duck sloughs and deer woods. The Old Man would tell the Boy stories about what it was like in the “old days,” much as my grandfathers both did. I also imagined that the Old Man would often crack an exceedingly corny joke, as that helped complete the vision. Frequent hunting trips with my dad and my grandfathers sometimes felt like a chapter from Ruark. At the time, I took it mostly for granted. Surely, everybody must be so lucky.

A decade later, I find myself sitting in a small apartment, far away from those two cabins. Where my problems are more than just gun maintenance and winter, but thankfully still fewer than most people have. I have indeed conquered a Hemingway story or two by now. I have a big boy Job, with big boy responsibilities, I’ve lost one of the two grandfathers, and I find myself realizing how good I had it back then.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my life now. It’s great. With grown up responsibilities comes grown up money to have fun with (or, you know, save). I get to do things like build my own guns, shoot in competitions, and make my own bed time. But I will never take for granted the things I was able to do as a kid. It’s funny how a book I picked up ten years ago, which was written in the 1930’s, 40s, and 50s and compiled in the 1990’s, could resonate so clearly as to come back to me so easily on a whim.

So here’s to you Robert Ruark. Thank you for your contributions to the literary world, and to my own life.

Give your family a hug the next time you see them,

Spencer