Excerpts from Rambling Through Pleasant Memories
“Tony Kinton belongs to a special breed – old-time Southern outdoorsmen with an uncanny ability to share a story and tell a tale. In a fashion reminiscent of great sporting scribes from yesteryear such as Nash Buckingham, Archibald Rutledge and Robert Ruark, he transports his readers to places of joy and wonder. Rare back in a comfortable chair, get comfortable and prepare to enjoy the ample measure of pure armchair pleasure you’ll find in these pages.”
Jim Casada, Book author and Editor-at-Large,
Sporting Classics magazine
www.jimcasadaoutdoors.com
“You are going to enjoy this book! I say this with certainly because it is written by one of America’s best story tellers. Tony Kinton is one of those few writers who can transport you from the here and the now to the heart of his stories. You are with him, you feel what he feels, see and hear what he sees and hears, and you are glad he brought you along. This is a truly gifted writer and you will enjoy the gift in this collection of stories.”
J. Wayne Fears
Book author, Editor, Outdoor Writer
www.jwaynefears.com
“I have known Tony Kinton for 45 years. He played acoustic guitar as entertainment at my father’s Primos Northgate Restaurant on North State Street in Jackson, Mississippi. Tony is talented to say the least as he can not only play guitar, he can write.
I have kept up with him all these years through his writing. He is a gifted writer, capturing Nature’s simple moments with his pen. On more than one occasion I have caught one of Tony’s columns and been so touched I have immediately written him just to say thanks for taking me back to a simpler time.
Your time sitting down with Tony will be more than worth it.”
Will Primos, Founder Primos Hunting
www.primos.com
Excerpts from Tony Kinton’s latest book, Rambling Through Pleasant Memories
Truth be known, we all probably need a little therapy now and again. Not therapy that focuses on strengthening repaired knees or stretched shoulders, though this is essential in various situations. The therapy we often need is that which weaves back into place spirits that have been tattered. This tattering can come quickly, as in times of sudden loss. But it can also creep in subtly after extended periods of excessive demands on our time and abilities. However it arrives, arrive it will.
While I didn’t fully realize it then, I know now that I discovered in childhood a powerful entity that never failed to work its therapeutic magic. This marvelous little thing was a campfire, and its efficacy remains.
From: Simple Therapy for the Tattered Spirit
September is a turning point in seasons. The Autumnal Equinox comes near the close of this month; it is that spot on the calendar marking the end of summer and the beginning of fall. That one day will see daylight and dark of even measure, but from then forward the days will progressively shorten. Dusk will soon ride on the coattails of 5:00 p.m. But we must remember that though September is the harbinger of cold and damp, it does not allow us to be held captive in winter’s grip just yet. That is cause for celebration.
And what of those sounds and sensibilities? They are too numerous to list…
From: September: Sound and Sensibility
After the Super Cub disappeared around the mountains and the drone of its engine faded, there was only silence. That is not a bad thing, for there is too little silence in this world of boisterous and disruptive noise.
But then again, it was not silence if this were measured by the absence of sound. Sound was abundant. The repetitive splat of snowflakes; that gurgling rush of the Graham River pouring over bathed stones honed smooth by the flow; the rumble of wind drifting from cathedral slopes and then morphing to a haunting moan in the alders near camp; the shrill call of an eagle; an occasional and mystifying howl of a wolf. No, silence was not there. Only the absence of those mundane and spirit-robbing rackets with which most of us are too familiar.
From: Bull Moose and the Splat of Snowflakes
In my dream, that plaintive cry of coyotes drifted across short-grass prairie, riding a cold wind that shuffled about in sparse vegetation and chilled all it touched. That same wind made protracted jabs at the smoke flaps of the tipi and fluttered the canvas before heading over a landscape of dry washes and rolling hillsides on to Mulberry Creek and points beyond. I, in this state of disturbed sleep, retreated progressively deeper into my sleeping bag, an instinctive reaction to this surreal setting.
And then a horse nickered. Close. The rustle of corn being poured into a feed bucket had prompted the vocalization, and I startled to full alert. This was no dream. This was reality….
From: A Dream in Kansas
Once Deon was gone and I was fully alone with the bull, night swallowed any semblance of day and the world came alive with uncommon sights and sounds. The sky danced and rejoiced with a celebration of the Creator. Odd, curious calls and moans reverberated about the hills and thornbush. I trembled, whether in fear of the unknown or in awe of the majesty is not certain. But I trembled. And I shuddered at the night chill that engulfed the air with a vengeance that was missing while a bright African sun held that air captive. No truck. I waited.
From: Kudu: Grey Ghost of the Thornbush
The province derives its name from that river bearing the same: Limpopo. It forms a boundary between Botswana and South Africa. Zimbabwe and Mozambique are not far to the north – at least not far in African terms. It was here, in this land of protracted and monstrously perplexing mystery, I concluded years back that experiences are the finest form of wealth.
From: Africa Revisited