Doug Wright
Testimonial of First ATN Scope
I have been around guns
and shooting all my life--literally. My father worked for the US FAA and sought
out adventurous assignments. My next oldest brother (all three of us survived
the
Ernie referenced our unlikely childhood characterized in his following words,
"Yeah Doug, it is pretty amazing when you look back on it. At ages less
than teens, we were like two old pioneers roaming the tundra and
We were shooting and hunting and reloading by the first grade--attending B.I.A.
schools on some occasions. I can't remember let alone count how many firearms
we shared or owned individually over the years. Heck, I couldn't tell you how
many I have locked away in various places today. It's a disease of sorts. I
have owned many a high-powered rifle. Of course iron sight
are good when you are younger--but I have personally owned my share of
top-dollar scopes. I won'6t mention brands--but all of them at one time or
another.
I know more than I care to admit about long range shooting--from hunting, reading,
military experience, and competition over a lifetime.
I am a traditionalist, until something better comes a long. I'm not one to
cling to old ways, when the only obstacle is learning something new. so when I
first started reading about the ATN scopes--I
was a skeptic.
I was familiar with the Bullet-Drop
Compensation concept of the Leatherwood scopes used in '
It was all the mojo I needed. But I didn't consider the Leatherwoods a bad
thing. It was a good concept.
When my hands got too unsteady to consistently win with a Kimber 45 Custom Shop
in the pistol leagues--I decided to revive my old "bench rest" skills
and see what I could do.
It was even hard to find good MiLDOT Scopes with a stable mounting system and
enough MOA to go 1000 yards downrange, with a Remington 700 VLS with a 26 inch
Bull..
Laser Range-finders were the norm. I have one. I have tested ranging with three
methods:: the laser range-finder, a protractor two eyes, and two paper clips,
and MILDOTS. For short ranges, the laser tales it hands down--but at those ranges--my
experience is just as accurate.
Beyond 250 yards many laser devices get iffy. It's caused by the "
Believe it or not they also spook game (so can a reflection from a scope). In
combat or war-games, my biggest worry would be laser detectors spotting me. Old
fears of detection whether by man or beast die hard--especially when they are
just a couple of generation removed from being life-saving genetic
imprints.
On the other hand--the other two methods depend on a sure knowledge of the
relative size of some object in your field of view. A sniper would have already
scouted and measure anything he could use as reference objects. In a pinch, a
man and the average height of his race and sex (in the absence of sex--a man
tends to stand more erect). Or better-- averaging the heights of all men in a
group would be another alternative.
Of the three methods--my protractor and two paperclips and two eyes was the
most accurate out to as far as I could clearly see. I verified this with the
distance feature on Google Earth--so it wasn't just some wild guess.
However, I am not a sniper these days--thank God. No disrespect--just too old
and sick.
I mulled over the price to feature ration and decided to give an ATN 10-x18x65
a try. Decrepit ole men don't get too excited about anything, but I did find
myself checking the UPS On-line tracking. The box came UPS right on time.
I was impressed by the packaging, by the pictures, diagrams, and useful
information on the slick box. I liked the cut-to-measure foam-lined inner
box--with places for the substantial hardware and tools...
I have a gun-shop with all the fancy holders, etc. But I like to sit in my easy
chair and let the soft-leather arm rests cradle my rifle while I mount a
scope.
True to form, I lost one mount screw. But it was standard enough that one fit,
from the pile of previously lost-then-found screws. So do foul there.
The construction of the tube is rugged and beefy. ATN makes a range
of lighter scopes, but I of course wanted the industrial grade
Momma scope. . I was, after all, bench resting--not sniping. there's a world of
dif..
Size and heft doesn't matter--in this scenario--at all. I shoot 1000 yards
routinely--and One-mile--when I can find a place. This hardware was sturdy to
put it mildly.
It came standard with a dual set of rings--which is great, as you can spend a
fortune of rings alone--especially of this quality.
The set I selected ere the ones with the unique inner eccentric polymer rings,
which provide both a nice protective cushion--and a 20 MOA adjustment
possibility WITHIN THE FRIGGiN RINGS! That's great for us end-of
the-earth challenge shooters, who will not be content until we emasculate a
gnat at 1500 paces with a hand-loaded .308 custom mojo round. (involves spit
and slime from leeches, red-ant or spider fur, and other things readily
available from a jungle crawl.)
The ATN bright image is just awesome. How could it not be with all that
light-gathering glass? The all-glass optics not dulled from the non-glare
protective coating ATN uses. The reticle has eleven levels of electronic
illumination provided by a nickel-size lithium battery--which is readily
available at Wal-Greens battery counter and doesn't seem to give out quickly if left
in the OFF position when not in use.
Having worked for Canon
Captain Leatherwood had the basic concept back in '
Any semi-ballistics-savvy shooter can surmise that you can "trick"
these six cams into working very well for many multiples thereof--as they are
based primarily on bullet weight and muzzle velocity. A little experimentation
has born this out to me personally beyond all expectations.
Please note here that the ATN proprietary ranging system works very
similarly to the MILDOT ranging system. As steeped as I am in the MILDOT
system--the ATN method seems much more intuitive to learn and use on the fly.
In order to be a good distance shooter--you must shoot, make notes, mental or
otherwise, and corrections based on the immediate feedback of results obtained.
I am not saying that Joe Blow can go out on a Saturday and Kill his elk across
a 700 yard gorge without some playing around at a range of that distance--nor
do I think it would even be responsible to try it on live game. Paper is
different.
There is a decided satisfaction--even if justly warped--in shooting at a target
and having time to shift to your spotting scope and see it hit a
bull-eye---even if it IS a BIG bulls-eye.
I even recommend it--to those so inclined. Both the challenge--and the ATN
scopes. Each one I have reviewed has lived up to the marketing hype--which is a
rare thing.
Okay--so I sell these puppies. The way that happened was because I was so
impressed by the product that I came out of disabled-retired- retirement
because I figured that I could make another fortune with a little effort over
the Internet--just one last time--before I expire prematurely--and have some
fun doing it.
Fortunes are not bad things. I have a simple formula for the few that I have
made. This is how I will do it with ATN and similar products.
(1) Align yourself with superior, exciting, even astonishingly great products. (2)
Provide impeccable Customer Service. Yes, inevitably mistake will be made--at
first, way too often--but you "make them right"--plain and simple.
(3) You reach the maximum potential buyers and tell about your products--and
you do it with the least amount of overhead (enter the
Internet). (4) And
finally, you deal in such volumes that you can cover you very low overhead
easily by making just a few dollars each of many sales.
(5) In other words, you offer the best value and service at the lowest possible
price .Everybody is happy.
Click Flag for a Secret Wormhole to
Adventure
Contributions
welcome for consideration
Biographical Sketch of James
Louis Wright prepared by his son Doug, to be delivered at his funeral
James, Jay, Brother Wright,
Jim, Grandpa, Dad - he was a man of many layers - a son of the depression-years
who carried with him an inherent quietness which engendered a tendency to
whisper while in his presence.
As a child, the layers visible
to me were perhaps different than what others saw. Most knew Dad as a kind and
gentle man. I can tell you that he was. In his later years you may have known
him as a bus driver or janitor. But would you be surprised to know of Jay, the
sportsman and adventurer: or the golfer who held his own with golfing greats of
the time: of James, the humble intellectual: the carpenter and mechanic, the gardener,
the electrical engineer.
James Louis Wright was born
August 23, 1916 at
The economic realities of the
depression had an indelible impact on Dad and luxury professions such as those
associated with golf. Dad encouraged his family to pick cotton to make ends
meet. His back never recovered from the degenerating toil of those years. And I
don't think Dad ever overcame the terrible sense of deprivation of that time;
it left him humbled and serious. But he responded to all challenges with
courage and practicality.
James contracted Tuberculosis
as a child, and was going to be sent to a sanitarium near
He was a natural athlete who
could throw a curve, dive off cliffs and swim rivers, turn flips and walk on
his hands, and wrestle or box with the best of them. He was not a big man, but
he could drive a golfball farther than the most burly
football player. I once went with him to a driving range. Within minutes,
everyone just stopped and watched as he drove ball after ball straight and true
- over the fence at the back of the range.
He moved like a cat and was
fast enough to catch a snake and kill it with his bare hands (that sounds like
the exaggerated story of a child in awe, but it was recently told by his older
sister who saw him do it.) He thought nothing of long jaunts through the woods,
hunting and fishing. He was a man's man - an adventurer, ever ready to
undertake new quests - sometimes to the chagrin of his beloved dark-haired
bride. But Mom also loved that quality that made Jay, Jay.
He was an expert marksman in
the army. He hunted moose and bear and ducks and anything else which could be
taken for food - he never killed merely for sport. He loved the wilds, for
which he had an insatiable appetite. He stayed close to his American heritage.
In the style of Hemmingway, he sought rugged new adventures that took our
family to such places as
When word came that he'd been
found and rescued, I was sure some cruel joke was being played on us as the
rescued man emerged grizzled and black from soot of the fuel oil he'd burned to
stay warm. When he grabbed Mom and squeezed her, I was really worried; but when
he spoke, I knew it was him. He had a voice, which early in life became as
rough as his beard was that day. His voice, so rough sounding to others, tolled
comfort and security to us.
When Dad spoke people listened.
Due to his voice impairment, speech was sometimes difficult. When we kids heard
him begin to clear his throat, we stopped talking and gave ear to him solely,
hanging on every word he said. He seldom spoke without having something
worthwhile to say. I can remember traveling to Little
rock and back on the old highway, never exchanging a word between us, without
feeling uncomfortable. He communicated his love in other ways.
Jay was decidedly handsome,
with coal black hair and a masculine look in his eyes, but he was forever true
to his sweetheart. He wooed and courted Lo for years before he summoned the
courage to ask her for a kiss (Mom says she giggled just as their lips touched,
and that set him back for another six months). Fortunately for us kids, they
mastered that later, married, and remained best friends for 52 years.
Children loved Dad, especially
babies, who seemed immediately captivated by his rough whisper and gentle hand.
We used to take turns calling him at work and telling him that Momma said to
stop and get some candy on the way home. Orange slices and Hershey's chocolates
were usually his selection. Did he really think Mom said that?
He spoiled my sister with lots
of frilly clothes, albums and stereos, or anything else she wanted. There was
no gender confusion with Dad; he was chivalrous and caring. And Mom was always
the object of his adulations. Dad was ever- conscious of his masculinity. Linda
bought him some Bermuda shorts once. At the backyard barbecue among Mom and us
kids he wore them, probably to humor Linda. The doorbell rang, and he
disappeared to don khaki fatigues which apparently fit his Self-image better.
Dad raised bird dogs and
beagles. He liked animals, but didn't feel it was manly to show them much affection.
I caught him petting and talking sweetly to the cat one time and it embarrassed
him terribly. Although he hunted animals as a younger man, he never did in his
advanced age; he recently confessed he no longer had the desire for it.
Ernie likes to tell another cat
story. One cool, clear eve, Dad stepped out back to gaze at the myriad of stars
in the country sky. A frightened cat mistook his bare leg for a tree and raced
up it, claws unfurled, on up his arm and neck, and maybe on to eternity. The tranquil
night was shattered by howls from man and beast.
James was always quick to give
to those in need, a soft-touch by the forgotten unfortunates who sometimes
roamed the streets near his repair shop in
He always stood by me -
sometimes that was tough. How tough it must have been
for this John Wayne to watch his youngest son sprout long locks of hair during
the sixties. We discussed it. He pragmatically pointed out the handicap it
presented for me. But he didn't bother me about it. He always stood by us - no
matter what. That's part of what made him great.
There was the intellectual
layer to Dad. He was a mathematician who was as happy with a slide-rule as he
was with a fly rod. He had mastered the basics of electronics as a child. His
exceptional I.Q. made learning abstract theories of radio and electronics a
breeze. He could quite literally design a super-hetrodyne
radio on the back of a grocery sack, and then build it with available spare
parts - winding coils, and punching chassis with the meticulous precision which
was evident in everything he did.
His vocation was as a practical
electronics engineer, but his hobbies and interests were as varied as his
talents. He was a photographer, a horticulturist, a genealogist who could
relate his family tree many generations back, and a scriptorian who could quote long passages of the New
Testament verbatim. Did you know that in his later years he became an ordained
minister of the gospel of his beloved Jesus Christ? He did his own taxes, fixed
his own cars, mowed his own yard, and built his own houses single-handedly, including the one he lived in until the day he
died. Mom was right, he could do anything.
And yet James Louis Wright was
a humble and unassuming man; if he ever realized his own greatness, he never
showed it. I was a grown man before I ever heard that he'd played and beat
Arnold Palmer in golf, and that, I learned from an old friend. Dad confirmed
similar stories involving other great golf names of the time. And only
yesterday, my brother told me that Dad had received an honorary degree which I
was not aware of. That was typical.
He was active into his
seventies as illustrated by the episode when he fell and broke his ribs a few
years ago. Not such an unusual thing for a seventy one year old man, until you
know that he fell out of a tree at the top of a twenty foot ladder while using
a chain-saw to saw off a dead limb. Then he climbed back up the tree, finished
the job, carried the ladder to the shed, and drove himself to the hospital. He
was never one to leave things undone.
It was only fitting that he had
the opportunity to plan for his own passing, prearranging the details of his
funeral and exhibiting noble responsibility to the end. We feel that his
masculine oak casket is a statement of his character - strong, manly,
practical, unassuming.
If Dad sounds like a Saint, he
was to me. Oh, sure he had faults. He was impatient with me once when I was
unable to understand Ohms law, but that inspired me to try harder. He could
never save a lot of money, but that was because he found so many worthwhile things
to spend it on - and then again, he did okay; he provided well for his family.
He was a little impulsive - he would bring home an arm load of expensive
dresses for Mom; some fit, some didn't. He liked two-toned vanilla and
chocolate cookies and ice-cream, maybe to excess. He dipped snuff for forty
years - that was rough if you sat behind him in the car as I did. But he even
quit that, after I left home.
He was and is my role model. It
was sometimes difficult for me as a child when other kids were comparing
stories about how rotten their Dads were. I had to remain silent. I had no such
stories. I had no excuses for the mischief I sometimes found myself in, and
which he was always there to help me out of. I have often said that if I can
become half the man Dad was, I will be satisfied. While the tendency may be to
eulogize those who have passed on, nothing I could ever say in these few brief moments, could begin to do justice to this great man, my
Dad.
But let me just conclude by
saying that Dad had a deep and abiding testimony of Jesus Christ. One Easter he
gave a talk in church about our Savior's atoning sacrifice. His vivid
description of what happened in the
As our flight progressed northward from
It was about 3:00 AM home time and midnight in
July 25, 1994
The new gold camp in Ester preserves the character of the old camp complete with the world famous Malamute saloon, gift shops, restaurant, and Hotel housed in the original mess and bunk house. The rooms are functional and clean, though authentically old.
The weather was perfect as we left the screened windows ajar, where from our second floor sleeping room, we looked out onto the grounds of the saloon below. Reenactments of the saloon entertainment drifted to us. It didn't matter. We slept soundly enough, although true to my usual pattern of road life, I awoke several times during the night. My watch said 12:00 midnight; my body said 7:00 PM home time.
The filtered light conveyed strange sensations to my body and mind. It was still light outside. I was reminded of my first night in those latitudes so many years before. I had awakened to the sound of kids playing outside my window and opened the blinds to marvele at the game of kick-the-can going on outside in the still daylight of midnight. I marveled again this trip.
Again I awoke at 3:15 AM. It was a dusk kind of simi-dark.
And again when I awoke at 4:30 AM it was as bright as day again. I slept
comfortably enough in my shorts and no covers until 3:00 AM when I pulled a
single sheet up over me. Summers in the heart of
Our simple sleeping quarters shared a shower with the adjoining room. You lock or unlock your room or the other as needed to privately access the camode and shower.
Furnished with two single bunks, the rooms were designed as miners' quarters, not romance, but the setting is romantic enough. The buildings exteriors were covered with tin of the typical early mining camp construct and decor--very colorful and practical.
Monday evening we stayed at The Perch, a restaurant and cabin area about
fifteen miles south of the entrance to
The cabins were rustically beautiful. The showers were clean and modern. The restaurant, as the name implies, was perched high upon a slope of the mountainside, overlooking the cabin area and Carlos Creek, a beautiful clear-running mountain stream with waters so cold that you could scarcely stand to put a foot in.
During the evening, we probably would have gone out and explored the area,
tired as we were, but the mosquitoes were for the first time during our trip,
really bad, and totally inhibited our outdoor adventures. Indeed, among my most
prominent surviving childhood memories of
It was just as well. We had had several full days and tired as we were, even the mid-night sun was unable to trick our bodies into thinking it was earlier than it really was. We ate dinner at the restaurant. The owner-chef had a flair for the gourmet. Her homemade half whole wheat bread wasn't sourdough, but it was excellent. I had fresh king salmon; Martha had a fresh garden salad. Both were elegantly served and delicious.
Martha finally understood my current penchant for fresh fish--it had been an inexpensive staple of my childhood diet. On the coast at Kotzebue as a kid I had gone to the nearby shores of the inlet of the bearing sea where we lived one year and bought an entire freshly netted king salmon for a dollar and shouldered it home where it would feed us for days.
The restaurant is a large one-room chamber. The cooking takes place on one end and the serving on the other where the guests can see the kitchen activities or partake of the breathtaking view of the mountain on the three other sides, as it moves in and out of the rolling clouds.
Though we were not a party to it the evenings we were there, the dining area was furnished with a baby grand piano which showed promise for classical serenades. It all contrasted in a series of unlikely paradoxes which brought together an odd combination of culture and rusticity which I have rarely seen. What a place.
I got up about 5:30 AM. It was clear and the sun cast a golden aura over the mountains which loomed magnetically outside our A-Frame cottage. The air was nippy--probably in the 50's--and very exhilarating. I showered and enjoyed the air and the view. The mosquitoes were mostly gone.
The damp tundra aroma laced with spruce and peat excites primeval senses and instincts of impending winter--a desire to soak in and experience each fleeting moment as a perishable thing. There are about six weeks similar to what we in the lower states might normally regard as Indian summer.
Such views as that of
Wildlife abounds, and thanks to the park's efforts to manage the wildlife
and the visitors, the two are able to enjoy a positive coexistence. Bus tours
come in several configurations, reaching as far into the park as the
Martha and I agreed that this would be a romantic honeymoon destination.
Fly
Fishing in
by
Douglas
Patrick Wright
I have never enjoyed shoulder-to-shoulder fly
fishing such as one finds at Cow Shoals on the Little Red River when the browns
are spawning--ever since the advent of the movie A River Runs Through It
has popularized the sport so). For me, fly fishing is less about catching trout
than it is about enjoying the total sensory experience associated with it.
There are of course the purists, often
transplants from the North or the West, who seek to
synthesize their experiences in those locales, and superimpose previously
learned techniques upon the waters of these regions. Though I can't speak for
them, such an approach would seem destined for disappointment. This is not the
North or the West. However, many grand experiences await those who will open
their minds to the varied possibilities of fly fishing Southern style.
Few sensory experiences can rival those of
being thigh deep in crystal tranquillity along a
remote stretch of the White River in mid October--the cool breeze breaking the
heat of the sun on the back of your neck while the sun-struck surface of the
water shimmers in synchronized brilliance. Gusting updrafts gently float yellow
and orange willow leaves from somewhere above the sheer rock bluffs to alight
upon the water and stay for moments the inevitable drift of the river's flow.
That your fly line is there too, with or
without strike indicator, is incidental. That your sow bug is the
correct imitation of what trout are feeding on today is less important than
that it is there--and more, that you are there holding the rod attached to
it--gazing in wonderment at the back lit translucence of fall in the
Ozarks--while anticipating a striking trout. Only a fly fisherman will ever
feel that particular bath of sensory delight.
On one such mid-week outing, the participants
were few. An older gentleman with a gray handlebar mustache observed in passing
that it was too windy to fly fish, and that there was too much debris on the
water, as if to apologize for the spinning rod in his hand. Though I didn't
disagree aloud, I thought, who cares. That's what a number eight rod and
line match and nymphs are for. I caught plenty of trout that day.
Also prevalent are the apologists for fly
fishing for anything other than trout. When I was growing up, trout were only
beginning to be experimentally transplanted in the artificially cool tailwaters of hydroelectric dams in
The myth that brim, black bass, small mouth
bass, rock bass, and a host of other variants will bite about anything thrown
out there is absurd, although there are times when these fishes are more prone
to feed than others. At such rare times of spawning and schooling, there are
few things more exciting than catching a stringer full of these broad-bodied
fighters in rapid succession, but those occasions are as rare as with trout.
There are few things more thrilling than a
large-mouth bass standing on his tail and shaking your fly violently with his
red gills flashing. The skills of presenting a popper just under an overhang
close to the water in a believable fashion can be just as challenging as the
proper presentation of a dry fly. And the disappointment of having your line
broken by the monster smallmouth that got away is just as sublime as with the
trophy brown you failed to net.
If none of those challenges your imagination,
then try taking a six foot long alligator gar or a man-sized catfish from the
big rivers of the South via fly-rod. My Dad and brothers have done both.
There is one grand benefit to adapting your
thinking to a Southern approach to fly fishing. You can easily find places to
fish. Your own private fishing holes. With that in
mind, let me chart a weekend course, reachable from
Dear Mr. Hoffmann:
I don't pretend to be the final authority
on marketing, but I do make a living as a marketing manager for the fastest
growing copier manufacturer in the world. I hear about problems in my own
organization from candid outside sources, and appreciate it. I hope you'll
appreciate the little soap box I'm about to climb onto, which involves the
attitudes of your store in
I assume that the purpose of pizza coupons
is to build traffic, and help establish new buying habits, and get people into
your stores, who would otherwise go elsewhere. Pizza Hut, no doubt, spends
millions on the printing and publication of such coupons. Tonight, one such
coupon worked marvoulously on my family. I got home
from a week out of town and my teenagers wanted to go with me to get videos and
pizza. My wife handed me a typical coupon good for a medium pizza free
with the purchase of a large one at $12.99. My wife is a coupon fanatic, and
she has coupons from every pizza company known to man; it is a credit to your
marketing people that she selected your coupon, because we had to drive
across town to get there. We passed by Big Bubba's, two Piza
Inns, Mazzio's, and Little Caesars along the way, to
say nothing of all the other fast-food places, and thought nothing of it. Your
pizza is pretty good, but not that good. It was the simple work of that
wonderful little coupon.
We planned to place the order, and
go get the videos while it was cooking. My sixteen year old daughter went in to
place the order. After an ample wait, she returned with a frown on her face.
"They wouldn't let me use that coupon for a pepperoni - only
supreme," she said.
"But we don't want Supreme, onions and peppers give me indigestion and I've
been eating out all week. I want pepperoni, " I
said. "Go back and explain that, anyway a pepperoni costs less than a
supreme, I'm sure any idiot will understand that." I was in no mood
for a ration from a pizza clerk.
"No Dad, you go, she was rude to me
and treated me like I was stupid." My daughter is a little shy and hates
hassles, so I said " Okay, any idiot will
understand that the purpose of a coupon is to get more business, not to piss-off
customers and alienate them for ever."
I was polite when I went in. I waited
while the girl took another order; she still held the coupon, stapled to the
ticket. I explained that my daughter had just ordered, and that we didn't want
a Supreme, we wanted peperoni. She stood firm, this
obviously was not a new experience for her. In her best "the stupid
customer is the adversary" mode, she jerked the coupon around to where it
was right-reading for me, and jabbed a finger at the fine print. "You have
to get a supreme, or you've got to pay for the second pizza." She was
final, not even psuedo-sweet about it. My mouth
dropped open. She stared me down with a sideways glance.
I wanted to tell her about how hard
marketing people work, about the cost of the printing. I wanted to tell her
that the purpose of coupons was to increase business, not to lose it. I didn't.
I doubted that she would understand, or that it would matter if she did. I was
about to tell her to please cancell the order when she
threw her head into the air and declared to the customer/adversary who had the by-
damn gall to want a less expensive, more palatable, peperoni
pizza, when the coupon so clearly indicated that it was for a Supreme pizza."We use the coupons only for what they
say!"
I was getting steamed.
I asked to see the manager. The girl
stalked to the back; I could hear loud talking. The manager stormed in with his
chest stuck out and a sneer on his face - he already knew the score. He waved
his hand when I started to speak. He must have had a bad day too." You can
have peperoni, but you'll pay for it!
This coupon says Supreme!" A very bad day.
"Wrong!" I said. "Cancel
that!" I was shaking mad and thinking, "I really don't need to get
this upset, there are plenty of other places to get peperoni pizza." I turned to leave, only to turn back
and ask for the manager's(?) name and the corporate
address. He calmed down a bit and said he didn't have the corporate address,
but that I could call the district office in Cabot any day of the week. He
didn't offer his name. I finally settled for the district office address, when
he wouldn't give me the corporate address. A crowd had gathered. I insisted
that he write his name down. He did so reluctantly and I snatched the coupon out
of his hand and stormed out. As I left, I heard him say,"Go
ahead and call them, the coupon clearly says...."
We did go rent videos. And,
we ate Domino's Pizza - pepperoni. They're closer to our house anyway. And you
know, I couldn't tell the difference. What I did realize was that the
two large Domino's pizzas still cost less than the large and the
medium would have cost at your place, even if Pizza Hut had graced us by
accepting the coupon. And that was without any coupon; I had never
considered that before. Without the coupon, it would have cost nearly five
times as much. My family eats a lot of pizza. We will never eat at Pizza
Hut again - ever, ever.
But I do owe those kids one
thing. I write a column about marketing, in an industry trade journal. I didn't
go to all this trouble just to gouge you guys. I intend to use this true-life
account in my column circulated to hundreds of salesmen, as an example of how not
to do business. I also intend to send a copy to your corporate address. It
is not copyrighted yet; you may want to use it, too.
Sincerely,
A few days ago, I reminisced with a school
friend, Raymond Easterwood, who is now an attorney in
We recalled, with some dignity, the
historicity of our 1966 seventh grade class, the first in
Ricky Rector was also among those first
few blacks to attend
Doug Wright
Few sensory experiences can rival those of
being thigh deep in crystal tranquility along a remote stretch on the White
River in mid October--the cool breeze breaking the heat of the sun on the back
of your neck while the sun-struck surface of the water shimmers in synchronized
glitter as bursts float yellow and orange willow leaves from somewhere above
the sheer rock bluffs to alight upon the water and stay for moments the
inevitable drift of the river's flow.
That your fly line is there too, with or
without strike indicator, is incidental. That your sow bug or wooly
bugger is the correct imitation of what trout are feeding on today is less
important than that it is there--and more, that you are there holding the rod
attached to it--gazing in wonderment at the backlit translucence of fall in the
Ozarks--while anticipating a striking trout. Only a fly fisherman will ever feel
that particular bath of sensory delight
