[nfbmi-talk] for the first day of hunting season

[Marcus Simmons]

Great story!

----- Original Message ----- 
From: "joe harcz Comcast" <joeharcz at comcast.net>
To: <nfbmi-talk at nfbnet.org>
Sent: Tuesday, November 15, 2011 9:56 AM
Subject: [nfbmi-talk] for the first day of hunting season


This is a worthy blast from the past!\

Joe
Blind Hunter Enjoys Success in the Field



Braille Monitor 
February 2007



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Blind Hunter Enjoys Success in the Field



by Larry Porter



>From the Editor: The following story first appeared in the November 19, 
2006, edition of the Omaha, Nebraska, World-Herald. Richard Crawford is a 
longtime

Federationist and second vice president of the National Federation of the 
Blind of Iowa. The article below is a hunting story, but it is also a fine 
example

of how to demonstrate our philosophy about blindness in all that we do. 
Richard did his part in this interview, but the reporter also did a fine job 
of

writing our positive message into his story. Here it is:



Richard Crawford pictured here with his deerAmong Richard Crawford's prized 
possessions is a .45-caliber pistol that his father-in-law carried during 
World

War II. Crawford, fifty-six, a financial planner in Sioux City, Iowa, has 
completely refurbished that beloved pistol. The handle has even been fitted 
with

ivory grips. The pistol is not for show. It isn't on display in some fancy 
wall mount or glass-enclosed cabinet. No, even though he is blind, Crawford

uses the pistol for target practice.



For years Crawford has taken his pistol to the farm of a friend who is a 
doctor. The target this day was a battery-operated Christmas bell, which 
Crawford

declared expendable because of its annoying tone. "It drove my ears nuts 
because it was a little flat," Crawford recalled. "I put six shots pretty 
darn

close to that bell. My doctor friend had a brand-new .357 magnum. He handed 
it to me and told me to try it. I pulled the trigger and hit that bell. A 
dead

shot."



The amazed friend asked Crawford how he had done it. "This doctor had a 
blind son, who was young at the time," Crawford said. "I said, `Doc, it 
doesn't

happen if you stay in the house.' I was trying to teach him a lesson. It 
wouldn't happen for his kid if he stayed in the house."



A retina disease claimed Crawford's sight when he was ten. "As a child," he 
said, "my folks were too dumb to know that their blind kid wasn't supposed 
to

run chain saws, change oil in trucks, change spark plugs, rotate tires, and 
work around the house. My dad taught me to do things like electrical wiring

and plumbing. He didn't know he wasn't supposed to teach a blind kid those 
things. He didn't let these so-called sighted professionals put me in a box.



"I tell the joke that my brother always wanted to use me for second base, 
but at least I was in the game. It drives home the point."



It was the opening morning of Nebraska's rifle deer season, and the three 
men tried to be quiet as they climbed the ladder to the tree house that 
serves

as a deer stand. It was well before dawn, and at that point two of the men 
were disabled because of the darkness. But not Crawford. Being blind, he was

in his environment. "Listen to the turkeys," Crawford whispered to Ernie 
Glup of Tekamah, Nebraska, a semi-retired dirt contractor on whose farm 
Crawford

was hunting, and Dr. Everett "Buzz" Madsen, an Omaha eye specialist.



Crawford's companions strained to hear the turkeys. Not until five minutes 
had passed--after the turkey chatter had grown increasingly louder--could 
they

hear the birds. By then Crawford knew how many birds were in the trees and 
their locations.



Madsen is president of the Nebraska chapter of the Safari Club. He and Glup 
have hunted together for more than twenty-five years. They were here this 
morning

because Madsen had asked Glup to donate a deer hunt for a disabled person to 
be auctioned during the Safari Club's annual banquet. Madsen bought the hunt

himself with the intention of finding a handicapped person to take to Glup's 
farm. He told Dr. Howard McCutchan, a Harlan, Iowa, optometrist, about the

hunt.



"If you're going to take a handicapped guy," McCutchan said, "why not take a 
blind guy. I've got a friend who is just crazy enough to try it."



Crawford grew up in Grinnell, Iowa, where his father owned a tree service 
business. At age ten he went to the Iowa School for the Blind in Vinton, but 
he

was booted out after his ninth-grade year. "I was just so darn ornery," 
Crawford said, laughing. "The superintendent had a policy that he didn't 
punish

a kid the first time he'd do something wrong. But he used to say, `Crawford, 
would you quit figuring out new things to do?' I was finally asked not to

return."



Crawford implored the Grinnell public school officials that he be allowed to 
attend high school there. "I begged them to let me try public school," he 
said.

"That was back before handicapped kids were being integrated into schools. 
The superintendent looked at my grades. Since I had mostly Ds and Fs, he 
wasn't

very impressed. He looked at my brother's grades. That didn't impress him 
either. But he finally agreed to let me try it."



Crawford made the honor roll that first nine weeks. He then settled into 
becoming a strong C student, heavily involved in school politics, drama, 
sports,

and other activities. He found that wrestling was the sport for him. He 
averaged about nineteen wins--a dozen by pins--each of his three seasons. He 
qualified

for the state tournament as a senior. "Do you know when I won most of my 
matches?" Crawford asked. "In the final thirty seconds. I couldn't see the 
clock,

and I didn't quit early. I'd pin 'em when they flat ran out of gas or when 
they looked up at the clock and said, `Whew! I've about got it.' Then I'd 
flip

'em and stick 'em. To make up for not being able to see, I spent time 
getting in better physical condition. You could be bigger and tougher, but 
if you

ran out of gas and I still had some energy left, I could beat you."



After McCutchan called with the news that a deer hunt might be in the 
offing, Crawford began to figure out how to make it happen. Answers to 
questions finally

led him to Ted Hart of Mount Pleasant, Iowa, whose brother built an offset 
scope for a 30.06 rifle. That rifle, along with a companion who could see 
through

the scope and tell Hart when to shoot, allowed him to realize a dream.



After getting the approval of Madsen to be the recipient of the hunt, 
Crawford borrowed the rifle and went to Glup's farm to practice. Glup stood 
to the

right of Crawford, almost head-to-head, as they prepared to fire. Glup 
peered through the scope and placed the crosshairs on a forty-five-degree 
angle

exactly 3/4 inches up and to the right of where he wanted the bullet to hit. 
Although Crawford held the rifle against his shoulder, Glup placed his right

hand beneath the forearm to guide and steady the aim.



"We got to where we could hit a target at one hundred yards and group the 
shots pretty close together," Glup said. The second time Richard came, we 
actually

got up in the tree house and practiced from there. That's when I really 
became very comfortable about it. I knew he could kill a buck."



Crawford's family was poor, and supper often was rabbits, squirrels, and 
pheasants provided by his hunter father. But those days in the field with 
his father

also filled Crawford in other ways. He fell in love with the outdoors. This 
blind youngster would never stay in the house. Crawford even hunted 
pheasants

after blindness blackened his world. "They make a ton of noise when they 
take off," he said. "It scares the pewaddle out of you if you're not ready. 
But

by sound--and if you get lucky--you can shoot a bird."



Crawford hunted with his brother and with friends. One day a friend took him 
out and he shot a bird. Unfortunately it was a hen. "The guy said, `What are

you going to do if the game warden stops us?' I told him it wasn't my 
problem. `What do you mean, it's not your problem?' I said, `Do you really 
think

a game warden is going to believe a blind guy shot that hen? It's your 
problem.'"



Crawford specializes in solving real problems. For instance, he loves to 
roar down snow-covered Colorado mountain slopes on skis. "I hire a guide to 
ski

behind me," Crawford said. "We wear headsets-- surveyor walkie-talkies that 
are voice-activated. He talks me down the mountain. He tells me the slope is

cutting off to my right, that trees are on the right so stay to the left, 
that people are coming from the left. I can see the mountain in my mind's 
eye.



"It's much better now. Before, he could just holler three commands--left, 
right, and stop. Back then I just hoped he never said, 'Whoops!’”



The early-morning light began to nibble at the darkness, and dark blobs 
slowly became trees and bushes. Glup and Madsen watched for deer to appear 
at the

edge of the woods that bordered the meadow. Suddenly Crawford pointed toward 
a patch of timber about fifty yards from the tree house. "I couldn't tell

what Richard was pointing at," Glup said. "I got to thinking--can this guy 
see a little bit? Finally, four does stepped out of the timber right where 
he

had pointed. I asked him why he had pointed. He said, `I heard them coming 
through the trees.'"



The three saw dozens of deer that day, but all the bucks were small. At 4:45 
p.m. a bigger buck stepped into the meadow. Madsen's range finder indicated

the deer was 180 yards away. Glup bent into the scope. Crawford nestled the 
butt of the rifle into his shoulder and reached for the trigger. The shot 
rang

out, and the two who could see began to verbally paint the scene for 
Crawford. He had to sift through the shouts and babble, but he understood 
that the

buck jumped when the bullet hit, took a few steps, then fell to the ground.

"When I heard, `It's down,'" Crawford said, "it was such a rush. Money can't 
buy that feeling. It was a natural, God-given feeling that was just 
wonderful."



Sara Crawford, who can see, was asked how she met her husband. “On a blind 
date," she said, laughing. "I know that sounds terrible, but it's true."



A computer screen sits on Crawford's desk in his Smith Barney office. He 
taps a command, and some financial figures pop up that his clients can read. 
But

his screen is a green strip below the keyboard that provides a Braille 
printout. The blind boy who once was so proud to earn Cs now manages money 
for clients

who live in twenty-seven states and five countries.



Crawford has been told that within five years the transplant of miniature 
cameras in his eyes could give him sight. "If it happens," he said, "it will 
be

wonderful. But the good news is that it doesn't matter. What else can I have 
in my life? I've got all the money I want. I have good health, a great 
family,

good kids. I couldn't script a better life, even if I could see.



"The Apostle Paul teaches us to be content in all things. I think the lesson 
is simply that I can't control the deck of cards in life, but I sure can 
control

how I play the hand."



After the buck dropped, the three men in the tree house whooped, hugged, and 
pounded on each other in jubilation. "We truly went a little wild," Glup 
said.

"As we walked down to where the buck was, Richard said, `Fellas, we need 
more people like you to help people like us.' That's when it really got 
emotional."

The emotion is still thick.



"This is more than a blind guy shooting a deer," Crawford said as tears 
welled in his sightless eyes and his voice began to quiver. "It was a 
bonding. Together

we made it happen. The best part was when we were loading the deer into the 
truck. We knew this friendship was bonded. It will last a lifetime."



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