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Howdy, Neighbor. People have been telling Phil he’s a good storyteller for a long time… so we are trying something new and pretty-much non-sales Just sharing occasional sweet stories, tall tales, and life lessons learned around these parts. Northwoods Notes are a new, semi-bi-irregular peek into the heart and mind of Phil Frasier… you can read or listen… whichever you prefer… and you are receiving a copy because you’re a current customer of Frasier’s Plumbing and Heating, Inc. We think you’ll like them, but you can unsubscribe any time by clicking on the link at the bottom. But we hope you give us a chance!




It wasn’t fair. The partridges were going crazy… but I had to go to school.

There was only one thing to do. I faked a sudden “illness” to secure my freedom.

I’m not proud of that. But, hey, a boy’s gotta do what a boy’s gotta do.

I pretended to be bedridden and waited patiently for the house to empty.

An image of a gun and bullets.  Across the top are the words

Once the coast was clear, I slipped into the depths of our dimly lit gun locker and laid my hands on a familiar firearm.

At this point, I should probably mention that I was strictly forbidden to touch those guns without my dad’s explicit permission.

What can I say? The allure of the partridge was simply irresistible.

An image of a gun and bullets.  Across the top are the words

The partridges were fluttering about, taunting me with their elusive charm. I squeezed off a couple of shots, missing more than I care to admit.

I raced headlong through the rugged terrain. But then, in a moment of misfortune, my eagerness betrayed me. I stumbled and bumbled, and watched as the butt plate of my cherished shotgun met its tragic end against a formidable, unyielding rock.

The deafening crack echoed through the forest, and for a series of breathless seconds, time stood stand still.

A wave of Northwoods panic swept over me.

An image of a gun and bullets.  Across the top are the words

I was suddenly hit with the realization that my dad would discover my escapade, for he maintained those guns with a meticulous eye.

In a desperate bid to conceal my folly, I improvised. I tore a piece of my blue hooded sweatshirt and crammed it into the gaping hole at the butt of the gun with the audacious hope that he wouldn’t notice the jury-rigged repair.

But I knew he’d see it eventually. He looked at those guns all the time. Eventually, guilt got the better of me and I fessed up. Dad was disappointed and said I would have to fix it someday.

Looking back, I realize now that it’s better to admit wrongdoing right away. Every time I walked by that busted gun, I was overcome with a wave of shame. I had no choice but to come clean.

So, I hope you glean a lesson from my mistake. If you mess up, make amends right away, don’t let it fester.

At some point, you’re gonna have to take the heat, anyway.

An image of a gun and bullets.  Across the top are the words

Unless you’re faking an illness to get out of going to school. That’s okay. After all, everyone needs a day off now and then.

Take care, neighbor. Take good care.

Phil Frasier

P.S. – All these years later, the butt plate is still broken, and a swatch of my hooded sweatshirt is still wedged inside. It’s become something of an inside joke between me and that old shotgun.

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