I’ve not seen Bigfoot, but that doesn’t mean I don’t occasionally look for him/her.
It’s easier not to believe Bigfoot exists, of course. But you can’t deny that it’s fun to wonder and remain somewhat hopeful that the myth or legend is more than just that. It’s about as far as I go down the rabbit hole, being fully aware that with the amount of game cameras in the forests of America, there would have to be some clear photos.
My Dad had a salesman named Jim assigned to his team years ago. Jim was a Vietnam vet who had seen some things; I gleaned that from their conversations on cash outs from the insurance business. I’d listen because my Dad told me Jim was saving money to go full-time on the hunt for Bigfoot.
What confused me was that Dad completely supported Jim’s pursuit, never condemning him for following his dream. Being only about eight or nine at the time, I was terrified that there might actually be a Bigfoot lurking around the forests near our home. So, naturally, I asked my Dad if I should be concerned.
You have to remember I had no Internet to research, and there were not many books available at the Porter Memorial Library to confirm or disprove that Jim was nuts. I know that Jim was pleasant, but I also noticed that my father handled him with extreme kindness, even when he would spout off about Bigfoot, who was most likely far west of the Jagged Edge of America where we resided.
I was in the living room, probably reading the comics, when Jim gave his final notice. He was headed west, and I heard Oregon as his destination. He’d saved enough money to make the trip and would chase his real or imagined dream.
After he left, Dad told me that Jim was headed west but would need a job sooner rather than later as he hadn’t saved that much. Dad gave him ten bucks, which I know he couldn’t afford, knowing he wouldn’t see it paid back unless Jim was lucky enough to be successful and make a name for himself.
It confused me a little, as I had been told by my father that there was no Bigfoot to worry about in our backyard and that he would give someone money to pursue a fantasy; maybe I was being played.
I finally asked—possibly on our way to church, but maybe on the way to the dump—we didn’t go that many places in the 70s. I asked to confirm, again, that I didn’t have to worry about a Sasquatch face-to-face standoff when I built my next treehouse.
My father explained that Jim probably had some long-term effects from his time in the war and added, again, that Jim had been through some very rough times in Vietnam, never telling me what that meant, but I’d watched enough CBS Evening News. By 1973, I knew Vietnam was bad for a lot of men and women.
He told me that Jim was going to pursue his goal, and he gave him the gas money just because he wanted Jim to know that he supported his decision not to sign on as a funder of the expedition, which apparently came up empty, so far as I know.
He then messed up my hair like Dad’s tend to, adding that I didn’t have to worry about Bigfoot. He said that what Jim had not shared with me was that he planned on shooting Bigfoot, and he knew Jim was a good shot from his time in the Marines. For some reason, it made me feel better.
My Dad was like that. He could wrangle people, knowing their issues but making them feel good about themselves. I could tell by how Jim spoke to my Dad that he respected him.
Over fifty years later, when I see a story about Bigfoot, Yetis, or Sasquatch, I think of Jim and my Dad—knowing that my Dad was in for ten bucks in the pursuit of Bigfoot, even though he didn’t believe for one minute that Sasquatch was real. He just had a way with people pursuing their dreams.
From the Jagged Edge of America, still safe from being snatched by a Yeti and confident that I won’t be—thanks to Dad, I remain,
TC
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