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Cell: 607-331-3182

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---------------------------

From the Files: A column
titled I Crockett; I, Bowie ...

Where the editor waxes fanciful. It first appeared in 2019.

By Charlie Haeffner

Odessa, NY, July 26, 2026 -- I held the package in front of me, the top removed.

Whatever was inside was wrapped tightly in a soft cloth: a rich red. Fitting, I thought. I knew in my heart what was in front of me, even before I unwrapped it. And it had a rich red history. And I knew, without knowing, the effect it might have on me.

I reached out to the cloth and what lay inside.

*******

But let’s back up.

I was driving about, traveling the Schuyler County roads, looking for photos to publish on this website, when I got a bit lost -- these country roads meander far afield sometimes.

It was then that I spotted an old man -- well, wizened, in any event -- walking along the side of the road. I was struck by his attire -- buckskins, and a coonskin cap -- not normal clothing, but I thought he looked like he belonged there, and that he might be able to send me in the right direction toward home.

I pulled over a few yards in front of him, turned off the engine and got out.

“Excuse me,” I said as he walked toward me. He looked familiar, in a vague sense. But it was more than physicality; he felt familiar, as though part of my soul. He slowed, stopped, and raised his eyebrows. That was the extent of his greeting, and so I explained my plight -- that I wasn't quite sure how to get back to Odessa without wandering for an inordinate amount of time. That brought a smile to his face.

“Odessa?” he said. “Big city boy’s lost, eh?” And he cackled. Or maybe it was more of a gutteral grunt. Or in-between. But he clearly was enjoying the moment.

“Yes,” I said. “Big city. So ... can you help?”

He spit out a wad of something -- chewing tobacco, I gathered -- and thought a moment. “Reminds me of the time,” he said, “when I got turned around when I was out scouting, looking for the Creek Indians during that war with them.”

I looked at him, and realized I was talking to a man with a vivid imagination. The Creek Indians war was back in the early 1800s -- in 1813 and ’14.

“Yeah, I was out with another scout,” he said, “a fellow named Johnson. An okay scout, but kind of touchy. Never really warmed to him. Anyway, we were down in Alabama, not exactly my neck of the woods, and I somehow got turned around. Not like me, but I wasn’t focusing real well that day, ‘cause I’d gotten into it just days before with General Jackson -- you know, Old Hickory. We’d chewed on each other, and he'd questioned my loyalty; and I guess I was distracted, and me and Johnson got kind of lost and all of a sudden happened on a Creek encampment. Didn’t sneak up; just kind of happened on it, and we were spotted, and took off like jackrabbits.”

He paused, and his gaze, which was off in the distance, suddenly shifted to me. To use his word, he focused, and then smiled, and I could see he had a fine set of teeth, which surprised me, because they changed his whole look, from a man of dourness, with a touch of sadness, to one of charm.

“Anyway,” he said, “your plight reminded me of that.”

I was sorely tempted to ask what had happened when he had taken off from the Creek encampment, but then realized I would be playing right into his fantasy, and so I resisted.
“So,” I said, “can you help me, Mr. ...”

“They call me Honest Jack.”

“Okay, Mr. Honest Jack, can you help me?”

But he didn't right away. He was a talker, and as he jabbered on, I discovered that he lived in a cabin on a nearby hillside, just within the societal grid, so he had electricity and running water -- all the amenities of a modern home, including Internet access. He pulled out a cell phone from a pants pocket.

“Hot spot” he said. “Hooks me up to the nearest tower,” and he waved off in the distance, to the northwest.

He asked what I did, and I told him about The Odessa File, and he surprised me a little by saying he was a regular visitor to the website -- and had thought about writing for me, but didn’t know how to go about it; but now that he had me in front of him, had some opinions he wanted to express -- and stories to tell. Was I interested?

"Well," I responded, not quite knowing how to answer.

"Like that Creek Indian story," he said. “It was true, you know. I remember everything from back then. I know you might think I’m crazy, but I was living back then. Got around a lot. I was a scout, like I said ...”

I interrupted; couldn’t resist. “Okay,” I said, so you said the Indians spotted you. Did they give chase?”

“Oh, hell, yes,” he said. “But we got a good lead on them, they were so surprised. Most gave up, but they had a couple who were catching up to us. Johnson and I turned and took them down, knife to knife. Pretty bloody.”

He went silent, thinking back, and then went on: “Anyway, I was raised in Tennessee back then, and was a scout, and even got elected to Congress, and then got wanderlust and headed west, thinking I could help down in Texas and maybe get a good spread down there. But it didn’t work out.

“Don’t tell me,” I said, realizing where he was heading. “You died down there.”

“Yeah,” he said. “At the Alamo.”

*****

I paused, smiling. This was rich.

“Don’t tell me,” I said, repeating myself, and I knew the answer. “Your name was Davy.”

Honest Jack nodded. “That’s right. Davy Crockett.”

The Creek Indians, General Jackson, Congress, Texas. I had played right into it.

“You were Davy Crockett,” I repeated, and couldn’t help but shake my head at the lunacy.

“Yeah, I was,” he said.

There was silence as I tried to absorb how nuts this guy must be. I mean, he seemed to actually believe it; even dressed the part. Recalling what I could about Crockett, Honest Jack seemed similar in height -- about six feet -- with similarly long wavy hair and high cheekbones.

But come on ....

And then it hit me. I could use this. I struggled with the practicality of it, and the morality, but that battle took but a few seconds. I looked up at him, and saw he was considering me; probably wondering what I was thinking.

“Listen,” I said. “You want to write for me? Really?”

He narrowed his eyes; studied me. Clearly knew that I wasn’t buying what he was trying to sell as far as reincarnation went.

“Yeah,” he said, “but why?”

I took a deep breath; didn’t want to misstep here. Keep him on the hook.

“I think,” I said, “that you could tell your story. And use that to comment on today’s happenings. You know, give us your rather unique perspective -- a blend of insights from both the long-ago and today.”

I stopped, and he pursed his lips, studying me some more. Then he smiled; flashed those teeth.

“You think I’m nuts,” he said. “That’s okay; anyone I talk to about ... you know ... they don’t believe me. But that’s all right. I know it’s true.”

He paused; considered.

“You want to use me,” he said. “I’m guessing you have some observations you don’t want to own, and so you want someone else to do it. I’ve noticed that about your publication. You had that ... what was his name? ... that A. Moralis commenting on some stuff. But you’re usually pretty circumspect; even-keeled.”

It was my turn to smile. He was no dummy; was, in fact, pretty darned intuitive.

“Guilty,” I said. “But so what? You want an outlet for your opinions. And I want to educate my readers while maybe entertaining them. And you, sir, are entertaining.”

We stood there looking at one another, saying nothing for a half a minute. Then he flashed another smile, held out his hand, and we shook on it.

“You’ll be hearing from me,” he said.

Then he told me how to get back to Odessa; I was just a turn shy of getting on the right track.

And accordingly, I made it back home in short order.

And within a week, I heard from him by email. And this is what he wrote:

******

"I was an old man, by the standards of the times, when I was cut down back in 1836.
It was at the Alamo.

"A bullet, a soldier's lance, and then too many bluecoats. In all the chaos, that's what it boiled down to. Not like some speculated; that I was captured and executed. I’m sure I would have remembered that.

"No. It’s all a little fuzzy, but I remember the general gist. My demise. And then I was floating, then nothing until ...

"Well, here I am, older now than I was then. Back on this orb, traveling 64,000 miles an hour, or whatever it is, through space. Living pretty much like I did before; in the wilderness, hunting and fishing for most of my food; working odd jobs.

"I travel when I can, but stay away from Texas. Bad luck, that. And I stayed away from politics this time, too. Congress was bad enough back then, what with all the backstabbing, self-serving 'representatives.' But at least there were a few honest, well-intentioned ones back then. I like to think I was one of them.

"It’s an unusual perspective, having taken the government service route before, and for that matter the life route. I doubt that I’m unique; but I wonder if other people have memories of previous existences. I haven’t heard anyone else talk about their previous incarnations.

"I live in the hills of Schuyler County. It’s not like the soaring majesty of Tennessee, where the terrain is mountainous. But the hunting is similar, and the solitude is available whenever I reach for it.

"I have been asked by our esteemed Odessa File editor to provide my perspective on some ongoing matters of both local and national bent, and I have agreed. I suspect he thinks I am a bit off the deep end, believing as I do that I was what I was back in the early part of the 19th century. But I suspect he also thinks I will bring a fresh perspective, even if maniacally manufactured. Besides, there is an old adage that controversy sells newspapers. This might not be a newspaper, but close enough. Its kind could be all that is left of them before too many years are gone. Progress, you know.

******

"Disney portrayed me as a virile, somewhat younger man -- which was fine with me. I could only hope to be as handsome as that Fess Parker fellow.

"Then came John Wayne in his movie about me, and that was more like it. He was a little long in the tooth by then, just like I was. That movie felt right, although the matter of my death was dramatized beyond recognition. Had me lanced and still finding the wherewithal to grab a torch and stumble into a room full of gunpowder and set the whole thing off.

"Ouch.

"Then came Billy Bob Thornton in his film version, and I guess he came closest to my persona, but he didn’t really look like me. I was better looking, and heavier. I weighed a good 200 pounds.

"Disney had Fess Parker swinging Old Betsy -- a rifle given to me while I was in Congess -- at the end of the third and final segment of the trilogy about me. It was almost as though I were immortal. Disney even brought me back in two movies, as if I never had expired. They were what was called prequels, but it gave the viewers, I think, a feeling that I couldn’t be destroyed.

"Like I said, John Wayne had me lanced and blowing up, and then Billy Bob had me surviving the battle, only to be stabbed to death by a bunch of Mexican soldiers at the behest of that jackass Santa Anna.

"None of that was anywhere near the truth.

"There was, in fact, no Georgie Russel, as portrayed by Buddy Ebsen in the Disney efforts. No Thimblerig. No Indian that we picked up along the way. There was Colonel Travis, of course, who was in charge of the fort (an ill-fortified mission), and the famous pioneer Jim Bowie was there, but he was sicker than a rabid dog.

"Travis got cut down by bayonets, with a couple of gunshots thrown in for good measure -- I witnessed it -- and Bowie I assume met his end in the bed he had taken to. I imagine he might have dispatched a Mexican or two with his Bowie knife before they pinned him to the bed with their pig-stickers.

"I, on the other hand, well ... I remember catching a musket ball in my thigh, which slowed me down considerably, and then getting a lance in the back, on my left side. Oddly, that didn’t hurt, but it substantially cut my energy level. I was a little woozy by that point, flailing around on the parapet, swinging my fists instead of old Betsy, connecting with a few jaws, then limping down the wooden steps to the mission landing to fight some more. I got swarmed there by a bunch of blue coats and stabbed by a couple of bayonets.

"That’s really all I recall --- I just sort of faded out, and then lifted off, watching the fray (a horror show of blood and guts, really) from above, until entering some sort of timelessness. I can’t explain it other than that; until I re-emerged in the 1940s -- born again, as it were.

"Now, when I died there at the Alamo, I was, as I said, at about the end of the line, actuarially speaking. I was 49, and an old 49 at that, having lived in the out of doors for the most part, or in poorly insulated cabins, in an era when antibiotics had yet to be invented. The average age of a male back then was about half of what it is now, an average that was skewed by infant mortality rates, which were pretty high.

"But at 49 -- almost 50 -- I was feeling the years -- had a lot of pains from wounds, and what I gather now was arthritis.

"As to why I even ended up down there in Texas -- well, it wasn’t as romantic as it was made out to be. Oh, I had been fighting malcontents, whether Creek Indians, or Congressmen, or bullies like Santa Anna, pretty much my whole life. I was upset with politics -- had just lost a re-election effort -- and felt the walls closing in. I needed open spaces, maybe a new place to settle, away from the Washington game. But I needed conflict, too; I needed a cause, and Texas independence from Mexico was a pretty good one. Besides, I didn’t envision getting myself stuck in a trap like the Alamo. Oh, I could’ve gotten out; was even sent out by Travis with a few other fellows to try and reconnoiter with other Texians fighting for independence. But I had to go back to the fort; my reputation couldn’t stand anything less.

There is a point in that Billy Bob picture, when he’s about to get stabbed, when he shakes his head and says to himself “Davy Crockett,” as though the weight of the name and the legend left him no out. And so it was.

"Anyway, I found myself in a spot from which I couldn’t really bolt; and so I, along with 185 or so other souls, went down in the Alamo.

"When I was reborn, I didn’t know for years who I had been. I loved the Disney rendition -- idol-worshipped Fess as Davy, enjoyed the Duke as Davy, and tolerated Billy Bob as Davy. I collected all of the trading cards put out as part of the marketing effort Disney unfurled, and I read some historical tomes, eventually picking up what was supposed to be my autobiography -- but it was written by someone else, using some of my letters and journals. I hope he didn’t make much money off of that; it doesn’t seem right. Come to think of it, any profits from those films should have found their way to my pockets, too.

*****

"Anyway, I wanted to express some opinions of a little more contemporary nature. So, here goes:

"-- Today’s Congressmen are a scourge -- even more self-interested than in my day. Part of that is today’s instant communication. It’s so much easier to make a mistake that can cost them their seats.

"-- People like this Trump fellow and that Facebook guy have mastered the art of communication -- of misdirection and the shaping of public opinion. And it’s probably only going to get worse. They are symptoms; the disease is the beast in so many of us that has been unleashed with the ability now to express ourselves instantly and to a growing audience. Too many people have been empowered, and with a very negative result.

"-- Education, at least in this state, is a bureaucratic nightmare. You want to get something done? Seems the only way is to run for a School Board. A couple of my friends did, and they said the laws are so convoluted and layered that it took them two years before they felt comfortable. It seems to me the whole thing should be simplified. But good luck getting it done. Bureaucracies, once entrenched, tend to stay that way.

"-- I think this Biden fellow is a little odd; and his history is checkered. But he's not as spooky as his successor at Vice President. That Pence ... something's off with that guy.

"-- Despite my reliance then and now on hunting, the right to bear arms has gotten way out of control. Yeah, we need guns; absolutely; although there are far too many handguns. And automatic and semi-automatic weapons designed to kill other humans? Come on, now. They should be banned from anything but war.

"-- Lobbyists have always been around, but their influence is worse than ever. I mean really bad. We need to curb them. And we need to impose term limits -- then those folks in Congress won't be quite as inclined to misbehave. Plus ... we should radically alter campaign financing laws.

"-- Back in that other life, I always said 'Be sure you're right and then go ahead.' That doesn't mean being on the right, nor does it mean playing the money and influence game the 'right' way to keep your seat in Congress or any other position of power. Right is right, damn it.

"Well, there; those are a few points that have been bugging me. I could go on about local political hacks and the good-old-boy network that dominates small-town elections. I could blather on about how the world’s a mess, and getting messier, and how I don’t hold much hope for the future of mankind.

"But I won’t. Time is once again closing in on me, and I’m content to embrace that which so enthralls me: the outdoors and all it offers; and my little corner of the world, in the woods.

"Maybe, just maybe, I can offer you more later."

*****

From the editor: Honest Jack died not long after that account, moving on -- I suppose -- to his next life. He left word in his will that his journals and assorted other papers should make their way to me. I guess he wanted to be sure his voice would continue to be heard.

Anyway, I got the journals and started perusing them -- and set aside a package he had included. It was a box with some heft, wrapped in grocery-bag paper cut to fit, and tied with twine. I had a feeling about it ... but I wanted to get a better grip on who this man was before I ventured to open the package.

There were a dozen or more journals, some with leather covers, relics of a bygone age. Anyway, they largely contained rambling, stream of consciousness entries, but there were cogent sections, too. One in particular caught my attention.

“This consciousness -- this awareness of my previous life (have I lived only one other?) -- came on a visit to San Antonio,” Honest Jack wrote. “I was on a trip to the southwest, and decided to visit the Alamo there. I had always been a Crockett fan; admired his sense of honor and adventure. And in a nearby store were all sorts of mementoes, including a selection of Bowie knife replicas. But there was one knife -- burnished, obviously older -- that the shopkeeper said might be an original.

“I doubted that, but Jim Bowie did die close by in the Alamo, and there’s no telling, I supposed, what might have happened to his knife -- or whether he had more than one with him. Anyway, there was a premium attached by the shopkeeper to this knife, and I wasn’t going to buy it, but tested its heft nonetheless. And as soon as I gripped it, something happened to me. I suddenly was very much aware of another existence, of having lived in virtually that very spot back in 1836.

“It was both dizzying, and life affirming. I was both overwhelmed by the sensation, and yet warmed by its familiarity.

“And so I bought the knife -- could not leave it just sitting there -- and have possessed it to this day.

“I know; I know. it all sounds a little crazy, easily rejected by common sense -- a previous existence, and a knife with seemingly age-old and inexplicable powers. But I remember that earlier life as vividly as I recall the episodes from this one. And the knife -- it was as surely Jim Bowie’s as I sit here writing.

“But it doesn’t matter. Does anything matter, really?

“I leave you with this. It’s an ideal, in any event.

"When darkness tends to rule the day
When evil spreads it wings and lies
When morals find a vacuum, then
We must our leaders circumcise."

*****

Me again. The editor.

Does anything matter, really?

Yes, it does, I answered silently as I reached for the box left me by Honest Jack. I had seated myself in my living room, and once ensconced in my favorite easy chair, pulled off the wrapping and lifted the box lid, so that all that separated the mystery item from my unobstructed view was the soft, blood-red cloth surrounding it. I lifted the contents from the box, rolled the top of the cloth back, and there in front of me was what I expected; had longed for, really: Honest Jack's Bowie knife.

The blade was nearly a foot long, two inches from top edge to bottom --  a quarter-inch thick at the top, tapering down to a razor sharp edge.  The top line jutted straight out from a sterling silver handguard, then swept down and out to a brutal point; the top edge near the point was sharpened, as well. The handle was whalebone -- faded, worn, with a small crack visible. Engraved, barely visible with age, were initials: JB.

I considered the knife and the initials, and what it all might mean; what it might unveil. It had, in the words of my late acquaintance, Honest Jack, unlocked the past -- his past -- to his conscious, modern self. I wondered if, in fact, it might have a similar effect on me. I surmised, or perhaps hoped (or feared?) that a past similar to that of Jack, and of Davy Crockett, might be awaiting me.

Nonsense, I thought. All of it: nonsense. I was allowing my imagination to run free.

But then I considered the familiarity that Jack had presented when I'd encountered him on the road. Of course, we were both Schuyler County residents, so I might have seen him once -- or more than once -- before. But the familiarity, I now realized, went deeper than a superficial recognition. I knew him -- his presence, his essence -- in my marrow.
I knew we had a shared history.

Nonsense, I told myself again. Nonsense.

Or was it? There's one way to find out, dummy, I told myself. And I studied the knife, its surface resting in the blood-red cloth, my hands underneath the cloth, not yet engaging the whalebone or steel in a direct sense.

Well, I thought, and took a deep breath -- and pulled my right hand from underneath the cloth and grabbed the knife by its handle, and dropped the cloth down into the box on my lap, and ran the fingers of my left hand along the smooth side of the foot-long blade.

And almost immediately -- stunningly -- I was overwhelmed with what started as a sense and grew to a certainty, cascading like water pouring from a faucet into a receptacle, filling my memory and my soul.

I held the knife firmly in my right hand, removed the box from my lap and placed it on the table next to the chair, rose from the seat and, turning, walked toward the nearest exit in my house, leading to the side yard. Stepping onto the lawn, I looked closely at the knife, felt its heft, its balance, and it was like going home again. I smiled, looked up at a large tree near the back corner of my house, some 10 yards away, pulled the knife back, took aim, and hurled it, burying it through the bark and into the soft wood, dead center.

I had, until those moments of clarity, thought I had never thrown a knife. Now I knew that I had -- that this knife, designed for close combat, more easily used and even deadlier than a bayonet or lance, was also, at least in my hands, a weapon with an aerial component. Truly aimed, it could ... well, do what I had just made it do.

I walked to the tree, reached out, grabbed the knife and pulled hard, extracting it.

And looked around.

And remembered. A knife fight where I had killed three men in Louisiana. My wife of two years, gone too soon, struck down by illness. My horrible sense of loss, my effort to forget, to find a way to ease the pain. My decision to help Colonel Travis at the Alamo mission. The illness that knocked me on my back. The attacks by the Mexican army under Santa Anna. The 13 days we held out. The final assault, and me, virtually helpless in my bed, taking out several of those soldiers with this very knife before the bayonets knocked the wind and sense out of me. Followed by the darkness.

Wow, I said, and shivered. The memory of those final moments was both harsh and difficult to relive. I took a few deep breaths, and calmed myself.

And before many moments had passed, I smiled.

Honest Jack had been telling the truth. And I think he recognized me, too, in that meeting on the country road. Maybe not; but I think he did; felt the familiarity that I had felt when our paths intersected. There's just no telling what anyone's facade -- the looks and acts and clothing -- are shielding. More often than not, a much different truth.

I nodded there, near the tree outside my house, and thought some more. Caressed the knife in my hands.

My knife. With what once were my initials. JB. Jim Bowie.

It felt, in my hands, like a vestige of home.

I nodded again.

And headed back to the house. I had some more thinking to do. And maybe some writing.

******

Some links to people features

Here are some links to other pages on this website dealing with features about the editor:

A tale called "Bubba," about a childhood hero, can be reached by clicking here.

A story about the editor's family being menaced by a maniac on the highway can be reached by clicking here.