With Father’s Day just around the corner, I’ve decided to post an old story I wrote back in English class during my freshman year in college. I had forgotten all about this, until Mom dug up a copy of the story and presented it to me last Christmas. As I recall, I received a C- minus on the paper, which was either a reflection on my writing skills or the fact I chose deer hunting as my topic. Probably a little of both, but I do remember my English teacher being a flaming liberal hippie, and I’m sure he didn’t approve of the shooting of woodland creatures with high-powered rifles.
Anyway, like all of my writing, I apologize in advance for the grammatical errors. Enjoy.
DAD
Frost covers the barren mountainside as the November sun slowly rises over the frozen mountaintops. The icy rhyme glistens sin the crisp air. The barrel of my Ruger 243 was still smoking as I climbed down the side of the dead oak tree, which served as my stand. I could feel the piercing pain run through my numb feet as I touched the forest floor. I raced across the ridge where my slain buck was lying in a steaming pool of blood. I ejected my empty shell from my rifle’s chamber and quickly fired two shots in the air.
Within minutes my Dad emerged from the underbrush. His cheeks and nose were scarlet red and sweat dripped down his brow from exhaustion. His breath encircled his face like a frozen mist. His thick neatly trimmed beard was covered with patches of ice. His face was filled with excitement and a large grin quickly appeared on his chubby face as he glanced down at my trophy. He knelt down almost losing his balance because of his short stocky body and began inspecting the deer. “He’s an eight-point all right!” he shouted with excitement. “Look at this spread; it must be at least 18 inches.” He was so full of excitement. He was 41 years old, his hair was starting to turn grey in places, but he was acting like a kid on Christmas morning opening his presents. He sprang to his feet and wrapped his arms around me in a huge bear hug almost lifting me off my feet. Then suddenly realizing what he was doing and that I was almost thirteen years old, he stepped back, shook my hand with a firm clasp and simply said “Good job.”
Dad helped me hoist the blood-soaked carcass onto my back as we set out for the long journey back to the house. He slung both our rifles over his back and helped me balance the deer on my shoulders, even though he didn’t need to, as we walked along. We reached the house just after 9 o’clock. Water was beginning to drip from the trees from the warmth of the morning sun. Dad opened the door to the shed as I slowly went inside. The back of my hunting coat was now stained with blood. Once inside Dad stripped off his rugged old jacket, which smelled like dead leaves and sweat since he never washed it, said it would take the luck out of it, and took out his trusted hunting knife. Coming from a family rich in mountain heritage and whose roots grow deep in this area, my Dad passes down the knowledge to me that he learned from his father and his father before him. He grew up as a member of a poor, hard working farm family. His mother and father worked long hours just to put food on the table. He and his brothers and sisters were responsible for many chores. So instead of playing football or basketball with the other kids after school, my Dad came home to an afternoon of hard labor. His only form of recreation was hunting and fishing.
“First cut the hide around the end of the leg and then pull it back until the tendon is exposed,” he instructs. I watch him carefully as he cuts with precision and skill. Together we lift the deer onto the hooks hanging from the ceiling. “Now comes the fun part,” he says sarcastically. “Stand back.” I stand directly behind him as I watch him thrust the knife into the deer’s belly and cut downward. Foul odors and aromas begin to mingle in the crisp air. The stench overwhelms me and I step back in shock, but Dad keeps on working like a master craftsman unfazed. Once the chest cavity of the deer is cleaned out, Dad turns to me and hands me the knife. “Your turn.” I stood their horrified; I had never skinned a deer alone before. “Don’t worry, I’ll show you just how Paw showed me.” With that, I took the knife and walked up to the deer. Standing behind me, Dad guided my hands, showing me where to cut and where not to.
By noon, the deer was completely cut up except for the cape and the head, which would be mounted later. All the meat was packed away in the freezer except for one pack of freshly cut steak, which Mom would cook for supper and a pack of ribs that Dad would secretly barbecue on the grill just for him. “You ready to go?” Dad asked while washing the blood off his calloused hands. “Go where?” I asked in astonishment.
“You mean to tell me that you go and kill the biggest buck in the valley this morning and you’re not gonna go show him off. I think Paw would be pretty upset if his grandson killed an eight-point and didn’t bother showin’ it to him.” With a smile on my face and an eight-point buck in the back of the old pick-up, we started on our way to Paw’s house.
