My Father's Buck

[morg]

I just found out that one of my stories is going to be published. I am especially proud this one was chosen as it is in the tradition of handing down our heritage of firearms and hunting. Since most folks won't see it until the winter edition comes out, here it is for the TFA crew.



My Father’s Buck

The chill air makes me tremble slightly as I watch the buck. The cold had set in half an hour after we hiked into the woods and climbed the ladder to the deerstand. For the next hour, I shivered, watched the sunrise, and thought of my father’s instructions, “Don’t overdress. It’s better to be a little too cool than too warm. . .keeps you alert”. Although I thought it was stupid to deliberately be uncomfortable, I never argued with my dad about hunting.

I had spotted the deer just out of range and put the crosshairs on him to wait. Now he turns away, stops, and looks back at me. Looking over his shoulder at me, is not a good omen for taking this big ten pointer. I feel the touch of my father’s hand on my shoulder as if he is signaling me to be patient and watch for the right opportunity. I take a deep breath, relax, and wait. There was no rush. After all, I had been waiting on this deer for 32 years.

It all began that long ago. I was lucky enough to have a dad with a real love of the outdoors. With the opening of dove season we were together constantly. Doves, squirrels, rabbits, turkey, and deer were his passion and escape from the daily grind. By the time I was seven, my afternoons were filled with caring for the hunting dogs, cleaning guns, packing trail food that my mom had prepared, and scouting the Alabama countryside. Growing up with a man dedicated to preserving life and who taught me a love for nature and hunting was a real gift.

Those glorious days gave me the bragging rights of a lifetime. I will have to admit that it was due to the amount of shot he sent out of the barrel and not his marksmanship but Dad never failed to get his limit of small game. And with those limits, my family threw big gatherings, which included meals of dove, rabbit, and squirrel that my mother prepared with a real flair. Thanksgiving dinner was always a time of pride for both Mom and Dad. The gobbler that he brought in from the woods became a masterpiece of Mom’s Thanksgiving table. But until I was eight years old, any venison on our table was a gift from a friend. The elusive deer plagued Dad throughout his life.

I was eight when I took my first deer, a doe. Pride in the fact that I had put the meat on the table was worth more than any rack of trophy antlers. The next year, I took two deer. The year that I was ten, the deer were thick. I bagged another doe and a spike. Every hunter was successful except one; Dad came home empty handed.

I never missed a hunt with Dad but I did begin to deer hunt more with my friends and their fathers. Although I brought home plenty of does and spikes, the others always brought home the trophies. And, though I never bagged a trophy, I still had my dad beat. The closest that my father ever came to taking a deer was when I was twelve. That day is forever burned in my memory:

Despite his advice to stay alert, I had dozed off with my head in his lap. Quietly, he nudged me awake, handed me his rifle and said, “look over there”. Peering through the scope, I saw a beautiful six point buck, with a huge spread, strolling down the logging road, straight toward us. Catching my breath, I tried to hand the rifle back to Dad. “Go ahead, son, take him,” Dad whispered.

I put the crosshairs back on the deer, exhaled, and squeezed the trigger. The deer fell in his tracks and my dad let out a cheer that was probably heard throughout the county. The next day, everyone at “Doc’s” clinic heard about my trophy deer. At the time, I did not realize what my father had given up for me. Through the years, my father never came that close again to taking a deer. Finally, his health was too bad to hunt anymore. I lost interest in hunting and moved on to other things.

As the years went by, I began my own family in the country. You can find my wife working in her garden or catching a stringer of crappie. She is better at both than I am. We leave the fence rows rough for the quail to live in. Doves and rabbits roam the fields. I never bushhog a briar thicket but leave it and the blackberries for the turkey and deer. A few extra apples and pears are left in the orchard. And, of course, we plant a little extra in the garden for our wild visitors. It makes it easier for my sons to sneak up and watch nature. My dad loved to visit, sit on the porch and watch the show. But this past spring, time took its toll and Dad passed away.

One night, over dinner, Mom commented that she had not put venison on the table for years. I decided to bring her a deer. Autumn came and as I was getting ready for the season, I spied Dad’s old rifle in the back of my gun locker. I knew with what I would hunt this year.

This morning, my vision blurs in the scope. I wipe the tears away and look again. It dawns on me that this is the biggest, best deer that I have ever seen in person. The deer is now in range and presenting a perfect shot. I feel a movement beside me. Looking down, I nudge my son awake, hand him the rifle and say, “Look over there”. His eyes grow big, staring at the enormous ten pointer through the scope. When he tries to hand the gun back, I realized what my father was trying to tell me. Shaking my head I whisper, “Go ahead, son, take him”.

H L Elmore

[johnharris]