Few things on the Great Spirit’s planet earth match the beauty of a daughter. The same holds true with regard to the pure joy of having one to love, teach, cuddle and guide through the often emotionally painful throes of adolescence, when intimate support and attention seem more than paramount, reigning supreme in a parent’s heart and mind. Important to not just the parents, but to her, too. This support and understanding becomes even more obvious when the daughter of a hunter chooses to brave the biting winds of unfriendly Novembers to join in the ritualistic quest for whitetails. Then, the pure joy is greatly enhanced, swelling to an almost unbearable level in the hunter’s heart. Then, November is not just a time, but also a place where ever-enduring memories take root and thrive forever.
An old-timer of not just the world, but of the autumn hunts, was blessed with a daughter. But through searching her warm, dark brown eyes and the darkest chambers of her heart, he learned, using an uncanny inherited perception ability, that she would ultimately choose not to hunt. He could see it beyond those smiling eyes and, yes, it hurt, but her choice was well taken, better understood. Her father, after all, is an outdoor writer, a dreamer of sorts and a staunch believer in the age old adages, “To each his own,” and “Live and let live.” So, however reluctantly, he allowed his heart to accept and respect her choices. Having a son to follow in his hunting footsteps was a big help, he admits, but still the cup was not quite full.
He has a dear friend who just so happens to have a daughter, Jessica. The old-timer loves her as his own, and has since she was a “kitten” of cuddling size and age. He’d watched her over nearly a dozen years grown into the finest of young ladies. More importantly, he had detected behind her soft blue eyes the glowing fire of a huntress. Immediately, he felt this coursing warmth within the venation of his inner-body, thinking Jessica may well be the benediction he so needed to ultimately cause his cup to runneth over.
After 45 years a hunter, his heart has been besieged savagely, three times. So bad were the attacks that his heart had all but given up. All but gone, too, were his running gears, his bad hips, legs and knees – the only Medal of Honor, other than the token honorable discharge certificate, his U.S. Army Rangers gave him to take home. But the old-timer had yet to complete several of what he considered his life missions. He needed to hunt, to be a part of yet another young hunter’s quest for the king of the Eastern forests, the white-tailed deer.
Alexander Graham Bell’s annoying invention became the means by which he could possibly realize his last dream in life. The phone rings some eight miles away. Although he felt uncomfortable calling with his request, which may have been selfish in motive, honesty between him and his friend, Jim, prevailed. He felt as though he may be taking advantage of their friendship, stealing a priceless experience from his longtime friend. Still, he knew honesty was the very foundation they’d built between them over the years. It was strong, everlasting and vitally important to all that they shared. “Hi, Jimbo. All ready and rarin’ to go to deer camp?”
“You bet. How about you?”
“Well, old buddy, I’m taking a sabbatical of sorts this season. With my heart running about one-third throttle and the old running gears all but gone, I’m gonna dream away this season with the help of a bushel full of heart-warmin’ memories.”
A long silence followed. Both knew what hunting meant to the other. That’s an invaluable part of true friendship, knowing one another’s intimate feelings about certain aspects of life. “You’re not hunting deer this year? You, the hotshot outdoor writer know as “Whitetail Man?”
The old-timer, somehow feeling strangely ashamed, feeling he was losing respect and credibility among his best of peers, stammered, “Not kidding you this time, Jimbo, but there’s something I’d like, something I really need you to do for me.”
“What’s that, you old fool?”
“Is Jessica in deer camp this season?” Jim not only owned huge tracts of prime hunting land, but he owned one of the best-looking camps in the northern tier. A newer cabin he’d made to look warmly reminiscent of a camp of yesteryear, something Ernest Thompson Seton or T.S. Van Dyke would be anxious to call his own. Save for the woodstove pipe, Jim had spared nothing in the way of nostalgic construction, nostalgic materials, all of which was gathered from the woods around the inviting, cozy, log camp.
“She’s in camp all right. She would have been bunking in the loft for the past week if I’d allowed it, why?”
“Oh, I was just wondering. She’s got the old fire in her eyes, huh?”
“You’re not kidding. I probably won’t have to fire up the old woodstove as long as Jessica’s in camp. Why the heat from her big baby blues has to be putting out several thousand BTUs. Say, why don’t you at least come over and join us in a hearty breakfast on opening day?”
“Thought you’d never ask, Jim, but there is something special I’d like to ask of you. Something else I’d like to fill up on? And before I do, I realize it’s asking a lot, because I know how you love her and how much you enjoy being with her, so I’ll fully understand if you turn me down on this one. But being the type of hunter, the kind of father you are, I know you’ll understand and I won’t have to explain my feelings completely.”
“Quit beating around the bush and get to the point, you old deer-slayer.”
“Okay, but it’s a tough thing to ask of you. Would you mind, and please be honest, as always, allowing me to walk with Jessica on opening day? I apologize for putting you on the spot, but it would mean the world to me to share in her first kill.”
Jim, an honest, hard working and gracious man, said without hesitation, “Joe, I’d love to have you share that time with Jessie. I suppose we should get her feelings on the idea, though.”
“Yeah, Jimbo, you’re right. It would be a toughie for me, how’s about you do it?”
“No sirree, old buddy. She’s right here, I’ll let you talk to her.”
“Thanks a lot. Thought we were friends?”
The old-timer’s weakened heart surged with anxiety but opened wide its chambers to let in the ardent hope he had. “Hi, Joe, how you doing?” Jessica’s voice rang sweeter and clearer than he’d remembered, but still carried that warmth, that tone of genuine and deep caring. It was special, Jessica’s voice, and just hearing it once again after several months brought his heart to flight.
“Well, Jessica, as good as an old deer hunter without a valid license can be, I guess.”
“You’re not hunting deer this year? I never thought I’d see that day arrive.”
“Naw, Jessica, old Joe isn’t quite up to it. The desire, the fire’s still there inside, but the heart and legs tell me it’s time to kiss that love farewell. Still, I’d like to ask a great favor of you, but only if you’ll promise to be completely honest and sincere with your answer.”
“Sure, Joe, just ask. You know me.”
“Well, Jessie, you know my Erika doesn’t hunt, just like you know what being out there, being a part of it all, means to me, right?”
“Right, so go ahead.”
The old-timer cleared his throat, began the question, stopped, and then after a lengthy pause continued. “Would you mind, that is would it bother you much, if I sort of tagged along with you this year? At least the first day?” Relieved, he apprehensively awaited the answer from Jessica.
“Joe, I’d totally enjoy having you along with me. Especially if you promise to show me some of your old fashioned by effective ways. Where do you think we should set up opening morning?” Old Joe immediately felt a youthful surging in his heart, a relief of anxiety. “Well, I haven’t given it a lot of thought just yet, but I figure the old rabbit patch down near the multiflora rose and tractor road ought to be as good or better than any.”
“Yes it would. I recall a couple of bucks you’ve killed there on opening days.”
“Well, thanks, Jessica, for letting me impose upon you this way. I really appreciate it, you know? But I’d like to give some serious thought to where we’ll set up at first light, so you can make the veterans like old Paul Hart look just a little poorly.”
She laughed and said, “That would be fun, Joe. Last year I blew my chance and they were on me terribly.”
“Don’t you be worrying about it, Jessie. You’ll be providing the liver and onion luncheon opening day this year. And I have another favor I’d like from you.”
“What’s that, Joe?”
“You’ll be totin’ that old .243 of your daddy’s, right?”
“Yes. It’s the only rifle of his I like, why?”
“Well, Jessica, I got me this new stainless steel Remington Model Seven in their new 260-caliber. Called a 6.5 Panther in its wildcat days and wildcat it is. Shoots like the dickens, grouping three rounds the size of my thumbnail, and because I may never have a chance to baptize it, which to me is a shameful thing, I’d like you to carry it opening day. It’s real light, with its synthetic stock and short barrel, so it’ll not only be a comfy carry, it’ll stick a 140-grainer through the slightest opening in the thick stuff and get to where it’s supposed to get. It’s all ready to go. What do you say?”
“You’ve sighted it in?”
“Yep, but you should still shoot it on your daddy’s range, to get familiar with it. We can do that this Sunday, okay?”
“Sounds fine to me, Joe. Might as well come early enough for coffee and some of Mom’s homemade cinnamon rolls while you’re at it, okay?”
“Okay, Jessica. And hey, Sweetheart, thanks. You’ve made an old man happy. Love ya, Dumplin’, see ya Sunday.”
The next day the old man bought his hunting license, and the owner nonchalantly questioned the purchase. “Thought you weren’t hunting this year, J.P.?”
“Not. Just payin’ my dues for the deer and the Game Commission.”
“You mean you’re buying a license and not hunting?”
“That’s right, Wayne. I’m just gonna spend the first morning with a young friend I’d like to be with when she gets the taste of her first whitetail kill. Reckon I’d rather die knowing I left something of myself behind. My memories will go with me when the day comes, ya know?”
“Balonely, you old rascal. You’ll kill when the time comes. It’s been too much a part of you for too long.” “Wayne, you know less of me and hunting than I thought. The “wolf” within me sleeps. He’s tired after some 45 years of guiding my heart and me. And just for the record, I came home from many, many hunts without the almighty trophy. Never was the deer, the glory of taking away the spirit of a whitetail, foremost in this old bird’s heart. You’ll get to that place in the road one day. And when you do, I’ll have left yet another memory behind. For you’ll remember that it was me who told ya so, least I hope so. Just like Mother Nature puts things into a man, She also waits patiently to remove them. And for me, She has. Save the need to be a part of the traditional ritual, however small the part.”
At the Spencer home, Jessica’s mother, JoAnn, answered the door. The old-timer wrapped his arms about her shoulders and asked, “Well, where’s my winter hug that’s been long overdue?”
“I have your hug but don’t you dare scrape my cheek with that nasty, gray beard of yours like you always do.” They laughed together, walked in the house then sat by the woodstove. “Jessica will be down in a minute and Jim’s about done in the bathroom, I hope. Been reading in there for an hour,” JoAnn said, laughing softly.
The old man whispered, “You know, that man of yours might well be illiterate if you didn’t have an indoor bathroom.” JoAnn giggled while shaking her head in agreement.
After a hearty serving of oven-warmed cinnamon rolls and stove-perked coffee, the three hunters, Jim, Jessica and the old man went to the shooting bench. One shot from the .260 had Jessica smiling, because the hole showed clearly at the top edge of the bullseye. “One thing about you, Joe, your guns always shoot well.”
“Rifles, Jessica, rifles.”
The first morning was damp with a misty rain, much to the liking of the old man, although he would have preferred snow for contrast. Tapping on the camp down brought a sleepy, blue-eyed, cherub looking little lady to the steamed-over front window. She smiled and waved, just barely rolling her fingers. “Heck of a greeting for your old partner, Jessie.” He smiled, took her by the hand and walked into the cabin where they sat in the lustrous glow and warmth of the fire. “All fired up, are ya, Jessica?”
“Not too badly, why?”
“Well sweetheart, ya look a little weary?”
“I went to bed early enough – 10 o’clock – but I didn’t get to sleep until pretty late.”
“How late is that?”
Jessica stood, smiled, walked toward the perking coffee pot and over her shoulder she said, “Well actually, Joe, not late but early.”
“How early?”
“Like an hour or so ago,” Jessica said sheepishly, adding, “Dad was snoring like an old coonhound, and I had an awful time falling asleep.”
“You sure it was the snorin’ that kept you awake?”
“Okay, okay, I was excited about this morning.”
“Good, Jessie, that’s good. This world needs more kids who get fired up over hunting, and when the time arrives they do’er right.”
After a breakfast of fried ham and egg sandwiches, the camp members headed for their respective places on Spencer’s Hill. Randy Hart, Paul Hart, Steve and Josh wished everyone well, and the old man and Jessica headed down the power line to the sacred, always yielding, rabbit patch.
“Remember, Jessica,” the old-timer whispered, “You were given the spirit of the wolf, the most acute of predators. The Great Spirit, like I always told you, will see to it that you get what He feel your heart needs. Just take as much time with the shot as you can and make it count.” Jessica smiled, her eyes teared from the cold wind shifting upward with the morning thermals.
After clearing a spot in the patch they sat on opposite sides of an old hickory tree, the old man carrying his camera. Not long after daybreak three does walked within 15 yards, and moments later a back of average size slinked into view on the old-timer’s side. Ever so slowly he slid his arm around the tree, tapping Jessica on the back. She turned slowly to look, spotted the cautious buck and tightened with the awkwardness of the opportunity.
The old man whispered, “Stand slowly when I tap you on the back. He doesn’t know we’re here, but we gotta wait until he puts his head down a little. Remember the wolf.” The long-awaited moment had arrived. Jessica stood, rolled around the tree to face the buck and took what seemed forever to do that which she came to do. By then the buck realized something wasn’t quite right. He bolted toward the power line as Jessie fired. The buck seemed untouched at the shot.
Knowing her shot went off the mark, he looked into her questioning eyes. “I don’t think ya touched him, Sweetheart, but we’ll go make certain, c’mon.” After a quarter of an hour, the old man pretty much knew the buck had escaped unscathed. He felt heaviness in his heart, knowing, too, how Jessica must feel. Pulling her close to console her somewhat, he said, “Just remember, Kitten, what old Joe told ya about the Great Spirit taking proper care of you in His time. You have the whole hunting season ahead of you.”
With that he walked Jessica back to the cabin. She had to be at school by 9 o’clock, for basketball practice, and wouldn’t be able to hunt any more until late afternoon. The shots were few and far between, but one or two came from the rifles of camp members. As they parted company the old man said, “Don’t worry, Jessie, you’ll be fine. Your moment will come, as it’s all been written ahead of time, even before I got here.”
Jessica smiled, got into her car and headed for school. Her warm eyes squinted at him as she waved that magical little wave of hers. He put his head down, walked to his vehicle and headed for home. Thinking how badly Jessie wanted to get her first deer while hunting with him brought a salty tear to his cheek. Smiling, he gently removed it with his index finger and said, “Well, a little diamond for Jessica.”
Later that morning he phoned and left a message for his young hunting partner. “Hi, Jessie, guess who? I just phoned to tell ya I won’t be comin’ out this afternoon. I’m sorta tired. Truth is, I didn’t sleep well last night, either. No sense fibbing to my huntin’ partner. You go on ahead without me. Stay pretty much put where I told you to, stay quiet and you’ll do just fine. Call me when you get home. Love ya, Dumplin’.” That afternoon, Jessica dropped a plump spike buck, with one shot in the neck, right before quitting time: Baptism complete. He also learned that Jessica had barely grazed the hair on the early morning 8-point, never drawing blood. She related all of this during the phone conversation that evening. Josh got the 8-pointer. The old-timer was happy and disappointed at the same time. He wanted to be by her side at the momentous time, but it just wasn’t in the Great Spirit’s plans.
“Did ya put in the cartridge I left with ya, Jess? The one I wrote on?”
“Yep, sure did.”
“Gee whiz, Jessie, I’d have given anything to be with you, but I was awfully doggoned tired, ya know?” There was a seemingly long pause on both ends of the line. Jessica’s voice, down a pitch or two, rather whispered, “Joe you were with me; you really and truly were.”
The old-timer, then, had at least made certain he had left one memory behind, some of which, however, he would take with him, but the best of it he would leave for Jessica. And if one would have listened closely to what he whispered to the Great Spirit, it probably would have sounded very much like, “Thank you.”