An Autumn Heart

A man thinks very deeply of many things when he thinks he is soon going to die. Mainly of those things in life he most loves; his wife, children, his dog and yes, those autumnal rituals which, of course, are hunts in his most favored woodlands of the high country. And during such times, he may pray, perhaps harder, and with more feeling, desire and need than ever before.

The prayer may go something like this: “Please God, just let me hold and love and touch my children one more time. Just one more warm kiss goodnight for them, for my wife. And how about allowing me one more rub behind the velvet-like ears of our dog and maybe God, just maybe mind you, one more taste of the autumn woods would be in order? One more deep, inhaling breath to let in the musky smell of dying forest litter? Then I’ll come to wherever it is You want me. You can wait one more day or so can’t You? Just let me fill up my autumn heart once more before You take me to your neck of the woods. I promise that if you’ll just let me smell burnt gunpowder one more time, kiss my wife, children and dog, I’ll go peacefully but, if not, I’m afraid I’m going to have to fight and win those needed moments for myself, God. And yes, Boss, I know in my heart it would be wrong to fight this thing, this thing so natural, but I am rather young. And as a father of two, a husband and my dog’s best friend, I must fight, you see. Please don’t think of me as ungrateful for You giving me this gift of Life for it’s been ever so precious to me. I just would like one more, OK, one last helping. With your permission, of course…”

That wasn’t quite the prayer, word for word, but it does tell some of what I asked for on October 13th, 1996, one month before my 54th birthday, when I had a severe heart attack and lay helpless and hurting like never before on an E.R. bed in a Tioga County hospital. And certainly, without having been heard and answered by a gracious God this story wouldn’t be…

My son, Justin, had to bring my wife to town to retrieve the family wagon for I’d driven myself to the hospital. When he walked into my stall in the E.R., the look on his face was enough to bring tears to my eyes. Obviously, he was frightened and deeply concerned, not to mention at a loss for words.

Reaching for his trembling hand I said, with a half-dozen wires, tubes and needles dangling from various parts of my body, “Don’t you worry, Partner, I’ll be out of here before the grouse opener on Saturday.” I added my warmest smile, hoping to comfort his frightened heart. He just looked at me, his pillar of strength and best friend, and his words, whatever they were, wouldn’t come. He merely shook his head from side to side.

“God, I hope so, Pop. I love you, see ya later…” With that he walked away and didn’t look back…wearing a look on his face I won’t ever forget.

Somehow I knew I’d be all right; up and out for our first grouse hunt of the year on October 19th. But this time, wise old Pop was wrong and somehow, the wanting to just be there seemed more important that even before-in some 41 seasons.

The doc, honest and up front, which I respect in all men, said, “Mr. Parry, this is serious. There’s considerable damage to your heart and I wouldn’t plan on going anywhere for a while, especially hunting.”

“Hey Doc, you don’t know me very well. That EKG just shows another hurdle in my life and I’ve always been a pretty good jumper. You just do what’s gotta be done and I’ll provide all the fight. I’ll be there opening day with Justin.”

He smiled, shook his graying head and said, “I’ve never in my career had anyone take a heart attack quite so lightly and of all things, place hunting so high on a priority list when he’s not even out of the emergency room yet.”

“Doc, it isn’t that hunting is so high on my list of priorities, it’s the being there and what I share with my son during hunting season that’s priceless. The mutual, yet unspoken feelings, the shared peace, the magic of frosty mornings in the woods together, the quiet. It’s a kind of rejuvenation of the love between father and son. Like sunshine and water is to a tree or plant, it helps us grow together and understand one another more intimately. Kinda puts back and adds some to what the rest of the year may have depleted somewhat. You know? Those times we didn’t quite see eye to eye? Yes indeed, Doc, there’s far more to hunting with a child than guns and supplementing the old larder. Fact is, Doc, I never really knew my son until we began hunting together. Kids, for some reason, open up out there. Like flowers, I tell ya, they expose their deepest feelings, bare their souls and free up all those things that may be nagging them inside. It’s the magic of autumn, Doc-and the greatest of the many benefits a father gets from hunting.

Heck, now when I buy a license it’s more of a ticket to be alone with Justin than it is a tag for a buck’s ear. More often than not, we end up sitting around a small hickory limb and pine cone fire forgetting what in heck we came for and just enjoying each other’s company. And even though we almost always bring home the winter venison, Doc, it’s never been what’s most important to us. We learn when we’re out there. About nature as well as each other and because of hunting seasons, Justin and I share a relationship I consider priceless. And he, too, knows the magic of something I call the autumn heart. And one day he’ll share it with his children, my grandchildren-that is if you ever get back to working on my heart and fixing it so it’ll beat long enough for me to meet them.”

The doc laughed while reading another EKG printout and said, “Maybe I ought to start hunting with my wife and daughter…”

“Can only help any relationship, Doc. Now, take two aspirins and call me in the mornin’. I’ll mail you the bill.” He laughed again.

October 18th I was still lying in a hospital bed and the next morning would be the early small-game opener. Time to talk with my cardiologist or, at worst, the hospital cook who had about as much culinary imagination as a paper clip. Everything I ate tasted the same and that wasn’t good. In fact bland would be an over-zealous description of the food, including the milk. They said it was skim but it was so clear, I could easily have read the Game Laws through it without the aid of polarized glasses.

And I’d used enough bedpans to almost permanently drop my body temperature to well below the normal 98.6 degrees! I had enough cords, of varying types, strung from my bruised body to wire a small village and, between those and several yards of intravenous tubes they were keeping me alive with, I looked like a mound of pasta lying there. I was going nuts, had to get out and at one point didn’t care about my dying as long as it was in the woods and not in a hospital bed where nary a grouse could be found and the food was bound to get me sooner or later. I could envision the headlines vividly: “Outdoor Writer Dies From Boredom and Bland Food.”

The head cardiologist finally gave in and signed my discharge order that Sunday; the day after the opening Saturday. And, with the understanding that I not hunt for at least a week to ten days and only for a real short time. “…about an hour at most, Mr. Parry, and only if you go but right across the road from your home as you indicated to me earlier.”

“Right Doc. Gotchya. Now give me the discharge please!” All this while, I could hear my roommate giggling from beneath his blankets and his pulse monitor was reading well into three digits. It was all I could do to keep a poker face. “And yes, Doc, I’ll be certain to carry the vial of nitroglycerin tablets with me, too. Don’t you worry…”

Justin picked me up at the hospital and the first thing he said after asking, “Hi Pop, how ya feelin’?” was, “Too bad today is Sunday and you can’t get your hunting license.” Bless his heart, he always did have a unique way with words and that statement was almost enough to make me take my first nitro pill.

“I’ll get my license tomorrow, Partner, and we’ll hunt the evening covey…” But, needless to say, Monday found me a bit too weak for any kind of hunt; thanks to the hospital food, I’d lost some 15-pounds and my strength was pretty much zapped. I wasn’t too weak, however, to make the trip in to Wellsboro for my license. Barry, the owner of Davis’ Sporting Goods, knowing of my recent bout with a heart that didn’t work well, said, “You’re gonna hunt after just having a heart attack? I knew all along that you, like most outdoor writers, were a bit weak in the mind, but I never…”

“Never what, Barry. Never knew we loved what we do and nothing short of Armageddon could stop us? If I can’t hunt Barry, I might as well be dead! When I’m not hunting or fly-fishing or tying flies or writing about it all, I don’t feel fully alive and it’s my life’s blood in more ways than one. Gotta do ‘er, Barry and writing about it, which of course is sharing my experiences with others, is as important as the income I get from it. And that income, Barry, is what allows me to be one of your customers, reluctant as I am most of the time!”

Barry laughed and said, “You are a nutcase. Sit down here and fill out the application… need some shells?”

“Yes! Give Nutcase here a box of twelve-bore seven-and-a-halfs and a jug of that FP-Ten Lubricant. And Barry, bet your best boots I’m gonna plug you into my next story and let the world know how you treat your customers. Especially the outdoor writers! Nutcase! Ya know, oftentimes people will ask me what I love most, the outdoor life or the writing about it. Best way I could ever answer that was to come back with a question of my own asking which of their children they loved best. That usually ends it and I think it’s always given them a clearer understanding of what we writers are all about. The whole thing is one, wonderfully priceless package and if indeed I’m gonna die, Barry, it’ll be at the typer or in the woods.”

Late that afternoon, weakness and all, I chose to give it a try. My wife Linda and daughter Erika helped me lace my boots. Justin filled the shell-loops in my orange vest-and graciously, I provided all the huffing and puffing as though I were doing all the work.

I was so very anxious to taste of the beautiful woodland across the road from our old farmhouse for, certainly, after more than forty years of hunting, that first hunt in early autumn becomes a psychological and coronary addiction. But, this late afternoon I simply couldn’t make the grade through the field leading to the woods and grouse cover. I turned to see Justin’s progress and noticed he was about 35-yards to my right and lagging behind somewhat. “What’s the matter, Partner, can’t keep up with the old man, huh?” And, God having blessed me with eyesight like an eagle, I saw that his eyes were glistening-noticeably…

“Pop,” he said, shaking his head from side to side, “you just can’t do this yet. Give it up for today, will ya? Why before, you’d have been to the woods by now. Just look at ya, puffing like an old steam engine! Hunting today isn’t worth dyin’ over is it?”

Jokingly, I answered, “Well, kinda. We’ve not missed a first day since you were twelve. I’m fine, just a little weak is all. C’mon, let’s get going. We only have an hour or so as it is.”

Justin said, “I’m heading for the barn, Pop. I’m just not in the mood to hunt today.” And with that, he turned and walked back down the hill toward the house, turning every few steps to see if I was following. I looked to the woods, to him-then back to the woods again-and I suppose his companionship meant more to me that the hunt itself, so I followed him to the house. On the way, I vividly recalled something a Native American once said: “It seems to me that only leaves possess the secret of a beautiful death…” Justin was right. The old autumn heart wasn’t quite up to it all yet and would need some time, however little, to recover and I knew it would.

I’m not at all ashamed to admit to believing in Santa Claus, and small miracles, outdoor writer or not. I’ve been witness to a miracle or two in my time, depending, of course, upon how one defines “miracle.” What follows is what I would place in the category of small miracles but one of paramount importance in my life.

That next morning, Justin and I, with my insistence, got an early start which, honestly, is not necessary for the grouse hunter. But the old man was anxious to fill his lungs with the smell of decaying leaves and, with any luck, the steely smell of grouse blood.

Most of my life, I’ve avoided medicines of any kind, including aspirin, which may have, with the help of say, 35 cigarettes a day, generously contributed to my heart attack? But before I left the hospital, the doc gave me a list of prescriptions as long as my arm and the various instructions indicated I was to take a total of 12 pills a day! I asked the doc, “Would it be okay if I just made a sandwich or a salad with them?” He laughed, I didn’t.

Among the prescription medicines was the customary heart patient’s sublingual, nitroglycerin tablets which I was to carry at all times. These things are about the size of an overweight germ with the power of a .357 magnum insofar as dilating blood vessels. Still, it’s pretty hard changing the habits of a 54-year old man, be they bad or good ones but I’ve not had a single smoke since “The Day”-nor have I gotten used to toting those tiny nitro pills…

I told Justin to go into the far end of the woods and that I’d meet him later on. “You gonna be okay, Pop?”

“Do I look okay, Partner? Hey, I’m huntin’ and that’s the tonic of Nature. Just the ticket for an old autumn heart. Meet ya at the old flattop oak in about two hours.” That meeting could have been one that never happened, for at the time I hadn’t realized I’d forgotten my nitro
pills…

Slowly, I began stillhunting, what I do best and best love but hunting grouse without the aid of a dog before and after the shooting is like pulling a well-rooted tooth without the aid of pliers. Nevertheless, up the hollow I went with all the hope in the world tucked into my pocket, breathing in as deeply as possible that pungent air caused by rotting forest litter. “Better than Chanel Number Five.” I thought.

With the gun nearly mounted on my shoulder, I worked my way through some promising cover and it wasn’t long until I felt some pain in my chest. As it intensified a bit, I decided it wouldn’t hurt to dissolve a nitro tab beneath my tongue; even though I felt the pain was born of anxiety? Wrong again, old man…?

I sat down on a mossy deadfall and reached into my pants’ pocket for my nitro and discovered I’d either lost them or left them on my desk at home. The pain remained stable and I could feel a little fear simmering in the same area…

As I indicated, we haven’t a gun dog but we are owned by one remarkably intelligent, deeply affectionate and lovable German Shepherd mix. I’ve never been witness to a love any deeper than his for all members of our family and the depth of his numerous instincts are truly small miracles. He just seems to know things a dog shouldn’t.

Sitting there amused by a multitude of gray squirrels, I nearly forgot about the chest pains when I heard something that sounded rather large shuffling toward my position. “Deer?” I thought. But, no. The rhythm wasn’t quite right and after more than forty years as a hunter, one becomes pretty adept at identifying sounds of the forest. And this thing, whatever it was, seemed to be working in a meandering pattern-or so it sounded.

A moment or so later, I saw a large, black form scenting my trail through the oak shoots, more tight to the ground. “A bear?” I thought aloud. And, seconds later it indeed turned out to be a bear; a special one, for it was our family dog whose name happens to be, Bear!

But, never in the years we’ve had him (or him, us!) was he allowed to run alone or off the leash, save for Frisbee games. I whistled him up just about the time he’d spotted me and he came running, wearing that ever-present “smile” of his which displays his huge, white canines. He cried as we hugged and I asked, “What in the heck did ya do, Bear, break your chain?” he pulled away from me as though he wanted me to see what was tied to his collar and I swear, the look in his loving, hazel eyes seemed urgent.

“Whatchya got there big buddy, a sock?” He licked my wet, flushed cheeks as I untied the sock of nylon from his collar. Inside were my nitroglycerin tablets. I figured my wife had sent him to find me and later learned I was right.

I sat there holding the tiny bottle of pills and rubbing Bear behind his velvet ears. He barked, almost pleadingly, as though he wanted me to take the medicine. When I took one from the bottle, he stopped and soon thereafter, so did my chest pains…

That was the end of the day’s hunt and I admitted, to myself, that I just wasn’t quite up to it yet; Justin was right. “C’mon, Bear Dog, let’s head for the barn!” He barked and led the way. “Ain’t nothing gonna die today, Big Buddy. Me or a grouse. Maybe tomorrow though, huh Bear? Maybe tomorrow, if I can just keep the batteries running in this old autumn heart of mine…”

Once again, I realized that something I’ve always told my children was truer than I originally thought. That being, it’s not the destination that makes life a joy worth living, it’s the journey itself-and it doesn’t hurt one bit to have a Bear to share it with, gun dog or not.

Perhaps because of Bear’s loving effort whereby he found me, I’ll live to hunt, not only the morning covey, but next autumn’s as well? And, having a hero I’m told, adds to one’s longevity-Bear’s mine…


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