Have you ever spent time wishing someone would die? I don’t mean an ex or an enemy. I mean, someone you know and love and are in so much pain they can’t think? Or maybe they’re lost inside their mind and causing you to lose yours.
It brings to mind one of the most heartbreaking stories I ever knew. It was just a few years ago, right here in my hometown. This vibrant, active little boy of twelve was diagnosed with a rare form of brain cancer. It was simply awful. It was a blindsiding, because he’d always been so healthy and now was so, so, sick. So the community gathered and prayed and surrounded the family as the young man fought and battled and tried to get well, to beat the odds. He underwent countless treatments of radiation, chemotherapy, surgeries, and many therapies to keep as much of his body functioning as possible. Everyone rallied, Regen fought, but ultimately got worse.
As Christmas drew closer, this Christian family was quite obviously pushed to their limits. On Christmas Eve, his mother wrote on Facebook that she hoped the Good Lord would call him home soon, he was suffering so badly.
Now you think about that.
A mother, praying for our Heavenly Father to take him only because she loved him so much and couldn’t stand to think of him in any more pain for another moment, even if she felt like her heart was being ripped clean out of her chest.
That’s true love.
She prayed for her son to die so he could be reborn, healthy and whole, with no pain. She knows that she will eventually see him again. That’s love and faith in abundance. I simply cannot grasp this dedication and strength. And you know what? He was called up. Answered prayers.
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Suicide is, unfortunately, entirely too common. Victims see it as their only escape from debt, from heartache, from sickness. The ones that are serious about it won’t ask for your help. You have to look for signs. They’ll withdraw. And if they follow through, you absolutely cannot blame yourself. They weren’t thinking of you. They weren’t thinking about how you will always question if you could have done more, how you will be living with this guilt the rest of your days. They were only looking out for themselves.
I know what it’s like not to sleep, but to want to because it’s an escape. That is, until the dreams come. But thankfully, dreams don’t generally stick.
I know what it’s like not to eat, simply because you don’t want to.
When these things meet, you’ve got a passel of trouble. You better have a helluva support system to get you through. It’s embarrassing, but we’ve all been there. You have to ask for help or you will find yourself in a bottomless hole and the climb out to sunshine will take a lot longer and will hurt like the pure devil it is. I hope you know who your circle is, who will help you and not hinder you or make it worse. It’s ok not to know what you want from people, or how they can help you. Sometimes you just need the presence of someone else. You don’t have to talk about it, you don’t have to talk about anything. They can go about their life, baking or cleaning and you can stare numbly at the television. But you probably need the comfort of another human just being there. It’s perfectly normal not to be able to watch TV, or listen to the radio, or concentrate enough to read a book. I get it. I hope you know when to pull yourself up and when it’s time to cry for a bit. Just breathe. You don’t get through anything traumatic one day at a time– survivors will tell you it’s one breath at a time. And it’s okay to not be okay. Scream. Stomp. Cry. Write. Laugh. Get drunk. Whatever. Just keep breathing. You don’t have to participate in anything- you don’t have to be your normal self. You just have to BREATHE.
Suicide Prevention LIFELINE 1-800-273-8255
I’m the glued together product of what was once whole.
It’s not so bad to be shattered.
Some plants only flower after a fire.
Sometimes I don’t even like the first sentence. Sometimes I’m awkward all the way through. And I rarely ever know what I’m going to write about. I just start, and thankfully the words come, and the story takes shape.
There’s a legend that states Ernest Hemingway once submitted a story to a newspaper that was holding a contest for the saddest six word story. Supposedly it read: “For sale. Baby shoes, never worn.” He won.
This has never been proven, and while it is indeed depressing, I know a sadder one.
I depend on Chick-fil-a. I know I will never be disappointed in my lunch if I get it there. They are to be depended on for the best chicken, fries, peach milkshakes, chicken tortilla soup….the list goes on and on. I know that I can count on them to not screw up my order. When I desire perfection in fast food, I go to Chick-fil-a.They are so much more than chicken.
They are the embodiment of the American Dream.
I don’t know how I’m expected to do without them for five whole weeks. I’ll go crazy. I nominate myself to oversee construction and if I notice anybody slackin’, I can crack the whip and yell on my megaphone. I’ll run a tight ship for sure. I can push a wheelbarrow!! I can spackle! I can call for loads of concrete and drag wire. We can get this done in like, four days, tops.
I am so SAD.
I got a little emotional the other day. Sometimes you have those moments where you just know you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. An epiphany, if you will.
About a month ago, my friend Rhonda, the director of the library (don’t tell her I idolize her job just a little bit), called me up in the wee hours of the day. Obviously, she was trying to catch me while my guard was down so I would agree to her little plan. I hadn’t had my coffee. Something about a Seed Swap, that wasn’t on the National Holiday, but it was close enough, and could I say a little something about soil? Why sure because CLEARLY I’m qualified after seven months at a job. But I agreed because namely, it just sounds like a day we’d have snow. January 19th. When I went to write on my old school blotter, I discovered it was a Saturday. That sly wench!
Nonetheless, I assembled 27 folders full of valuable literature, soil sample boxes and forms, several posters, and my ever-present blue board.
I loaded up Maggie for my presentation. Presentation. Snort. We’ll see about that. I didn’t want to get in over my head, so I just printed some Fun Facts About Dirt off the NRCS website.
Fortunately, she had me paired up with my good friend Jim from the City, and he is nothing if not knowledgeable about all things that grow. He has been invaluable to me in my new capacity, knowing more about my job than I do. So I knew he could willingly serve as my crutch if I got in a bind.
He went first, for the scheduled first hour. He did a wonderful job! I learned a lot about container gardening. He gives sound advice and his results found all over the city speak for him as well. He’s known for cultivating hard-to-grow plants, and has even introduced several tropical varieties that have surprisingly thrived. He’s a genius of the plant world! The longer I listened, the bigger the ball of inadequacy grew in my stomach. I would just do it like I do everything else in life: wing it, and hope for the best. Thankfully, Rhonda didn’t want me to talk the whole hour or I would really be hurting.
So when it was my turn, I stepped behind the lectern and gave my biggest, most endearing smile. I can be quite winsome, if I do say so myself. “Hello, I’m Amy. And while Jim is perfectly comfortable talking about his job that he’s been working at for eighteen years, I have been at mine for six months. So I’m sure to pale in comparison.”
I told the story of how Jim and I go way back, to when he was new in town and I was new at the Co-op. In those days, I served as a floater. It was great. About the time I got bored in one department, I went to another to give a lunch break for someone. It was not unusual to find me in three departments in three hours. Hence, Jim thinking I was a triplet. He would come in of the morning and I would be on the front counter, selling plants. Lunchtime would find me at the gas window. And of the afternoon, I’d be piled up at the back counter, shooting and selling fertilizer. He would come in several times in the course of a day buying mulch and other supplies and everywhere he went, there I was. I assured them I was qualified to do what I do, as I had worked for the Co-op for thirteen years. I told them I may not be able to answer any intricate questions they had about Soil Conservation, but I could certainly school them on just about anything the Co-op sells.
I got down to business.
“First thing’s first. The most important thing to remember is, ‘We’re the government and we’re here to help.'”
I paused to let the laughter die down.
Except there was none. Tough crowd. I kinda giggled, to show them it was a joke, and elaborated, “Most people are scared to seek assistance through the government, afraid of what might get put on their radar. But I want to assure you, my office is non-regulatory. We’re just here for technical assistance and funding. Most of our customers are large scale, but we do offer cost share on high-tunnels. Anything to help with good water and land stewardship–we want to help you! And you can call with other questions, too. Believe me, I get calls about obtaining a passport, how to register to vote, the number to the jail, and just this week somebody called wanting the number to Atchley’s Funeral Home.
“Yes, I helped. I’ve got Google!
“But the other thing I want you to remember is this: You will need a doctor several times in your life. If you’re lucky, you only need a lawyer once or twice. But you need a farmer three times a day.”
This is where I teared up. Here I stood, in one of the greatest institutions ever devised by our forefathers, and a very personal love to me, talking about my passion: farming. It was almost more than I could bear. All my life had perfectly aligned to bring me here. Farmers get a bad rap; vegetarians don’t like them, they think it’s cruel to kill an animal for food when we could subsist on vegetables. Crunchy granola types think we should be able to live in harmony with the boll weevil and the tobacco worm and kill them humanely on a case by-case basis. Certain political parties think we could do without hiring migrant laborers to work in the fields daylight till dark. And then the work’s still not done- you just move inside to artificial lighting to work on machinery. Farmers are legalized gamblers. They are totally at the mercy of God and Mother Nature to provide weather in order to produce enough crops to live on. Are any other professions so dependent on that? Farming is the backbone of our country, of the world. If you don’t eat, you don’t survive.
So, back to me nearly crying in front of a bunch of backyard gardeners.
“You need a farmer three times a day,” I repeated, trying to make sure it stuck.
I walked them through the literature in their packets, told them to take some posters, and opened the floor for discussion. Of course I got 27 deer-in-the-headlight looks, but Jim bailed me out. We talked about native trees, grasses, and shrubs, I gave them some insight on the benefits of earthworms, and then we got to talking about bees. Thankfully, there was a beekeeper in the group and I eventually just eased away to make myself a craft. Behold, the seed ball.
I think the day was a success. Even if I did get a tad emotional.
I don’t have much of a heart. Most of y’all know this to be true. It’s not that I don’t have a heart, exactly, it’s that I’m stingy about who I feel compassion and empathy towards. A lot of people out there aren’t truly grief stricken, or sick, or poverty level, they are simply desiring attention. I have no patience for these people. I also strongly dislike the ones who take advantage of the system. Able-bodied individuals who seek out funding through good-hearted folks or the government. I see it regularly, people looking for handouts in parking lots, gas stations, walking into random businesses, begging at churches. And these GoFundMe pages are panhandling via internet, plain and simple. NOT that I’m saying there aren’t plenty of deserving citizens out there-but the ones who are taking advantage make it that much harder for the truly deserving crowd to get the help they need.
My office is situated directly across from a low-income clinic. I’m not precisely sure how it works, but I know its purpose is to serve the needy and uninsured. All day long, I watch as a parade of young people in souped up cars jounce in and out. They seem to get around just fine. Not sure what they go there seeking, as it is not a pain clinic, but whatever. I tell you what I’d do…but I didn’t take the doctor’s oath.
I’d make a mighty poor doctor. My advice seems to always be the same, “Suck it up. Here’s a tangerine.”
Anyway. I went out to the mailbox this absolutely frigid morning (I’m talking of the caliber to freeze your nose hairs in place) and I noticed an old bent lady making her way to the entrance of the clinic. She was stooped and shuffling, leaning on a younger man’s arm. I imagined he was her son. Her hair was parted and white, almost the color of her sweater. It made me stop in my tracks. If my tear ducts hadn’t been frozen, I’m afraid they would have leaked.
She was the type of person who really needed this kind of institution. She was old, and her supplemental insurance or Medicare probably wouldn’t do much to cover a visit to her general practitioner. She was legitimately sick, you could tell just from the way she walked. And even though she was old, and sick, and poor, she had dressed in actual clothes. She wasn’t wearing her pajamas and flip flops. She had gotten up (early) and made an effort to look her best.
I’m not blaming doctors for charging what they do. They have bills, too: rent for their office space, equipment, insurance for malpractice suits- I don’t EVEN want to think about what that costs-, and of course they’re paying back their student loans for pretty much their entire working life. It’s disgusting. And just like the rest of us, they’re paying taxes, and have a mortgage, and a car payment and all the things that make up a life. No, I don’t blame the doctors.
I blame people who are here illegally, working for cash, who pocket more a week than the average person sees in three months. I blame the lazy, who are able to work but would rather work at getting all they can from the TAX PAYING CITIZENS. These are the ones who go to the free clinics because there’s no requirement to show your wages, there’s no paperwork to prove you have insurance, there’s no judgmental eyes on you from the righteous seated in the waiting room. Because 90% of them are just. Like. You. They suck the funds dry and there’s nothing left for the deserving. and lets face it, most of the older generation isn’t internet savvy and not sure where to apply to get help. AND DON’T GET ME STARTED ON THE SORRY BENEFITS FOR OUR VETERANS.
I hope that some of these worthless rats came in yesterday and saw the hunched woman sitting there, patiently waiting her turn to be seen from a tired, overworked, underappreciated doctor or nurse practitioner, bent from a racking cough.
And I hope they left. Because they aren’t sick. They’re just killing time till their next high, getting what they can off people who have the desire to do no harm.
Leeches.
There may not be any judgmental eyes in the waiting room, but there is a pair across the street. And I’m not sorry.
I should probably use this prompt to go off on a tangent. There are many controversial subjects itching at my fingertips, but instead, I’m gonna write about this:
The handwritten note.
I remember in fourth grade, our entire class had pen pals. They lived in San Bernardino, California. Mine was a boy….I think his name was Derek. It could just as easily have been Daniel. Or David. Or Eric. Or Steve. Who knows, the letters are long gone but I remember wanting to continue writing after we finished our required number of correspondence. Of course we didn’t. He was game, but somebody has to take initiative and no doubt, I had a horse to brush or a book to read. I wonder what ever happened to him. Where our lives have taken us since those long ago carefree days. He could be a firefighter or a lawyer or a park ranger. He could be pouring asphalt or working on cars or cutting up asparagus.
He could have a houseful of kids or maybe he’s in prison for beating his wife. He could be a jewelry maker or living under a bridge. He could be living in Portugal or Paris, or maybe even East Tennessee. It’s untelling. And he could be gone already.
I’m a big believer in thank you notes. And I still owe a few. If you’ve ever received one from me, you probably had to decipher it the best you could, as I am not known for my fine penmanship. I’ve been told I missed my calling as a doctor (by my nurse friends, who would know). But I love writing them. I have a whole drawer full. And of course, my famous wax seals for the finishing touch. I’m not elegant, but my letters are! I got the idea from the only pen pal I have now, Miss Cheryl.
I met her, as I have so many, through the Co-op. I knew her husband first, as he called on me for herbicide expertise. We got some vicious plants in these here hollers. They were from arid Texas, where you can’t hardly get stuff to grow, and you definitely don’t want to kill what you do got. So Tennessee has been a bit of a challenge. But I know the correct ratio of methyl ethyl bad shit to kill it dry as the Mojave (and there is an herbicide by that name, it’s the knockoff of Sahara) and so I became somewhat invaluable to him. I called him LA, for Lower Alabama, except neither of us can recall why nowadays. But lemme tell you, his wife is fabulous. We share a similar taste in jewelry and books and love of travel. Needless to say, we always have plenty to talk about….or write to each other about. I owe her a note presently, as a matter of fact. She always makes a point to attend book club when she’s in town, and she fit right into our little group like a round peg. What’s not to love about someone who adores books and writes letters?
Dear friends and followers,
I hope this post has found you well. Perhaps it has persuaded you to head out to your local pharmacy for some nice cards and a pack or two of stickers. I encourage you to drop a line to someone who’s on your mind. I bet they’ll remember it much longer than they would a text (although those are nice, too). If you don’t have anyone worthy of a stamp, maybe think about a soldier or a kid at St. Jude. Never underestimate the power of the written word. They will endure when we are only dust, because life is but a vapor.
Farewell,
Amy of Appalachia
Well, this is involved.
I’ve just picked up Jewel’s Never Broken today. As in, I actually opened the cover, not went out to the store and bought it. I’ve had it for awhile. But here’s a link, if you’re so inclined to have your own copy. I love her. https://amzn.to/2TcG39I
It starts with an “Ode To My Fortieth Birthday” style poem, which I found poignant. I’m not even fifty pages in, and she’s breaking my heart. I feel a kindred spirit to Jewel, always have. She loves the wilderness and grew up out in the Alaskan territory on horseback. She writes many of her own songs, and I admire her resiliency. I think this will be an insightful book, not only into her life, but mine as well.
If I weren’t so ashamed of my library right now, I’d post a few pictures of it. How ’bout I just post some oldies instead?
Welcome to my abode.
I have read a great many of these pictured, but I would say 50% remain unread. I just love them. This is my utopia. It’s a dream I’ve always had, to be able to walk into my own library and select a book at random. I’m pretty sure I’ll like whatever I’ve picked up because, after all, it’s mine. But I will ponder and choose and deliberate over them for awhile before I ever settle on one. And I’ll stack up ones to put on my “short list” by the couch….and it grows exponentially all year. I probably read a quarter of them.
I’m out of control. Tracy, the self appointed executor of my literary estate, agrees. But she condones it too, because in the event of my untimely death, she inherits the vast majority (Lisa, you get first dibs on 25, as previously discussed, and the lot of you may choose one each). And don’t be talkin’ ’bout all my pencil marks! It’s a disease, and no treatment is known.
I think all of you like to read, or you wouldn’t bother reading all my day to day mundane ramblings. Trust me, there are a great many authors out there who possess a greater gift than me. It’s hard for me to recommend books to the masses, whereas if I know you on a personal level I could probably inundate you with a list to keep you busy for years. So I won’t spew the virtues of all my favorites, but if you need a recommendation, drop me a comment.
You know I don’t read emails.
I’m out of order and all to hell and I’m sorry. I had written a few blogs as bonuses and then got out of whack and so I’m trying to do better this week. Maybe if it snows I can get caught up. I’m apologizing to myself as much as you, because I need to write as much as I need to breathe. And here we go.
{WP #635 The real reason people have freckles}
As a child, I remember a sweet red haired lady telling me not to be embarrassed by my freckles, that they were God’s kisses. Obviously, she was as Irish as they come.
But NOW I know the real reason.
Those of us born under a waxing crescent or a full strawberry moon in June are fey. That is, magic. If you’ve ever known someone who was energetic and charismatic, chances are they are Gemini. If they were of these moons, they are also spritely. They probably drive you a little crazy. They can’t help it. It’s like their brains can only light on subjects for a short while and then they’re distracted by dandelion seeds floating on the breeze and they must follow them to find where they lead. You’ll know them by their freckles.
Usually they have to come into their “power”, for lack of a better term. They are often ridiculed as children, because they look slightly different. They have trouble concentrating, unless the subject interests them. Math does not interest them in the slightest, so don’t try. They like frequent change and bright colors, mesmerized by nature and water. A cute upturned nose, sparkling eyes, and sharp wit often characterize these imps. They are imaginative and whimsical, often developing into artists or writers. They become accepted by a rare few who recognize their charm. And the love they reciprocate will warm you to your soul.
But never betray them, for they possess another gift: the ability to make you uneasy. It doesn’t sound so bad…but think about it. You feel like someone is forever lurking in the shadows, you begin to have bad dreams, you’re never totally relaxed. For all the times you knew you were beloved, now you feel that a frigid cloud has descended. They have taken away their protection. It was once so indistinct you never perceived it but now…you feel exposed and cold. The light has dimmed. If you ever encounter them again, they cut you to slivers with their blue or green eyes. And if you cross another, you wonder why they are so remote. The freckles network, dontcha know?
Whip smart and witty, these fairy dusted friends bring just a bit of joy into your days that you never knew was lacking before. They are your sprinkles. Cherish them, for they aren’t long for this world.
Every time I think about Batman, all I can think of is this blue heeler I once knew. They have very pointy upright ears. I was lying on the couch, watching a movie, the lights down low. The dog heard something that we didn’t, and sat up slowly with perked ears. All you could really make out was the silhouette.
“I’m Batman,” Greg said.
I nearly fell off the couch laughing.
Batman Forever was a movie I watched in the movies right after it came out. I fell in love with Chris O’Donnel and have never truly recovered. I kinda think Meredith is warped for not pursuing the relationship with him on Grey’s Anatomy. He was a vet, after all. Two points.
And that’s all I have to say about that.
I’m gonna tell y’all one story, although I have hundreds relating to deer.
It is the account of the one time I went deer hunting.
I know what you’re thinking: “Amy? In the woods? To shoot a deer?” I know, it’s preposterous. There are ticks there. And deer are graceful and agile and beautiful….and I’m so decidedly NOT.
I was eleven years old. My uncle, having decided there were no boys forthcoming in the family, had taken me under his supervision for all things outdoors. It started simply enough, with frisbee throwing. I was the blue ribbon winner of my Kindergarten class on Field Day. And Field “Day” used to be a week, in my glory days. But it looked weird when I typed it.
Uncle Dale also taught me a great many more things, including varieties of trees, how to tie my lures, how to fish, how to clean a fish, how to double knot my shoelaces so I wouldn’t eat dirt, how to shoot a pistol, a rifle, AND a muzzleloader. I assisted him when he processed deer, and I picked up sticks for the duration of my childhood under his watchful eye. He gave me my first dog and my first knife. He gave me $5.00 for my own crawdad lure, but he didn’t buy me a My Little Pony kite from McDonalds. He’s paid for that one a million times over, and finally came in with a sub-par Barbie kite a few years ago. As adults, we fight over Shirley’s apple stack cake and pester each other until I’m almost in tears.
But, on this particular fall day, I was short on sleep and he was short on patience. I had recently completed my Hunter’s Safety class in my 6th grade year. That’s hard to wrap my head around now. Mr. Wade, the Principal, instructed us on firearms and target shooting. At the end of the course, we all piled in an old school bus and went out to the lake to shoot skeet and have a picnic. We were ELEVEN years old. Eleven-year-olds nowadays wear safety pins to express their harmlessness and keep their nose buried in their phones. Snapchatting, as I understand it. That’s probably not the word they use. I still recall most of what I learned, and have had to instruct several grown men of two hard and fast rules: Treat every firearm as if it’s loaded, and be absolutely sure of your target before pulling the trigger.
Men are stupid.
Anyway, back to that frosty morning.
I had spent the night at their house because we were leaving way before the crack of dawn to drive to Nowhere, Tennessee. I couldn’t tell you to this day where we went. Some guy named Mansel owned the farm. I got suited up, I remember him helping me lace my boots (Brenda’s, they were a little big, but I had on like, three pairs of socks) at the kitchen table. I think we had a biscuit before getting on the road.
Well, it started before we ever got to the road. I was slumped against the door, thinking about how warm and cozy I had been, when he snaps, “You gonna start the day off deaf?” and got out and slammed the door. Evidently he had requested I shut the gate. Ah, well.
Listening to Patsy Cline and the tires on the red Ford sing, I fell asleep again. When I woke up, we were there. Which, as I stated before, was nowhere. And so began our long journey to the ridge. Over the river and through the woods, indeed. I was sweating by the time we finally stopped, as hiking was not my custom. Riding horses, yes. Laying on my bed reading and eating Snickers, yes. Tromping through the thicket in boots two sizes too big, wearing insulated coveralls, hauling a backpack, and carrying a shotgun…no. And the fallen leaves were so dense they came halfway up my shin! I was so relieved to finally collapse on the sodden log I would have fallen asleep again but I had to pee so bad it was keeping me awake. But the thought of peeling off my sixteen layers and exposing my backside to the below freezing temperature was not appealing. So I suffered in silence.
It was at this point the sun began to make its ascent. The warmth it generated caused me to close my eyes in contentment.
“Can’t shoot no deer with your eyes closed,” my uncle growled from beside me.
I should clarify something here, as I’m making him out to be a bit of a villain. I wanted to go on this little excursion. I had mistakenly thought I wanted to shoot a deer. Turns out, I just wanted to be able to compete with Stephanie for bragging rights. Stephanie is my aunt Brenda’s niece on her side. She had shot a buck on her juvenile hunt. I couldn’t be shown up. I had to remain at the top of the food chain of favorites.
With my eyes open, I could concentrate in turn on needing to pee and hypothermia. I had already counted my self dead. I would die right here, frozen to this moss covered log. I would deteriorate with the leaves unless Uncle Dale found it in his heart to drag me off the mountain. By the time they would be able to get the four wheeler to me, the coyotes will have ripped my limbs from my body and began to gorge on my intestines…
“Well, we ain’t seeing nothing here, let’s walk a ways up the ridge.”
Whaaaaaa???? UP the ridge?! Correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought we were on the pinnacle already. Oh dear….
“I gotta pee,” I said.
He walked off to leave me to it. I tried to hurry to catch up before he was totally out of sight, and in my haste, slipped on some slickety leaves and went down. In an effort to gain traction, I stuck the barrel of the shotgun in the dirt. This was most definitely the wrong thing to do. I got a strong talking-to about how we were going to have to clean it right then and there to avoid an accident in the event I actually had to fire.
We eventually got back on track, walking across a strip mine to get to the next destination he had so carefully plotted. I remember a stream. I remember eating the lunch Brenda had so lovingly packed for me and my long day of adventure. Peanut butter and crackers too. Always peanut butter and crackers. Which, of course, I crunched too loudly. My head was beginning to hurt. Probably a side effect of hypothermia.
I prayed vehemently we wouldn’t see a single deer. I didn’t want to shoot one. They were too pretty. What had I been thinking??? Deer tasted good but I couldn’t look in their liquid chocolate eyes and end it! “Please, no deer. No deer, no deer, no-deer-no-deer-no-deer…” I chanted silently in my head.
It was early afternoon when we spooked up the spike. I remember the dappled sunshine and how he lunged up the hillside. Uncle Dale instructing me to pull the gun, the white flag tail making a break for it. It was like I was in a trance. Uncle Dale all but tore the gun from me, disengaged the safety, and shoved it back into my gloved hands. By then it was too late. Too late for me, anyway. The deer would live to eat another acorn.
And I was so glad.
I know Uncle Dale was beyond disappointed in me as he recounted the day’s events to the landowner. But I was tired and I ached all over. I was thankful I didn’t have to gut a deer and drag it back to the truck. I crawled into the cab of the old Ford and slept.
I woke up hot and sick as a dog. I puked and puked and my head was busting.
And that, my friends, is the story of my first and last deer hunt.
