Grace for a Girl

"Tradition"

Deep in the soul of my family is a trait that lies hidden for most of the year but becomes manifest in mid-November. Hunting is our heritage, it's become a tradition handed down for generations.

The transformation comes about a week before deer season. Table conversation shifts from politics and homework to antler size and deer sightings. Suddenly nobody gives you a funny look for butting into a conversation with new information about buck sign somebody saw somewhere.

The last week in October we go down to Grandpa's farm to sight in the guns. With awed silence we take our guns out of the cabinet. The polished stocks and long barrels gleam like old friends. Now Grandpa has a modern sighting table, stool and sighting rest, but up until a few years ago, it was an old desk with homemade sand bags. We hand a target on the old oak tree; Dad and Grandpa have been sighting in their guns on that oak since Dad was 10. As I sit on the comfortable chair and aim at the target, I envision the soft brown of a buck, make that a 14-point buck, moving into my scope, stopping in line with my cross-hairs...BOOM!!! Dad gives me a wry grin. I've missed the bulls eye by 6 inches. I watch the buck leaping away...while Dad adjusts my scope.

Finally the hallowed "Friday Before" comes. we haul out the dusty tree stands and carrying packs; snow pants and orange parkas resurface once again. We all pile into the old 2 by 4 truck that has been hauling us around since I was born--16 years ago. It's and extended cab but it feels like they just crammed the extra seats in without bothering to extend anything. by the time we reach Grandpa's place, I am insanely jealous of the excess room sardines have in their cans.

I love the feeling of freedom that surrounds us at Deer Camp. My brother Josiah takes full advantage of his burping rights.

When we enter the house, aromas waft around us, beckoning us to the table. The table groans with its load. Creamed corn, like a fluffy golden cloud, sets in the center. Tender pork roasts adorned with some delightful sauce taunt me. Fresh bread, still warm, is next to the butter. Then somebody starts the storytelling and we reminisce about hunting yarns of years gone by.

We kids listen in awe as Dad and Grandpa describe colorful characters such as "Speed", who was named for his lack thereof. He had the same general shape as a fishing bobber and was always appearing in the most hilarious stories. Then there were tales about "The Big One" that got away, or that legendary lucky shot, "I dropped it in its tracks..."

Always, we ask about the "Ham and Raisin Sauce" story. No, Grandpa shakes his head, "I only tell that one every twenty years."

5:17 a.m. Saturday morning brings a rude awakening. I begin to wonder why I wanted to hunt in the first place. Slowly I trudge up the stairs. Soon I am pulling one of those big floppy orange stocking caps over my head: you know the kind that you can pull down to your chin, fold up about 7 inches, and still have a little dome on the top of your head. Soon we are sitting in the stand.

I usually divide sitting in the stand into about three segments. The first 5 minutes are wonderful; the next half-an-hour or so is quite tolerable; the rest is a sit-out contest between me and Time: Time always wins.

Within 15 minutes I've broken my first resolution to sit still. After that the resolutions come and go at a rate of about one minute. During the last hour, questions begin racing through my mind; questions like: Am I really sitting on a cushion or is it a rock? Why did I get up this morning: Is it just me or have we been sitting here for about three days? I feel myself going crazy; Pain is good...pain is goon... I chant to myself.

Eventually I hear the words I've been waiting for.

"Let's go in," Dad says. What an angel he is. I have new respect, not to mention sudden and overwhelming gratitude, for my dad now.

Soon I find myself sitting in the back seat of the truck on the way to do a few drives. Dad pulls up at Grandpa's quarter section and I follow him and Josh across the field. We've jumped a deer from this quarter section every year; it's always our first drive on opening morning. We approach the strand of trees from downwind. Dad walks around to the left, and Josh takes the other side. I take the middle, so I can push the deer towards them. I take deep breaths of the fresh air and admire the ancient cottonwoods rising majestically from the long grass. Suddenly gunshots explode on my left. I hurry to join the excitement. Actually, I try, but "Hurry" is not easily accomplished when I'm walking in grass that's over my head. Dad is grinning.

"He's down," Josh reassures me. My heart pounds on my rib cage as if it is trying to break out. Even Buck fever is a welcome tradition.

In the evening, I find myself again sitting around the supper table. This time Dad relates to Grandpa our adventures. He and Josh have both shot a buck. When everyone looks expectantly at me, I tell them I'm waiting for the big one.

The next day, Sunday, we sit in the stand again. By the afternoon, the wind has picked up and it is time to go home.

On the way home the others talk and chatter excitedly about the next weekend. They don't want to look beyond that yet. I know that deer season will end soon, but the tradition must never end.