January 24, 2025 • 20 mins
In everything, there is a beginning and an end. We can usually control the onset of the things we choose to do, but our final day of participation is sometimes chosen for us. Brent's relating a listener's story about a first squirrel hunt and telling another one that describes a final deer hunt, which had quite an effect on him. Gather up and get easy, it's time for MeatEater's This Country Life podcast.
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Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:05):
Welcome to This Country Life. I'm your host, Brent Reeves
from coon hunting to trot lining and just general country living.
I want you to stay a while as I share
my experiences in life lessons. This Country Life is presented
by Case Knives on Meat Eaters Podcast Network, bringing you
the best outdoor podcast the airwaves have to offer. All right, friends,
(00:28):
grab a chair or drop that tailgate. I've got some
stories to share. A first and last, A first and last,
the beginning in the end. If there is a start
to anything, there will most definitely always be an end.
(00:49):
We can plan for the beginning, but the end is
hardly ever known. From a first world hunt to a
last deer hunt, we never know when they'll end, but
we hope that the last one will be as memorable
as the first. I've got what I believe are great
examples of each and I'm going to share them with
you now, starting with this story. There are four states
(01:11):
in the US that refer to themselves as Commonwealth states, Kentucky, Massachusetts, Pennsylvania,
and Virginia, the home of this country Life listener who
shared the following narrative from forty four years ago. So
when his words in my voice. Here we go. My
(01:36):
name is Howard Howie Toler from Bluefield, Virginia. My story
takes us back to nineteen eighty when I was ten
and October was quickly approaching, and I was eagerly awaiting
the time to come when my dad, my uncle, older
cousins hitch up my dad's camper to the white jeep
grand Wagoneer with wood grain panels and head out to
(01:59):
Greenbrier County, West Virginia for my first squirrel hunting trip.
I've been hearing the guys telling their hunting tales for
as long as I could remember, and I absolutely could
not wait to get out in the woods. I remember
being on the top bunk. I thought I had won
the toss and got the best sleeping position, but I
(02:22):
was soon reminded that heat and the exhaust of the
other guys following chilly with beans for dinner, rises and
hangs out right on top with me, and being a camper,
there were only a few valuable inches of airspace between
my nose and the ceiling. I certainly didn't I get
much sleep that night before opening. The morning excitement and
(02:47):
the strange smells and lack of sounds except for the
occasional acron bouncing off the roof of our camper kept
me from getting much more than a few non consecutive
hours of sleep. Bout the time I got good and asleep,
the mallet on that old wind up alarm clock started
banging away at its two bells. Someone, and I'm not
sure who, smacked that obnoxious clock and bounced it off
(03:10):
the wall, putting an abrupt end to all the racket.
Now I shot up, I sung the covers off, and
I swear it seemed like I had my boots on
before it hit the floor. Everyone was squeezing past each
other in the narrow camper, stepping over boxes and duffel bags,
trying to get dressed, getting the day's snacks packed, and
slurped down a cup of coffee. Except Dad. He just
(03:32):
laid in his bunk, looking at his foot that was
sticking out from under the cover. Two things to know
about my dad. Everyone called him Fudd, and because of
an unfortunate accident in the coal mine, he had only
nine toes. Sometime during the night someone had tied a
game tag who his toe next to the one that
was missing, and rode on it. Fud gone to market
(03:56):
be back soon. It was probably the the funniest thing
I had witnessed in my ten years, and Dad was
quick to say it's not many people to get to
see their toe tag and live the tell A Mountain. Well.
Soon after me and Dad were parked on the lot,
me looking uphiling him downhill. Or at least that's what
he said. I had no idea because it was still
(04:18):
dark to say I was a little uneasy sitting in
the pitch black in the woods was an understanding. I
was sure every twig and falling up with some unseen
toothy beasts planning to make breakfast out of me. The
Dad kept scooting me down, saying if I get any closer,
I had to get in his pocket. Soon enough that
old son did what it does and started to rise
(04:39):
above the ridge. I got my first looks at where
I'd been sitting, and even though it was really no
different than the woods I played in behind the house,
I was certain that our four feet were the only
ones to ever leave tracks in that portion of the wilderness.
And even though that wagoneer that we had rode in
on was within sight just to hundred yards away, it
(05:02):
was shooting like now Dad pulled out a three inch
number five four to ten shell from his pocket and
told me to load up, but don't close the breech
on my single shot. We sat there on that log
for what seemed like days but was probably only an
hour or so, and Dad reached over and took the
shell from my gun and told me come on, close
her up. And we stood up, and I snapped the
(05:23):
four tenth closed, and I followed him over the ridge
to another spot, where we repeated the process of finding
the log and looking in the office of directions again,
not so much as a chipmunk made an appearance. My
dreams of shooting herds the squirrels from the tree off
were quickly fading and bored them cold, and my butt
getting numb on that damp log started setting in. By
(05:46):
now it was close to time to head back to
camp for lunch. I think my dad knew I was
losing a little my excitement, so since we were leaving anyway,
we found an old vial in the sausage can, stuck
it on the branch and stepped off a few paces,
added me a shell. Let me shoot my gun and
kill that camp. I was glad to do it. We
(06:08):
headed back to camp, and after lunch, Dad knew another
place where he had found squirrel cuttings under some hickory trees.
We parked ourselves on another log, looked in the opposite
directions again, and I got my shell in my open breach.
Four to ten and I'm ready. I was beginning to
question repeating this same approach to squirrel hunting. Walk and sit,
walk and sit, walk and sit. My thoughts were wondering
(06:31):
where everything ten year old boys ponder on, namely Daisy duke,
and watch that weird bug? And can't I squish it
with a stick that I'm playing with. I pretty much
giving up on looking for squirrels and basically just keeping
Dad company while he hunted. Suddenly, a flash of movement
and a tree caught my attention. I'm thinking, sesh, another
(06:54):
stupid bird. Ain't gonna minute. That bird has a fuzzy tail,
be Dad, it was a squirrel. Dad slowly glanced over
his shoulder and began scanning to locate what I was seeing,
and in short order he locked on Son, get ready,
that's a big one at a snail's pace. He swung
(07:15):
his legs over that log and it was now facing
the same direction as me. We watched and waited while
that squirrel worked its way closer and in de range
and my shotgun. Finally it was close enough and stopped
while it sat in the crotch of a limb on
a tree, just nibbling at a hick or none. Dad said,
go ahead and shoot, and for whatever reason, I stood
(07:37):
up and got down on one knee like I was
going to ask that squirrel to marry me. I rolled
the hammer back, I settled the bead, and bang. I
recovered from the shot, and my squirrel was still where
it was when I shot, only now it was on
the trunk, pointing upward toward the kenomy. Dad handed me
another shell, but that squirrel lost his grip and fell
(07:59):
with a thud walking up. I knew it was a
whopper of a fox squirrel, but it wasn't dead. Dad
got it by the tail and entered it suffering by
swinging it and thumping its head on a tree. I
was a little shocked by the violence of it all,
and I remember feeling slightly guilty for what we just did. Now.
(08:19):
Later on, my dad remarked that if there ever comes
a time when you don't have a little remorse for
taking a life. It's time to quit hunting. We got
back to camp first, and I couldn't wait for the
others to make it back so I could show off
my price. Soon enough, everyone started straggling in. I had
it all planned out. I'd wait for everyone to get back,
(08:42):
and when they all pulled up today's squirrels and began
the cleaning process, I'd throw my whopper down on top
of the pile and soak in all the adulations in
the backslaps. And just like I planned, my uncle cousins
had a pile of gray squirrels and on wase a
nice fox squirrel that they were proud of. Everyone was
telling the stories of how their squirrels came to be
(09:03):
in the game vest Now they just commenced to clean
the squirrels when I walked up and dropped mine on
top of the pile like an old West gambler throwing
down a straight flush, and said, bam, boys, sure enough,
the holy cows, the good gullies, and the way that
goes started just like I planned, and I finally had
(09:23):
a hunting tale to share. Now that old fox squirrel
ended up in a pot with dumplings, and Dad always
regretted not having that squirrel mounted for me, but I
never really cared that he didn't. I had a memory
and a tale to tale that has stayed with me
for nearly forty five years. I had more adventures and
taking bigger and better game, but that fox squirrel back
(09:44):
in nineteen eighty is my favorite memory. Dad and my
uncle are gone now, but they are with me every
opening morning the squirrel season, and sometimes I'll chuckle out
loud thinking about Dad's to tag and a note from
the little piggy went to market. And according to Howie
Toller of Bluefield, Virginia, that's just how that happened, now,
(10:08):
how We included a picture of that day of him,
a skinny ten year old boy, his dad, a pile
of squirrels on the ground, a normal sized fox squirrel
in his left hand, and trophy in his right that's
as big as a small child. Thanks for sharing, Howie.
If you're interested in seeing that picture, check out my Instagram.
(10:37):
It was open the day of gun deer season in
Arkansas over twenty years ago, and I was working uniform
patrol as a lieutenant and the day shift supervisor. My
sheriff was deer hunting, my major was deer hunting, and
the Captain was deer hunting. They were all only a
phone called away from working, but if nothing happened, they
would only see the reports about what took place in
(10:59):
their absence. So why was I working on opening Day? Well,
I just answered my own question. All the admin folks
were off. The standard operating procedure was anything that happened
requiring additional personnel to be called out, like CID or
narcotics or the coroner. My immediate supervisor would have to
be notified, and then he would determine if it was
(11:21):
to be passed on up the chain of command and
so on. Also, I was leading by example and showing
the deputies in my charge that I was willing to
work so one of them could enjoy the on set
of firearm season at their family's camp. It was an
excellent example of leadership. It was also a testament of
my misreading the schedule weeks before when that deputy had
(11:44):
put in for his request to be off duty. Nice job,
Stephen Vestel. Anyway, there I was working when I didn't
have to, and on a day when I didn't have to,
I wanted to be off hunting with my but it
would turn out to be one of the best days
at work ever, not the best, but ride up there
(12:07):
close the day that stands out in the top ten
percent of a thirty two year career. Of that in
itself speaks volumes of how it affected one singular event
out of literally thousands of interactions that to this day.
When someone asks for a story, this one comes to mind,
but I seldom tell it, not because I don't think
(12:28):
they'll appreciate it, because I don't know if they'll appreciate
it enough. Besides, most folks only want to hear the
stories when someone winds up not being amongst the living
before it's overwhet. Those are the ones that I wish
I could forget, the ones that I don't talk about
unless it's to someone who was there in a setting
where folks that weren't can't hear us, and even then
(12:52):
no details, usually just to pass and mention of remember
such and such, Yep, that was a bad one, and
then we go on we talk about something else, but
I think about them often. Then there's this story, and
it's one where someone passes away and you hear it
(13:12):
in a few moments, and if you see it in
your head the way I saw it that day, I
think you'll agree. Why it's not one that I choose
to share in the idle conversation deserves some reverence. I
wrote this today. It happened when I got off work.
I would eventually find out that all my assumptions in
(13:32):
the text of the story proved to be true. So
clear your mind and walk with you. Here we go.
I didn't know the old man. I had never met
him or even heard his name before when they told
me who he was. But I'll never forget him. The
(13:55):
old man's obituary, we'll read that he was in his
eighties and that a wife, chill, and grandchildren survive him.
It may mention that he was a veteran of World
War Two and was retired after a long career in
a mundane job somewhere that he worked to provide for
his family for the majority of his adult life. It
may even remark that the old man was an outdoorsman.
(14:18):
But they'll never be able to convey on a pamphlet
handed out by an emphatically somber suit wearing funeral director
the way that old man went to Heaven. I know.
I know because I was fortunate enough to be able
to see what the old man saw. The call came
out from dispatch to meet up with a reporting party
(14:41):
at a deer camp in a rural portion of the county.
The ten coach she relayed to me over the radio
was one that meant there was an unattended death, Someone
had died alone. I was in that district and answered
the call this morning and met with one of the
camp members who would lead me to the place with
the the old man was. I got there, and I
(15:03):
walked the short distance to where the old man had
been hunting out behind the camp. The sky was clear
and the sun was shining through the trees and the
little oak flat where his ground blind was. The air
was crisp and just cold enough to stay warm wearing
a jacket if you were moving around, or if you
were sitting a thick wool lined antiquated canvas coat like
(15:26):
the old man had on. A short distance away was
a lean up stand that the members of his camp
had told me that they convinced him to abandon in
his failing health. One of the members built the ground
blind that faced this little flat where the cool breeze
blew water oak leaves from their limbs. They rustled around
like ripples in a pond, settling into a patchwork of
(15:48):
sunlight that dotted the area where we stood. There was
a small buck scrape in front of a blind, and
a few small red oaks that showed signs of where
a bucket recently rubbed his arms. Beside the blind was
a browning rifle leaned against an oak tree. The rifle
was old but immaculate. The bluing was worn, and there
(16:10):
was a few scratches here and there, but one could
see that this rifle belonged to a hunter. Maybe the
old man carried a different rifle many years ago when
he served our country. I don't know, but you can
bet that if he did carry one, it was kept
just as clean as this one. A short distance in
(16:31):
front of the blind lay a buck that was dropped
in his tracks by an old man using this old rifle.
And laying beside the deer was the old man. The
deer had been expertly feel dressed by someone who had
done it more than once, and among the old man's
few possessions inventory from his clothes was an old man's
(16:53):
pocket knife stained with the blood from his latest and
last deer, A single blade trapper sharp as a razor,
the blade thin from many trips up and down a
wet rock. I held it in my hand, and I
saw the pocket war that had rented, the logo, almost unreadable,
and the scales slick and polished from years of being
(17:14):
carried in his pocket, but immediately recognizable as to what
it was to anyone in my circle. I imagine the
old man sitting at the campfire at night, telling stories
or listening to him while he drank coffee and sharpened
his knife. Now I feel like he saw heaven twice
that day, the first time around nine fifteen in a
(17:36):
little oak flat where his body rested when I first
saw him. Nine point fifteen was the time recorded by
the old man on the tag that hung from the
bucks antlers. The second time he saw heaven was a
short time afterward, when he walked the wooded trail home
to be with his maker. What a beautiful day, in
(17:57):
a beautiful way to go to Heaven. I think about
that day now, over twenty years later, and while I
know there are folks who I'm sure still mourn the
loss of the old man. I feel privileged to have
been there as a witness to his last act of
being as close to creation as one could be while living,
(18:19):
And then a moment later, beside the one that created it,
he'd accomplished what he loved to do. He filled his
final tag in a place he'd hunted all his life,
the place he loved the most, And when he finished
the field work, he put everything in his place and
laid down to rest forever his heart for over eighty years,
(18:44):
faithfully matching the pace of his life, that simply played out,
And that was the end. That was the last. You know.
I shared that story on a private hunting group form
from back in the day, right after it happened, and
when you know it, a friend of a friend of
mine saw it and shared it with the old man's family.
(19:08):
A week or so after his passing. They reached out
to me and thanked me and told me they took
great comfort in hearing how I had interpreted the old
man's last morning. I'll never forget it, And as I
sit here now, I can still hear the cool wind
and the rustle of the leaves as they tumbled across
the ground, and feel the peace that was around us
(19:29):
all that November morning. Thank y'all so much for listening.
It is my absolute pleasure to bring these stories to
you each week and share them with you. Keep sharing
and spreading the word Old Clayboa and I appreciate it
very much. Until next week, this is Brent Reeve signing off.
(19:51):
Y'all be careful, King,
Welcome to This Country Life. I'm your host, Brent Reeves
from coon hunting to trot lining and just general country living.
I want you to stay a while as I share
my experiences in life lessons. This Country Life is presented
by Case Knives on Meat Eaters Podcast Network, bringing you
the best outdoor podcast the airwaves have to offer. All right, friends,
(00:28):
grab a chair or drop that tailgate. I've got some
stories to share. A first and last, A first and last,
the beginning in the end. If there is a start
to anything, there will most definitely always be an end.
(00:49):
We can plan for the beginning, but the end is
hardly ever known. From a first world hunt to a
last deer hunt, we never know when they'll end, but
we hope that the last one will be as memorable
as the first. I've got what I believe are great
examples of each and I'm going to share them with
you now, starting with this story. There are four states
(01:11):
in the US that refer to themselves as Commonwealth states, Kentucky, Massachusetts, Pennsylvania,
and Virginia, the home of this country Life listener who
shared the following narrative from forty four years ago. So
when his words in my voice. Here we go. My
(01:36):
name is Howard Howie Toler from Bluefield, Virginia. My story
takes us back to nineteen eighty when I was ten
and October was quickly approaching, and I was eagerly awaiting
the time to come when my dad, my uncle, older
cousins hitch up my dad's camper to the white jeep
grand Wagoneer with wood grain panels and head out to
(01:59):
Greenbrier County, West Virginia for my first squirrel hunting trip.
I've been hearing the guys telling their hunting tales for
as long as I could remember, and I absolutely could
not wait to get out in the woods. I remember
being on the top bunk. I thought I had won
the toss and got the best sleeping position, but I
(02:22):
was soon reminded that heat and the exhaust of the
other guys following chilly with beans for dinner, rises and
hangs out right on top with me, and being a camper,
there were only a few valuable inches of airspace between
my nose and the ceiling. I certainly didn't I get
much sleep that night before opening. The morning excitement and
(02:47):
the strange smells and lack of sounds except for the
occasional acron bouncing off the roof of our camper kept
me from getting much more than a few non consecutive
hours of sleep. Bout the time I got good and asleep,
the mallet on that old wind up alarm clock started
banging away at its two bells. Someone, and I'm not
sure who, smacked that obnoxious clock and bounced it off
(03:10):
the wall, putting an abrupt end to all the racket.
Now I shot up, I sung the covers off, and
I swear it seemed like I had my boots on
before it hit the floor. Everyone was squeezing past each
other in the narrow camper, stepping over boxes and duffel bags,
trying to get dressed, getting the day's snacks packed, and
slurped down a cup of coffee. Except Dad. He just
(03:32):
laid in his bunk, looking at his foot that was
sticking out from under the cover. Two things to know
about my dad. Everyone called him Fudd, and because of
an unfortunate accident in the coal mine, he had only
nine toes. Sometime during the night someone had tied a
game tag who his toe next to the one that
was missing, and rode on it. Fud gone to market
(03:56):
be back soon. It was probably the the funniest thing
I had witnessed in my ten years, and Dad was
quick to say it's not many people to get to
see their toe tag and live the tell A Mountain. Well.
Soon after me and Dad were parked on the lot,
me looking uphiling him downhill. Or at least that's what
he said. I had no idea because it was still
(04:18):
dark to say I was a little uneasy sitting in
the pitch black in the woods was an understanding. I
was sure every twig and falling up with some unseen
toothy beasts planning to make breakfast out of me. The
Dad kept scooting me down, saying if I get any closer,
I had to get in his pocket. Soon enough that
old son did what it does and started to rise
(04:39):
above the ridge. I got my first looks at where
I'd been sitting, and even though it was really no
different than the woods I played in behind the house,
I was certain that our four feet were the only
ones to ever leave tracks in that portion of the wilderness.
And even though that wagoneer that we had rode in
on was within sight just to hundred yards away, it
(05:02):
was shooting like now Dad pulled out a three inch
number five four to ten shell from his pocket and
told me to load up, but don't close the breech
on my single shot. We sat there on that log
for what seemed like days but was probably only an
hour or so, and Dad reached over and took the
shell from my gun and told me come on, close
her up. And we stood up, and I snapped the
(05:23):
four tenth closed, and I followed him over the ridge
to another spot, where we repeated the process of finding
the log and looking in the office of directions again,
not so much as a chipmunk made an appearance. My
dreams of shooting herds the squirrels from the tree off
were quickly fading and bored them cold, and my butt
getting numb on that damp log started setting in. By
(05:46):
now it was close to time to head back to
camp for lunch. I think my dad knew I was
losing a little my excitement, so since we were leaving anyway,
we found an old vial in the sausage can, stuck
it on the branch and stepped off a few paces,
added me a shell. Let me shoot my gun and
kill that camp. I was glad to do it. We
(06:08):
headed back to camp, and after lunch, Dad knew another
place where he had found squirrel cuttings under some hickory trees.
We parked ourselves on another log, looked in the opposite
directions again, and I got my shell in my open breach.
Four to ten and I'm ready. I was beginning to
question repeating this same approach to squirrel hunting. Walk and sit,
walk and sit, walk and sit. My thoughts were wondering
(06:31):
where everything ten year old boys ponder on, namely Daisy duke,
and watch that weird bug? And can't I squish it
with a stick that I'm playing with. I pretty much
giving up on looking for squirrels and basically just keeping
Dad company while he hunted. Suddenly, a flash of movement
and a tree caught my attention. I'm thinking, sesh, another
(06:54):
stupid bird. Ain't gonna minute. That bird has a fuzzy tail,
be Dad, it was a squirrel. Dad slowly glanced over
his shoulder and began scanning to locate what I was seeing,
and in short order he locked on Son, get ready,
that's a big one at a snail's pace. He swung
(07:15):
his legs over that log and it was now facing
the same direction as me. We watched and waited while
that squirrel worked its way closer and in de range
and my shotgun. Finally it was close enough and stopped
while it sat in the crotch of a limb on
a tree, just nibbling at a hick or none. Dad said,
go ahead and shoot, and for whatever reason, I stood
(07:37):
up and got down on one knee like I was
going to ask that squirrel to marry me. I rolled
the hammer back, I settled the bead, and bang. I
recovered from the shot, and my squirrel was still where
it was when I shot, only now it was on
the trunk, pointing upward toward the kenomy. Dad handed me
another shell, but that squirrel lost his grip and fell
(07:59):
with a thud walking up. I knew it was a
whopper of a fox squirrel, but it wasn't dead. Dad
got it by the tail and entered it suffering by
swinging it and thumping its head on a tree. I
was a little shocked by the violence of it all,
and I remember feeling slightly guilty for what we just did. Now.
(08:19):
Later on, my dad remarked that if there ever comes
a time when you don't have a little remorse for
taking a life. It's time to quit hunting. We got
back to camp first, and I couldn't wait for the
others to make it back so I could show off
my price. Soon enough, everyone started straggling in. I had
it all planned out. I'd wait for everyone to get back,
(08:42):
and when they all pulled up today's squirrels and began
the cleaning process, I'd throw my whopper down on top
of the pile and soak in all the adulations in
the backslaps. And just like I planned, my uncle cousins
had a pile of gray squirrels and on wase a
nice fox squirrel that they were proud of. Everyone was
telling the stories of how their squirrels came to be
(09:03):
in the game vest Now they just commenced to clean
the squirrels when I walked up and dropped mine on
top of the pile like an old West gambler throwing
down a straight flush, and said, bam, boys, sure enough,
the holy cows, the good gullies, and the way that
goes started just like I planned, and I finally had
(09:23):
a hunting tale to share. Now that old fox squirrel
ended up in a pot with dumplings, and Dad always
regretted not having that squirrel mounted for me, but I
never really cared that he didn't. I had a memory
and a tale to tale that has stayed with me
for nearly forty five years. I had more adventures and
taking bigger and better game, but that fox squirrel back
(09:44):
in nineteen eighty is my favorite memory. Dad and my
uncle are gone now, but they are with me every
opening morning the squirrel season, and sometimes I'll chuckle out
loud thinking about Dad's to tag and a note from
the little piggy went to market. And according to Howie
Toller of Bluefield, Virginia, that's just how that happened, now,
(10:08):
how We included a picture of that day of him,
a skinny ten year old boy, his dad, a pile
of squirrels on the ground, a normal sized fox squirrel
in his left hand, and trophy in his right that's
as big as a small child. Thanks for sharing, Howie.
If you're interested in seeing that picture, check out my Instagram.
(10:37):
It was open the day of gun deer season in
Arkansas over twenty years ago, and I was working uniform
patrol as a lieutenant and the day shift supervisor. My
sheriff was deer hunting, my major was deer hunting, and
the Captain was deer hunting. They were all only a
phone called away from working, but if nothing happened, they
would only see the reports about what took place in
(10:59):
their absence. So why was I working on opening Day? Well,
I just answered my own question. All the admin folks
were off. The standard operating procedure was anything that happened
requiring additional personnel to be called out, like CID or
narcotics or the coroner. My immediate supervisor would have to
be notified, and then he would determine if it was
(11:21):
to be passed on up the chain of command and
so on. Also, I was leading by example and showing
the deputies in my charge that I was willing to
work so one of them could enjoy the on set
of firearm season at their family's camp. It was an
excellent example of leadership. It was also a testament of
my misreading the schedule weeks before when that deputy had
(11:44):
put in for his request to be off duty. Nice job,
Stephen Vestel. Anyway, there I was working when I didn't
have to, and on a day when I didn't have to,
I wanted to be off hunting with my but it
would turn out to be one of the best days
at work ever, not the best, but ride up there
(12:07):
close the day that stands out in the top ten
percent of a thirty two year career. Of that in
itself speaks volumes of how it affected one singular event
out of literally thousands of interactions that to this day.
When someone asks for a story, this one comes to mind,
but I seldom tell it, not because I don't think
(12:28):
they'll appreciate it, because I don't know if they'll appreciate
it enough. Besides, most folks only want to hear the
stories when someone winds up not being amongst the living
before it's overwhet. Those are the ones that I wish
I could forget, the ones that I don't talk about
unless it's to someone who was there in a setting
where folks that weren't can't hear us, and even then
(12:52):
no details, usually just to pass and mention of remember
such and such, Yep, that was a bad one, and
then we go on we talk about something else, but
I think about them often. Then there's this story, and
it's one where someone passes away and you hear it
(13:12):
in a few moments, and if you see it in
your head the way I saw it that day, I
think you'll agree. Why it's not one that I choose
to share in the idle conversation deserves some reverence. I
wrote this today. It happened when I got off work.
I would eventually find out that all my assumptions in
(13:32):
the text of the story proved to be true. So
clear your mind and walk with you. Here we go.
I didn't know the old man. I had never met
him or even heard his name before when they told
me who he was. But I'll never forget him. The
(13:55):
old man's obituary, we'll read that he was in his
eighties and that a wife, chill, and grandchildren survive him.
It may mention that he was a veteran of World
War Two and was retired after a long career in
a mundane job somewhere that he worked to provide for
his family for the majority of his adult life. It
may even remark that the old man was an outdoorsman.
(14:18):
But they'll never be able to convey on a pamphlet
handed out by an emphatically somber suit wearing funeral director
the way that old man went to Heaven. I know.
I know because I was fortunate enough to be able
to see what the old man saw. The call came
out from dispatch to meet up with a reporting party
(14:41):
at a deer camp in a rural portion of the county.
The ten coach she relayed to me over the radio
was one that meant there was an unattended death, Someone
had died alone. I was in that district and answered
the call this morning and met with one of the
camp members who would lead me to the place with
the the old man was. I got there, and I
(15:03):
walked the short distance to where the old man had
been hunting out behind the camp. The sky was clear
and the sun was shining through the trees and the
little oak flat where his ground blind was. The air
was crisp and just cold enough to stay warm wearing
a jacket if you were moving around, or if you
were sitting a thick wool lined antiquated canvas coat like
(15:26):
the old man had on. A short distance away was
a lean up stand that the members of his camp
had told me that they convinced him to abandon in
his failing health. One of the members built the ground
blind that faced this little flat where the cool breeze
blew water oak leaves from their limbs. They rustled around
like ripples in a pond, settling into a patchwork of
(15:48):
sunlight that dotted the area where we stood. There was
a small buck scrape in front of a blind, and
a few small red oaks that showed signs of where
a bucket recently rubbed his arms. Beside the blind was
a browning rifle leaned against an oak tree. The rifle
was old but immaculate. The bluing was worn, and there
(16:10):
was a few scratches here and there, but one could
see that this rifle belonged to a hunter. Maybe the
old man carried a different rifle many years ago when
he served our country. I don't know, but you can
bet that if he did carry one, it was kept
just as clean as this one. A short distance in
(16:31):
front of the blind lay a buck that was dropped
in his tracks by an old man using this old rifle.
And laying beside the deer was the old man. The
deer had been expertly feel dressed by someone who had
done it more than once, and among the old man's
few possessions inventory from his clothes was an old man's
(16:53):
pocket knife stained with the blood from his latest and
last deer, A single blade trapper sharp as a razor,
the blade thin from many trips up and down a
wet rock. I held it in my hand, and I
saw the pocket war that had rented, the logo, almost unreadable,
and the scales slick and polished from years of being
(17:14):
carried in his pocket, but immediately recognizable as to what
it was to anyone in my circle. I imagine the
old man sitting at the campfire at night, telling stories
or listening to him while he drank coffee and sharpened
his knife. Now I feel like he saw heaven twice
that day, the first time around nine fifteen in a
(17:36):
little oak flat where his body rested when I first
saw him. Nine point fifteen was the time recorded by
the old man on the tag that hung from the
bucks antlers. The second time he saw heaven was a
short time afterward, when he walked the wooded trail home
to be with his maker. What a beautiful day, in
(17:57):
a beautiful way to go to Heaven. I think about
that day now, over twenty years later, and while I
know there are folks who I'm sure still mourn the
loss of the old man. I feel privileged to have
been there as a witness to his last act of
being as close to creation as one could be while living,
(18:19):
And then a moment later, beside the one that created it,
he'd accomplished what he loved to do. He filled his
final tag in a place he'd hunted all his life,
the place he loved the most, And when he finished
the field work, he put everything in his place and
laid down to rest forever his heart for over eighty years,
(18:44):
faithfully matching the pace of his life, that simply played out,
And that was the end. That was the last. You know.
I shared that story on a private hunting group form
from back in the day, right after it happened, and
when you know it, a friend of a friend of
mine saw it and shared it with the old man's family.
(19:08):
A week or so after his passing. They reached out
to me and thanked me and told me they took
great comfort in hearing how I had interpreted the old
man's last morning. I'll never forget it, And as I
sit here now, I can still hear the cool wind
and the rustle of the leaves as they tumbled across
the ground, and feel the peace that was around us
(19:29):
all that November morning. Thank y'all so much for listening.
It is my absolute pleasure to bring these stories to
you each week and share them with you. Keep sharing
and spreading the word Old Clayboa and I appreciate it
very much. Until next week, this is Brent Reeve signing off.
(19:51):
Y'all be careful, King,
Host
Clay Newcomb
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