A few weeks ago, just before church started, a lady came up to tell me something. She said she was a longtime reader of my column and a fan. She said she did not hunt or fish and usually skipped the part about killing things. I have come to know, there are a lot of women readers just like her. So, maybe this column is for them.
Of Oaks, Acorns and Utter Nonsense.
I tend to think of strange things while sitting in a treestand, waiting for a deer. They were falling close to me, the acorns and I was thinking of how we here in TN, pronounce that word. We don’t say A-corns. We say, A-kerns. And then, I quit thinking about that and concentrated on the odd patch of brown that did not belong, where it was. Finally, a relatively cool morning. The long sleeves felt good under the ASAT 3-D suit. I had not even broken a sweat on the short walk from truck to stand and the stars seemed especially bright and as they faded, the fog huddled near the ground. I like that. Makes for good pondering. But that patch of brown was starting to morph into an actual outline. The outline, was that of a front leg and that leg, I felt sure was attached to a body. Male or female, I knew not.
Being the indiscriminate hunter that I am, I got the crossbow off the hanger and made ready. Unfortunately, I was a bit premature. The leg, with the attached deer, went the other way and the crossbow went back on the hanger. Plop! Have you ever pondered how closely a big drop of dew, falling from, say 40-50 feet, sounds like an acorn doing the same? “Herk The Twerk”, my squirrely friend of three years, maybe four, looked at me and “twerked”, a time or two. I smiled behind my face mask and winked.
I was so impressed with Herk, I almost missed the brown patch. This one, actually, was quite plain to see. To start with, it was only 30-yards away and was combined with some muted tans and blacks and whites and when taken all in a package, became a fat, dry, lone doe.
She was eating some of the a-kerns that were falling from the red oak tree next to the three white oak trees. For some reason, as I pondered the saying, “The a-kern, (acorn,) doesn’t fall far from the tree.” I wondered if it mattered which tree? I mean, what if it was a hackberry or persimmon. Ever think about that? What if a nut from say, a white oak, fell right next to a hickory tree.
Well, by the time I sorted all that nonsense out and had the dang, hated crossbow in the shooting position, the brown and other muted colors was only 22-yards away, broadside, head down, munching another, fallen acorn…if you will. You reckon Munchkins come from over-munching?
So, I lined everything up the way I had learned to do and as always, sure wished I could still shoot a compound or recurve. Then, I sqoze the twigger. (Little word play, there.) Most of the time, no matter longbow, recurve, compound or fang-blasted crossbow, I know when I make a good shot. That’s why I just turned around, hooked the $#$** crossbow on the haul line and commenced to unclimb from my treestand. Besides, I could see the deer laying plumb graveyard dead, less than 40-yards away.
Once both my two feet were back on terra firma, I paused and thanked God for a couple things. (1) The relatively cool morning. (2) The doe. (3) I did not fall as I did last year and quite solidly bust my, ask me no questions. (4) Just a general thanks for giving me a bunch of stuff I do not deserve. Then I walked over to where the doe had been standing.
My arrow, (call it a bolt if you want to be incorrect,) and found it covered from end to the other with not a lot of anything. That somewhat puzzled me because I could see the doe, obviously about as dead as Old Dan’s pet cat, “Fossdick”. He got hit by a car. But anyway.
I walked the 30 or so yards to the doe and sure enough, cancel Christmas for her. She was toast and the shot was about as perfect as you could ask for. I have no idea why the arrow was just about as clean as it was when I shot it. But I have known for many years-maybe about 60-strange, odd unexplained things happen you are deer hunting.
Say, you ever notice how a screech owl, flying at warp speed, hurts like a sumbuck, when it hits you in the chest? Way worse than a bat hitting you as you speed up Center Hill in a deep breathing bass boat in the dark.
But anyway, here is the thing. I can think of no place where one can think and ponder and wonder and marvel at stuff better than while sitting in a treestand, waiting for a patch of brown. And…an A-Kern, by any other name, is still a nut. On several occasions, (that is just an estimate.), I have heard it said, I may be related. Excuse me now, I have a dead deer to convert to table fare.
Thanks Lord. I ‘preciate it a lot. ###
Cutlines:
#1- At good dawn, the fog huddles low in the trees and nuts begin to fall, sounding somewhat like drops of dew. Fortunately, this year, I did not join them. #2- See, look close, it doesn’t take much cover for a deer to hide. She is less than 25-yards from me. #3-Since I can see her, graveyard dead less than 40-yards from my treestand, I just unclimb and get on the ground. #4- Not a lot on this arrow and it was a perfect shot, clean pass-through. Puzzling.
So now you really have sparked my curiosity. What in the world did you do “making fun” of a reading that caused you to render that lengthy assignment.
I always thought it strange that teachers would assign writing as a punishment. What kind of message did that send as we were trying to get students to embrace the importance of expressing oneself through writing. You are one that seems to have benefitted from “writing”as punishment.
I tried to find The Blue Buck. I’d love to read it if you could steer me in the right direction.
Did that teacher ever recognize your writing career?
So your present day occupation as a writer, with an emphasis on the outdoors, has an origin from a poem written by Wordsworth (that you somehow made fun of) with a theme of “Spiritual Srength through Nature”
Unintended consequences strikes again!
