LESSIONS AFIELD

I have many childhood memories of my father, but the ones that burn brightest are the times we spent hunting.

As I look back on hunts, I’ve concluded that my father is a saint. There is no other way to paint that picture. Considering the number of days and hours he spent tromping through the woods with one, two and occasionally three children younger than 13 make me wonder whether I would have had the patience. In fact, I can imagine that not many people would have had the patience or knowledge to do so.

My earliest memory of hunting occurred on my 7th birthday. I was born in April, like my father, right around the opening day of turkey season, which, later in life, I found to be the best way to celebrate birthdays. I don’t remember anything about that birthday except the time I spent in the woods. I didn’t have camouflage of my own, so my father