The Stand in the White Oak

By Joseph Lange

Life is so much more than people have the ability to comprehend. So many unexplained mysteries and things yet to be explained by modern science. A small Wisconsin family farm, a woodlot with its secrets, and a man who long ago needed forgiveness. The horrors of war across generations of time. Enter a simple man looking only for a new spot to hunt deer. Unbeknown to him, stopping at this small farm would open up much more opportunities than he originally had bargained for. Meeting souls he did not expect to meet and coming to grips with an accident that could claim his life. Stories of struggle long ago thought forgotten. The great white oak that held its secrets, if only one would pause and listen. The gift that would be treasured above all items one may gather through life. Intangible, unable to be held in one's hand. Only in one's heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9781636302270

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The Stand in the White Oak

Joseph R. Lange

Copyright © 2020 Joseph R. Lange

All rights reserved

First Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Covenant Books, Inc.

11661 Hwy 707

Murrells Inlet, SC 29576

www.covenantbooks.com

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 1

As usual this time of year, I began my search for new bowhunting ground as the hot summer days dragged on. Stopping at a few farmers and asking permission. One particular day gave me more insight into life than I had heretofore had.

I pulled into the driveway of a farmer located in the coulee country of western Wisconsin. God, how I love that county. The beautiful hills and rolling landscape cascading down into the great coulees. I still hear the thunder of my first turkey hunt as I peered down into them.

I could see a man standing next to an old John Deere haybine. An old black hound dog was lying in the shade of the porch, and various barn cats were traversing the dust of the barnyard.

Parking my truck, I made my way to him, and as I did, I did not see many flowers or things that would indicate a female presence. Most of these farms have so many beautiful flowers and a garden of some sort. This one was devoid of any of it.

Good morning, I said as I stopped and extended my hand.

The man stood there and taking an old red rag from his pocket, wiped the grease from his hands yet did not extend one to me.

I introduced myself and asked if I could scout around a bit in the eighty acres of woods behind the rolling field that butted up to his barn.

I would like to do some bowhunting later this fall, I added, nervously waiting for a negative response.

After a few seconds, he turned his attention to the grease gun and simply replied, Okay, but close the gate.

I thanked him and made my way to the edge of the barnyard and stopped to look back at him. He was back at greasing the old haybine and paid no attention to me.

I made my way down the old path. Farm paths are special. Quiet and each fence post bore scars of years of standing. The little yellow flowers that dotted the trail only added to the moment, and the occasional cluster of daisies interspersed against the green of the alfalfa was wonderful.

Dried cow pies like a cobblestone roadway.

I arrived at the edge of the woodlot, and the cool shadows of the trees invited me to explore within. The signs of deer tracks coming to the alfalfa field got my immediate attention.

Man, this is a good spot, I whispered to myself as I entered the woods.

Scanning ahead, I noticed a huge white oak tree. You know the ones, the massive gnarly white oaks that seem to have stood watch for a hundred years.

I made my way to its base, and the deer trails that intersected that tree were from all directions. White oak acorns, I thought. Go figure. It’s a pecking candy store right here.

For whatever reason, as I swatted a mosquito from my face, I happened to look up into the huge arms of that white oak and noticed a wooden platform.

I could not see any ladder or steps of any kind, but it was a platform for sure, and my first thought was that someone else had found this tree and this was their stand.

Looking further at the stand, I noticed a box. A small box was fastened to the stand with a few bungee cords. My interest now peaked, I looked for a way to climb and was soon hanging precariously from the first huge limb.

Like a very old cat, I managed to make my way from limb to limb to the branch that grew just under the stand. As the sweat of the climb dripped down the side of my face, I read a small inscription tacked to the small box.

Brandon, was all it said.

Good Lord, it’s a box of ashes, I said barely loud enough for my old ears to hear.

I paused to look from the limb I stood on and could see a small crick that meandered down into the coulee as well as various trails.

Well, Brandon, you have a fine stand right here, I said. Thank you for letting me see it.

I climbed down and after numerous attempts, managed to get my now scratched-up frame onto solid ground. The heat of the day had permeated the coolness of the canopy, and I sat down on a down tree to gather myself and cool off.

As I sat on the old downed tree, I felt a presence to my left. An intuition perhaps. Turning my head slowly to the left, I was greeted by something that to this day, leaves me questioning everything that I had learned about life.

A young fellow, dressed in a smartly ironed military uniform, was sitting there staring back at me.

Hey, the young man said.

Hey, I replied, almost failing to get it out.

I could see that the young man had a small smile on his face, and for what seemed like a thousand years, the only sound was the light breeze that rustled the white oak leaves above my head.

Finally, I managed to break the silence with a profound statement.

Damn fine stand you have in that oak.

Thanks, he said. It is a good one, for sure.

Lots of game trails here, I replied.

For sure, he answered. But actually, the better spot is down in the coulee. I’ve seen a lot of deer coming up from there and making their way to the alfalfa field. You would be smart to scout down in there, where the little crick flows into it. But you best come from the backside as there is a bunch of poison ivy down there. Don’t ask me how I know, he said, smiling.

Thanks, I said.

After a few more moments of silence, I had to ask. I turned to him. Where did it happen? I asked, looking into his eyes.

He looked down at his shoes for a moment and replied, Iraq. My momma didn’t want me going, but Pa convinced her I was old enough to make my own mind up.

Thank you for your service, I replied.

I used to hunt these woods before I….well, before, he said. "Pa was always fretting on the amount of time I spent in that old oak, but I think he really didn’t mind it, given the fact that my…well, the box—he put it there.

"This time of year, he would always be worrying about getting the hay in. Always fixing things, most often that John Deere haybine that never seemed to stay fixed.

I was usually running around this woods, like you’re doing, scouting. Me and my hound, Boomer. We sure had fun chasing coon here. You might see a few things here that may be hard to explain, he went on.

I’m picking up on that fact actually, I answered, smiling slightly.

There is a guy that hunts this woods, just like you planning to do. His family owned it way before my daddy bought it. I chat with him on occasion. He was in the service, like me. It was in ’63 that he died, he softly said.

Vietnam? I asked.

Almost laughing, he replied, That’s 1863, brother, Gettysburg.

Oh, was all I could reply.

He was with the Wisconsin Seventh Infantry. I was in the third Battalion, Third Marines. Guess it doesn’t matter. We both here now, he said.

After a few moments, he spoke again.

And you might notice a native hunting these woods. His name is Dog Tooth. He is a Squaxin. He keeps wanting to trade things for my bow,