Deer Grandma: Nine short stories about deer, deer hunting, family and friendships

By Elizabeth Wilkens

The first story in Deer Grandma describes the author, a young wife and avid outdoors woman, as she begins her journey hunting deer on the family farm. Through the decades going from mother to grandmother, her knowledge and skill as a naturalist and hunter grow along with love for the river land and wooded acres she and her family call home. Family and friends join her on this journey. A poem written in 2008, The Land Remembers, ends the book and describes what Deer Grandma has learned about belonging to the land. Because the author brings to the reader a sense of gratitude and respect for the natural world, humility as a hunter and gatherer, pride in family, joy of friendship, humor and empathy, this book is suitable for all ages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jul 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9781736290934

Book preview

A Special Birthday Present

Thirty-five years ago - - - early November, 1964. My husband, Dan, and I were on our way to his parents’ farm in East Central Minnesota. We visited there frequently on weekends, trading the Twin Cities population and traffic for a lifestyle much more suited to our tastes. There were many things to do there that interested us - - - fishing in the nearby Knife River, long walks exploring the countryside, picking berries, helping with farm work, and hunting.

On our way north, we stopped to visit Joyce and Phil. Joyce is Dan’s big sister. Their farm was nestled up against a state forest and they, too, enjoyed many of the same recreations that we did. I always enjoyed visiting them and did not think it unusual that we would be stopping there Friday night. It would be a good start to a fun weekend for me, with both my birthday and deer hunting on the schedule for Saturday. I’d use the old 20-gauge shotgun that had been in Dan’s family for years. The previous year, I had shot at a deer and missed, not realizing how quickly the heavy slug would drop. By the time my cold hands had gotten another slug from my pocket and placed it in the gun, the deer had moved out of range. Phil had jokingly reminded me of my error by giving me an old, used, shotgun shell belt in a pretty wrapping that Christmas. That belt was now tucked away in my supplies for the weekend.

The traffic was slow, and by the time we got to their farm, it was nearly dark. As usual, Joyce had prepared an excellent supper. Before the meal, Dan and Phil were a bit secretive, talking about something in low voices. They went down into the basement a couple times. After supper and the dishes were done, they went into the basement again. When they came back to the kitchen, they were carrying something large. It was Dan’s birthday present to me.

The stock was curved, sanded, and well oiled. It was made of a dark, close-grained and attractive wood. There was a leather sling on it and a 2.5 power scope. The barrel was flat black. The caliber was .308. Phil showed me how the bolt action worked and reminded me, with a grin, that there was room for a few extra shells in the magazine just in case I had to make a second shot.

Dan said, You really need only one shell to do the job.

We took the rifle Phil had built for me along with two boxes of shells he had loaded and happily continued our journey north.

The next morning was cold, but sunny. I looked down the trail to the east, then to the north, then slowly scanned the woods.

Nothing. Quiet.

I’d look at the gun and smile. Then worry. I hadn’t shot the gun yet.

I could have practiced shooting or go hunt. Of course, I made the choice to go hunting.

I’d tell myself how foolish it was to worry since Phil assured me that he had shot it a lot and it was sighted in with the shells I was carrying. Then I’d start the looking/worrying cycle all over again.

The stand was in an oak tree on the southwest corner of the property. Dan and I had cleared out the property line for his father, Peter. Peter preferred a 14-foot wide clearing rather than a fence in wooded areas to designate where his land ended, and he had been too busy to keep up with that job the past few years. The previous seasons, I had sat on the ground beneath this tree and watched for deer.

This year, I was elevated about six feet up on the straight white oak. A few months earlier, Dan and I had built a small wooden platform and positioned two-foot sections of tree limbs leading up to it. Not elaborate, but it got me up where I could see more.

The deer population was low that year as it had been for several years. The season was short, but a hunter could take either