By: Lori
Zeth
Deer Season
I have such a flood of memories when
the calendar changes over to November. I am blessed to have been born on
November 1st, so I immediately celebrate my birthday. I hardly
realize it is November until the next day. The month is such a bittersweet
month for me. I have several family members who also celebrate birthdays in
November. Then, there is Thanksgiving, of course. Black Friday, when the world
goes mad for 24 hours. (I think the Purge
series was created from a Black Friday nightmare) and…the hunters are preparing
for deer season to begin.
Growing up in Blair County,
Pennsylvania meant I had to battle snow from October to April; I learned how to
hunt and track well before I was permitted to carry a firearm; and diets do not
exist in the fall and winter months (or the spring or summer months, either!).
I learned how to bait a hook when I was five and shoot a gun before I turned
ten. When all you have is the country, the country is all you have.
My daddy would take me on his
hunting trips every year. We stayed in our camper on the farm we hunted on. We
set up our blinds a few days before we could hunt; we would build a fire and
drink hot cocoa and roast marshmallows at night. Daddy would always make sure I
had fun or I was learning when we weren’t busy preparing to hunt. He taught me
a lot, wanting me to know as much as I could.
I loved the breakfasts and meals
that we would make. Sausage, bacon, scrapple, eggs, and home fries. My oldest brother,
uncles, and cousin would join us for breakfast the first day of the season. We
would all eat and then spread out all over the farm’s hills. My dad and I would
stay close to our camper in case I was cold or tired. Thinking back now, that
was the sweetest thing my daddy could have done. He wanted to be sure I was
safe, whether it was deer season or not.
I don’t remember a year that the 6
of us didn’t get more than one deer. My very first kill was also the first shot
I ever took at a real deer. I accidentally shot a doe in buck season, but I
used my doe tag and took her home anyhow. My brother shot a deer one year that
we had to track for hours. I remember another deer that my dad carted to our
truck on a four-wheeler because the corn field we had our blind sitting in wouldn’t
allow Daddy to drag him.
Being a tomboy of sorts comes with being a
Pennsylvanian. I have a lot of experience in the outdoors: hiking, hunting,
fishing, sports, camping, and the likes. My daddy would always be sure to
include me in whatever he was doing. I was the older child, so I could
understand and learn a bit easier than my kid brother – he is two years younger
than me. My brother didn’t get to experience as much as I did with our father
because he was still very young when Daddy passed away.
It was February 1996; Daddy had been
feeling chest pains for a week but hadn’t gone to the doctor to figure out the
cause. He had a heart attack right in front of my kid brother, dying on the
spot. He was only 39 years old. This November is the twentieth November without
my father. Without hunting season, without my family, and without tradition.
How have I gotten through nineteen other Novembers without my father? I feel
like I love him so much and miss him so bad that I shouldn’t be able to survive
even one November, let alone twenty.
Twenty deer seasons without you. I
just can’t believe it.
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