‘Tis the Season

Not the one that merchandising is touting right now. This is the one that especially Texas men are planning their week-end around. It’s white tail deer season or, for some, mule deer. Trucks are heading out from the city to various areas to”prepare the lease.”  It may be one they have rented for three weeks or a small acreage they have bought for their own specific use. Stories result out of any exciting week-end with non-shaving men and guns, and these are the ones that are part of my life.

My daddy and his brothers grew up hunting.  Their success provided venison to supplement the chickens and pigs that were home grown. They lived in the woods near Zwolle.  The Z stands for the end of the alphabet and the end of a road in mid Louisiana.  My real memories were the trips from Hammond to the swamps out from Manchac near Maurepas Swamp.  The hunting outfit was the always the same:  khaki shirt and pants that were tucked into almost knee high lace up boots.  An oiled jacket kept the cold at bay. A brimmed cap topped off the outfit.  It too was khaki and somehow said hunting instead of baseball.  Whoever was in charge of the hunt took each man to his stand with directions to stay put. After all were settled, the dogs were released. You listened to the baying and the direction of bushes being pushed aside.  Hopefully, a buck passed your way, and you got a good shot.  You field dressed the kill and stayed at your stand until noise subsided and the truck circled to pick you up.

Then I married into the Smith family with a decade of tradition in the hunt to West Texas in the Davis Mountains.  All gathered at the family ranch near Boerne for Thanksgiving. Four adult men left out early the next morning to get to the Powell Ranch before dark.  This was a horseback hunt checking out canyons and hoping you got your shot at the top instead of having to climb down and get your kill back up.  All wore chaps to keep from tearing up legs and pants. Sometimes you were out all day and heading back in guided by the light of the fire in the cook shed.  Field dressed deer were hung in a row from an A-frame pole and hunters lined up for a picture. Supper with tales and sometimes teasing and a friendly game of poker wrapped up the day.My husband had the lease for several years and invited grandsons and friends and their sons to enjoy the hunt.  Our boys even learned to butcher and pack, so meat could go home ready for the freezer.

Families cherish what may be the most expensive meat of the year. I had fourth graders cook a pioneer meal and sent word to parents that I needed ground venison.  Enough was always forthcoming. From the beginning, we were a hunters/gathers civilization.  Traditions evolved to prepare for the hunt and celebrations affirmed success.  Orion the Hunter stalks the night sky. Daddies pass on skills to sons from handing a gun to respecting the hard decision to pass up a shot. A small mounted rack in our possession has a labeled picture of a pre-teen beaming proudly:  “One bullet, one boy, one buck before breakfast.”

“Now, then, take your weapons, your quiver and
your bow, and go out to the field and hunt game for me and prepare for me savory food.”

Genesis 27:3