The deer hunter

 

It’s been 13 years since my father’s premature death. 

I think of him often. On his birthday. On his death day. And on opening day of firearms deer hunting season.

It’s a big deal here in Michigan. It was a big deal to my dad. He always set aside vacation days to spend in the woods stalking his prey. It’s ritual and tradition and it’s something I’ll never understand. 

Growing up as the daughter of an outdoorsman meant I posed with every dead thing my dad brought home. Every fish, rabbit, bird or mammal he snared, trapped or shot. And in each picture I have the same expression on my face: a forced smile in response to some off-camera plea-turned-threat.

My dad took his outdoors skills seriously. We had property in the north woods. A rugged plot of land without modern amenities. We were supposed to get in touch with nature and learn how to survive without creature comforts. One of those ways was to get our own food. I think my father fancied himself as a sort of Jeremiah Johnson, just one step ahead of the Indians and starvation. My childhood memories are peppered with experiences of hunting for mushrooms and cattail roots and berries.  One year we even tapped maple trees and made our own syrup.  

There is a story my father told me years ago that may have foreshadowed later events in his life. It goes like this: A man gets to be an expert on survival in the wilderness. He gets a little cocky. He makes a fatal mistake.  Nature wins.

My father had a selective memory. He also made executive decisions about how much information his family needed to know. Like the wilderness man in the cautionary tale, these things led to his demise.

Being an outdoorsman appealed to my father because he loved nature. He also liked the role of provider. He wasn’t really in it for the glory. Our home didn’t feature mounted animal heads or stuffed carcasses. I’m guessing that when my dad hauled in that big stiff dead deer to the butcher, he may have been asked about the head. I’m imagining that he declined the offer all those years but one.

In that particular year he must have given in, imagining for one small moment some use for a deer head. But that moment passed quickly. So fast, in fact,  that when he pulled a cardboard box out of his trunk later that day and placed it on a high shelf in the garage, he must have imagined it was hunting gear or some other seasonal item that could be tucked away and forgotten.

The ghost of that year’s deer would haunt us for quite some time. The last person to ever guess it was my father.

The following spring we began to detect a faint odor outside. Thinking a small animal had died on our property, we began a search in earnest. Several investigations later produced nothing. This prompted spurts of frantic cleaning and clearing and some small amounts of digging in the dirt as the season advanced and the temperature climbed.

Odor turned to unbearable stench and with that came flies in swarms. This made it easier to narrow down the source: somewhere near the garage.  Still, without a corpse, a crime scene, we were stumped.

Finally one sweltering July afternoon, when some errand drove me up a ladder and onto a storage platform in our garage, I accidentally overturned a cardboard box.

The box tumbled to the concrete floor below. The momentum of the fall forced the contents out. Splattered below me was a decomposing deer head inundated with maggots in such large quantity that the whole arrangement looked like a rice stir fry platter smothered in brown sauce. The smell was unbearable.  I managed to scoop up the whole mess and quickly haul it to the curb for trash pickup.

Later that evening, when we told the story to my father, he looked over the newspaper at us with squinted eyes, pursed lips and shook his head as if we were making it all up. A deer head? In the garage? It had simply escaped his memory. 

Dad was like that about some things: He could name very Roman emperor in chronological order, all the U.S. presidents, too. But remembering something like a deer head in a box or that he had a life threatening medical condition, those things were niggling details that took up valuable brain space.

Later, I will tell of his undoing.

9 thoughts on “The deer hunter

  1. This post left me longing for more, so excellent job.
    I have daddy issues, as well, so I am fascinated in the relationships, both good and bad, that other people have had with their fathers.
    And a deer head? In a box? In a garage? That? is hilarious. Simply hilarious.

    (do you twitter?)

  2. Wonderful post…I can’t wait to read more. And yes, just perfect for the book. Thank you so much for wanting to be a part of it and sharing your story with me. Look forward to reading part 2.

  3. been a bit crazed around here, so i’m glad i got back to your site 🙂 this is quite a moving post. it’s funny the things we think about when loved ones are gone. i still have the little pouch my grandfather carried his pipe tobacco in. 20 years later, i like to think it still smells like him.

    but that deer head ==- gah!!!!

    you’re not a horrible person for writing it funny or otherwise. you’re an honest person — and a human one 🙂

  4. What a wonderful post! I think family has a way of making you laugh, cringe, roll your eyes, gag, memorialize, and love. And it the love part that makes them forever FAMILY. Doesn’t really matter what they do…they are still family.

    Looking forward to Part Deux.

  5. OK, that would be WAY worse than finding a bloody horse head in my bed. Your description of the poor deer’s decapitated head was nauseatingly vivid. I think it may be a while until I’m ready to eat a stir-fry.

    I don’t get the whole hunting thing either (and I’m glad you didn’t have stuffed carcasses in your house), but your dad sounds like a good guy, and I bet you really miss him.

  6. Pingback: Mom Zombie » Never at a loss for props

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