Narrative Essay

        To say when I woke that morning doesn't really cut it.  Due to my excitement for opening day, I never truly fell asleep for more then twenty minutes at a time.  I awoke to the sound of dad clearing his throat.  The smell was a combination of two of my favorite smells to this day, a newly lit Camel Light by a Zippo lighter and a pot of freshly made coffee, percolated not the drip brew.  Dad claims it taste better that way.  Our camper served its purpose of keeping us alive throughout the cold night but when you’re a 5’10” 180lb twelve year old attempting to tuck yourself if a child’s sleeping bag, you tend to wake up shivering when your body is exposed from the shoulder blades up.  I jump suddenly from the crackling of the radio as dad tunes in a new station.  He stops on a station because we both instantly recognize the song being played.  I look up at dad as he raises an eyebrow, turns to me and says, “ Da Turdy Point Buck!”
Still not having fully removed myself from bed, I managed to graduate to a sitting position.  Although I loved the smell of coffee, the taste had not yet caught up to me.  Swiss Miss Hot chocolate was my poison of choice.  Now For something with substance.  “ Oatmeal Cream Pie, or Star crunch?” dad said.  Being a 180lb twelve year old I though to myself, “He must be joking if he thinks im not eating one of each?”  I proved the voices in my head to be accurate as I scarfed my way through the oatmeal cream pie first knowing in the back of my head that the star crunch would be firmer therefore easier to hold in my mouth as I tied my boots.  That’s a fat kids idea of muli-tasking.  I was fully dressed with a belly full of sugar and began to put on my blaze orange.  “Not yet”, dad said.  “We still have a half an hour before we’re gonna head out.  You’ll be sweating before we leave.  Lets go see Grandma and Grandpa.”
My Grandparent camper was only twenty yards from ours.  Our camper was a newer generation pop-up camper but not theirs.  Their camper was an early 70’s Corsair Camper.  Being shaded under a dozen sixty foot tall Pine trees for the last ten years has given the camper a slight appearance of blackish overspray I assume only to be mold from lack of sunlight.  Grandma had a stroke in years past.  Grandpa had to help her dress, use the bathroom and hold her arm to assist her in walking.  She was able to walk on her own but was very slow.  That being said, it was always mandatory to knock out of respect before walking in.  As I knock both my grandparents in unison shout, “ Come in!”  I noticed grandmas voice to be just a split second ahead of grandpas and twice as enthusiastic.  My grandmother loved Deer Hunting almost as much as she loved her family.  That being said, when you were able to combine both in a single event you bared witness to a physically impaired women with a spirit as if she could pass you in an uphill footrace.   “Good morning!” I stated as I walked in.
To the left is the kitchen which consists of a stove which was functional and a sink that was not.  Both were a horrible booger yellow color.  On the counter just past the sink was an old steel bread box were grandpa kept all the keys to the sheds and tractors.  It was also the vault in which he stashed an abundance of Hershey’s Coca containers, mouse traps and a pile of peppermint candies so old they had begun to soften.  Across from that all was a bench and table that when collapsed would make as an additional bed. On the right was the couch/bed and a bunk bed above.  All cushions were an ugly beige with olive green and burnt orange flower patters.  When the burner on the stove is turned on, the temperature in the camper is 20 deg hotter at 5 feet then it is at 3 to 4.  it’s the kind of dry heat that instantly dries out you nostrils.  Grandmas JVC radio was sitting on the ledge of the window usually surrounded by a stack of novel cassettes.  Not far from the tapes was usually a porcelain shot glass pilled with toothpick.  The flat ones not the round.  Grandma was sitting on the couch with her coffee.
I sat next to grandma and  it wasn’t long before she asked, “Are you ready for your first hunt?”  I of course was ready having been waiting on this day for over two years.  Grandpa chimes in with something innocently sarcastic like, “He aint gonna see no deer cause Ill have them gall shot before he even gets in his stand.”  Grandma chuckles and says, “Ya ya!”  Male bonding and emotions in our family stops and ends if our with picking on each other.  Dad walks in moments later and says, “Hello hello!”  Don’t ask me why but the double statement has always been a Fuchs family thing.  As if saying it twice simultaneously has some kind of secret meaning between our family, like a secret handshake.  Grandpa offers Dad a warm up on his coffee.  They sat at the kitchen table to discuss the weather, the corn, what engine has been acting up, and who from back in the farming days isn’t doing so good.  I sat with grandma and listened to her tell the story about my fathers first deer hunt.  I had heard the story a hundred times already but never grew tired of it.  The farm and news report whispering in the background, dad and grandpa shooting the breeze at the kitchen table, and Grandma and I on the couch talking of memories past.  There was still twenty minutes before we needed to head out into the woods.  I couldn’t think of a better way to spend that time.

Welcome To My Subject

   

     My blog is going to be about hunting.  I chose to write about hunting because it is my passion.  Hunting is very dear to me for many reasons.  My oldest and fondest memories entail loading up a truck and heading into the woods, field or marsh in pursuit of wild game.  My stories will include family and friends both old and new, alive and deceased. Although, not every story I have will involve the bagging of said game, nor will it necessarily be about the hunt itself but the "shenanigans" we encounter.  Since I was a young boy my father always made me his number two on every hunting trip no matter what the game or distance to pursue.  Hunting trips between him and I are now as they were then, about more than coming home with a dead animal.  To me hunting is about the story leading up to the "end of the hunt" and success is not determined by filling your tag or bagging your limit but the lessons learned, memories made, and the good taste left in your mouth by a dish known as comradery. Stay tuned and wish me luck this season!