The Ghost of Thanksgiving

Snow swirled in the late shadows of twilight.  The wind swept the tiny snowflakes into a frenzy.  Although not much snow was actually falling the 40 mph winds turned it into a whiteout. 
The bamboo wind chimes hanging out back screamed for mercy and the sound was of dry bones clattering.  The sweet pa-donk of summer was gone.  Fed to the fury of the wind and snow. 

Outside of the snow filled corners of the window of which he gazed the temperature dropped rapidly.
Darkness was coming.  It always did but on this night it seemed blacker, bleaker.  The darkness not only filled the day but filled his heart.  As if in tune with the outside he turned cold.  Cold as the steel that made up the wheelbarrow leaning against his shed.  As cold as the snow clinging desperately to the bark of the trees, not wanting to be swept away.  The same tree where once a colorful bird feeder  and hammock had called home.  They had swung in the gentle summer breezes and he had lain there watching the song birds flit back an forth.  The hammock had died, torn apart by the winds and now the feeder swung violently in the winds.  Threatening to leave its post and give in to the howling mania.

These times were hard on the man that emptily stared from that window.  If a tear would have threatened to fall it may have turned to ice as it rolled from his cheek.  He could no longer afford himself to feel the pain which had accompanied him for so long now.  His constant companion, his only true friend.  Never faltering it had been with him from the beginning. 

He reached for the bottle and took another drink.  His other friend.  The only one that could hold sway over the other.  It wasn't the cold that numbed him now.  He slipped, drink by drink, into the abyss of blackness.  Here it was safe, if only for awhile he could rest.

It was this time last year that his 3rd child had disappeared.  On the day that he was supposed to give thanks and gorge on turkey and pumpkin pie.  Instead of family and friends it was the stark hallways of the hospital.  The smell of disinfectant.  The apologies.  Everything has a reason.  The look on his poor wife's face as she endured the suffering for the third time.  Her tears, meant for him slid slowly from her face and left dark spots on the green hospital gown.  The things he remembered, the details.  The devil is in the details and that day was all the devils. 

He had changed that day.  I suppose anyone would but on that day his heart had finally given out, given up.  He simply stood.  He stared into the night.


A car drove slowly down the road, fighting the wind and snow.  Returning home from a wonderful family feast.  the smell of leftover turkey and stuffing emanated form the back seat where his children slept.  Tired from a long day at Grandmas and stuffed with food they had not taken long to fall asleep in the warm confines of the car.  He glanced at his wife who smiled back at him. 
The car was moving slow.  The weather had made driving at regular posted speeds almost impossible.  He gripped the wheel tight and made his way down the hill towards the river.  Close to the bottom of the hill he dared a glance out the side window.  Past his wife's face and what he saw almost made him lose control of the car.  Through the windswept snow he noticed the house.  Only one light was on and staring at him through the frosted glass was a ghost.  His heart leaped and skipped a few beats.  The sullen white figure in the window seemed to see through him.  To something on the other side.  The sadness in the face, the coldness.  Just as quick as he noticed the figure was gone as the house slid by.  The car crossed the bridge over the river and sailed out of sight.  The man behind the wheel would never be able to get the sight out of his mind.  The ghost of Thanksgiving.

As the car slipped into the blackness of the night the ghost reached for his bottle. 
 

Thankless

I post this only so you remember!


All is quiet now.
Most have forgotten.
Time forever moves in it's endless destination
Unknown


A month has passed
And still I cry
When shall my heart
Stop it's long sigh


Hurting on the inside
Yet I hide it so well
If only I could forget
And relinquish this hell


To forget is freedom
From the aches in my heart
To remember, tortures my soul
With what should have been.


Nonstop we travel
Through life everyday.
If we stop and think
The pain won't go away.


Please don't be upset
If I don't think of you everyday

It's just too hard

Getting through that way


I promise I will love you

Through the rest of my years

Daddy's little girl

remembered with tears

Bushman gets serious

He wondered if it may ever come true.  All these lonley years.  The thought made him wriggle with joy and the comitment made him sour his face.
A lot was at stake.  No longer would he run free.  No longer would he think once and make his decision.  It was a done deal, or at least he hoped.
The email was sent.  He had comitted.  Not to the agency but to the only agency that held sway over him.  That was his his Father. 
He had not always been the Father that  he woud have liked but now many years later he was the father that he needed.  Older, wiser and full of the compassion that makes a man, a man.  Long gone are the days when he would puff his chest and shout out commands while the workforce scurried, long gone are the days when his voice commanded all.  It was just he and I.  Together we made a solemn pact to start and hopefully finish this reckoning.
I cried, alot that night.  I imagined he cried the next day.   With no hope to guide me I bid the night farewell and worried the sunrise.
-Bushman
 

Got a Turkey!

Headed out to the woods for a Thanksgiving hunt.  Came across this bit of humour and had to share.
Have a great Thanksgiving and I'll catch up later!

 

Bushman Finally Scores!

A gentle breeze filtered through the trees, rustling the oak leaves still clinging desperately to the giant trees.  Their vain attempt to hold onto the summer weakened as the wind challenged their incessant need to remain with their mother.  Brown ferns slumped over and bowed their heads.  Unlike the mighty oak leaves they had given in to the chill of the oncoming winter.  They bent, huddled with their curled fronds wrapped around them as if to keep warm.  The forest floor lay covered in debris that once adorned the canopies, rust colored leaves, sticks that had succumbed to the early winter winds, shiny acorns complete with their caps and a multitude of other forestry goods.

The two track turned slightly and the leaf litter crackled under his boots.  He studied his environment as he walked.  Surveying every branch, every tree and every thing in between.  His keen eyes were acutely aware of any movement and as such his heart skipped a beat every time there was some.  A flirting chickadee, a scampering squirrel even the sway of a bunch of tall grasses.
He continued onward, down the track.  His mind absently counted the steps, one hundred and one, one hundred and two.  No particular reason but he had been a counter for many a year.  Perhaps an ingrained trait that kept him focused on the things that he was here for.  He adjusted his pack, shifting the straps to alleviate the tension on one shoulder.  He marvelled in the beauty of it all.  Such a large world with so many details it was difficult to notice them all.  His count increased as he made his way down the trail.

When the count reached seven hundred and sixty two he stopped.  This spot looked right.  The forest floor revealed much and the ghost trails of the creatures that roamed this forest revealed themselves to his keen eye.  He stepped from the trail.  He did not count these steps.  These ones were not important.  His eyes locked onto every detail of the surrounding landscape.  The gentle rise and fall of the forest floor.  The way the wind would sweep across these knolls, the way it would breathe.  He raised his eyes to the sky and noted the position of the sun and the path it would take during the next few hours.  Then he made his decision.  He removed the parcel from his back and strapped it to the tree of his choosing.  Slowly, quietly and carefully he made his way up the tree.  The counting resumed here but for a purpose this time.  Fifteen feet, sixteen feet and when he reached twenty feet he stopped.  He secured his perch and sat down.  He made ready, physically, mentally and emotionally.  He closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them he breathed a sigh of relief.  He was home.

The minutes soon turned to hours and the sun began to wane in the western sky.  Shadows grew ever longer and the air began to rapidly chill.  His pulse quickened.  This was the hour.  A crunch in the leaves drew his attention.  He studied the surrounding forest with a fierce intensity.  Then he saw it.  One small shiny black spot.  The black spot moved and as it did transformed itself into a slender brown leg.  The leg moved slowly, painfully slow as his heart rate continued to elevate.  Within a window of two or three minutes the leg became the full shape of the creature that he pursued.  Three more steps, this time he counted backwards, two more steps, one more step and then the only sound was the whip of the string as the forest erupted in a clash of whirling leaves and flying sticks.

In my 24 years of hunting eligibility I have been up to deer camp 14 times.  Up until now I have never taken a deer during the archery season.  This year we were in camp early enough before the opening of the rifle season that I had a few days to bow hunt.  I finally succeeded.  Although it is only a spike buck it is one of my favorite deer.  There is more to this story but I'll save that for next time!

Deer Camp Snow

In an effort to contain his excitement he closed his eyes and concentrated only on his breathing.  Breathe in.....breathe out.  He did this several times until he was able to open his eyes without smiling so big it hurt the corners of his mouth. 
The snow had swept in during the night blanketing everything in 12 inches of pure white brilliance.  The boughs of every tree hung low under the strain of such weight.
Everywhere the flashlight beam touched resonated the same white beauty.
The two track to the lake was nothing more than a tunnel of white with green specks sticking through.

He ran back in the camper.  "Dad, you ought to see it, it's amazing.  There must be at least a foot".
His words were jumbled and mumbled as his excitement came to the forefront, negating even the slightest possibility of a coherent sentence.
"Do you think we can get to the lake?  Do you think we'll get stuck?  Oh my this is going to be the sweetest thing ever," he spat it out in one long sentence only stopping to breathe and eye his father solemnly as he stood in front of the stove making the morning coffee.
He admired his father.  He always knew what to do and how to do it.  If there was a deer hiding somewhere, he knew.  If something had to be fixed, he fixed it.  Standing there in the glow of the Coleman lantern, wearing a 2 piece long john set, a 3 day beard stubble gracing his face he looked at his son, gave him a nod and said,  "today will be a great day" and  it was.


I was tinkering around today after work getting a few things together for deer camp.  The weather is cold.  It snowed the other day.  Just a few flakes but it always reminds me of the time at deer camp when we got hammered with snow.  What an adventure it was.  Maybe someday it will be in a book I write.  One of my fondest memories.  I thought  would share just a little of it.  Most of it is mine but I will give you this one piece.
-Bushman