I gave up big-game hunting decades ago when I moved away from the state where I was born, a place where most people filled their freezers for the winter and fed their kids from the bounty of the land.
And even though it’s been a long time since I got up at 3 a.m. on the first morning of deer or elk season and made the steep haul into the mountains or foothills so I could be in a good place for a shot at sunup, I still get a pang this time of year when the pumpkins are ripe, the leaves are golden and there’s a skim of frost on the grass in the morning before the sun warms up enough to melt it off. Those mornings when steam is rising in light clouds from the backs of horses waiting at the food and water troughs in the pastures and in front of the barns I pass on the commute to my office on Route 9.
On those mornings, I often wish I could turn back the clock to the days when I was a hunter, sitting in the warm cab of the pickup in the false dawn of the Rocky Mountains, smelling the hot coffee in my Thermos cup and thinking about the mule deer buck or bull elk I’d been tracking and scouting through most of the summer to learn his ways.
I don’t miss the killing that is the result of a successful big-game hunt. Fact is, that was never the point for me. For me, harvesting a big-game animal was simply taking the food that the creator had so graciously supplied in as humane and efficient a manner as possible. That’s the way it worked in ranch country, and everybody did it. So many of my friends and neighbors depended on the big-game harvest, in fact, that where I grew up, schools were closed on the first day of the season.
What I do miss is the companionship of the hunt itself. I miss my father and grandfather and my favorite uncle, who were the masters of our family hunt. I miss hearing their silly stories. I miss seeing their faces around a campfire meal of chili, cowboy coffee (a handful of grounds thrown into a pot of boiling water) and my mother’s carrot cake after a long day in the field. I miss the company of my brothers on those hunts, the one time of the year when the men (and sometimes the women) of our family were all together in wild country, engaged in a common pursuit.
When I remember my father and grandfather and uncle, I remember them most lovingly as they were in hunting camp, not as they were at their jobs wearing ties, or when they dished out discipline for our misbehavior. I remember their competence, their woodcraft, their jokes at the expense of my brothers and me. I remember their patience as they taught us about the wilderness and how to live in it. I remember the looks of pride in their eyes as we succeeded in our lessons.
Those memories are among the best I have from growing up. Not because we were engaged in a hunt, but because we were together in a shining, magical moment. A special time. Just us. Just them.
I think that’s how it is for most kids and families as they build their happiest memories.
I didn’t hunt with my sons, because I’d already given it up by the time they were of age, but I made sure we shared time and adventures.
Every October, I took them camping at a secluded, stream-side meadow in the Berkshire mountains in Massachusetts. We slept in canvas tents and cooked on open fires lit with flint and steel, the old way. We gloried in the gold and crimson foliage, snuggled into our woolies around the crackling campfire as wood smoke drifted fragrantly on the breeze. We hiked with a compass in daylight and with the aid of the North Star at night.
In the summers, we often loaded ourselves aboard an airplane and made the pilgrimage to my home ground, where we camped in the Wind Rivers or the Laramie Range and I taught them fly fishing, how to tell the difference between a mule deer and a whitetail, what the track of a mountain lion looks like, how to shoot a rifle, how to cook a pork roast in a Dutch oven buried in the ground.
My sons are grown men now, but you know what? When I ask, they tell me those are among their best memories of growing up – those shining, magical moments. A special time. Just me (and often their mother). Just them.
On days when I question whether I’ve been a good father, a good parent, that helps me find an answer. I might not have been perfect, far from it in fact, but at least we made some good memories.
Sometimes – as we’re separated by work and war and death – that must serve as blessing and comfort enough.
Happy Thanksgiving to my family, friends and readers. As we share the creator’s bounty, may you build memories with your friends and loved ones this season strong enough to live through generations.
And thanks for reading the column.
Joan worked for Greater Media Newspapers for nearly 21 years between 1974 and 1995, and was in charge of company promotions and special sections.
She was still working in that capacity when I joined the company in 1993, and she was THE community face of our publications. It was Joan you’d see at our booth at the mall, dressed up as one of the company’s mascots in parades, at the county fairs and spelling bees. It was her stories people read in special sections, and it was her they saw at job fairs and promotions.
I didn’t work with Joan for long, but I learned enough about the communities of central New Jersey from her in a couple of years to make my transplantation here more successful. I owe a lot to Joan Healy, and there are many people still with this company who bear similar debts.
I didn’t know Joan as a mother, a grandmother, or companion, but I knew her as a consummate professional and a heck of a hardworking journalist.
Our company lost something special when we lost Joan Healy, and now the world has lost it as well.
Rest in peace, Joan. Our thoughts and prayers – and the thoughts of your many, many readers – are with your loved ones in this time of sorrow.
Gregory Bean is executive editor of Greater Media Newspapers. You can reach him at [email protected].