It’s that time of year. No, not Christmas. Not birthdays. Not anything… but dove season. BUT, Dove Season. The highlight of my years. It began many years ago when my dad began hosting a hunt. It was small. Almost intimate. Well, it was intimate. Close. The family. Friends. Dad, in his element. Completely relaxed. I can smell the diesel fuel around the barn. Feel the gravel under my feet. The heat from the September sun. Silage. Cows. The way the gravel turns into dirt as you walk into the barn to get a cold drink from the fridge in the barn hall. Or out of a cooler he had stocked with the best variety of cold beverages. Or slipping into the stall where the head chute was housed into the fridge that held the Maker’s Mark for after the hunt and mixing my dad a toddy in a red solo cup to welcome the hunters back in from their day. The makeshift tables in the barn among the bales of hay and the country hams hung from the rafters for the catered lunch. My Mamas homemade salsa and the cigars donated for a gentleman’s day out. Everyone gathering. Fellowship. Dad’s short but poignant foreword about safety and hunting and consideration for the others in the surrounding field. The hay bales so thoughtfully placed around the field eventually being numbered by hand to direct each hunter to their designated spot. Each one given the best position for a good shot and enjoyable place to spend an afternoon calling to one another for an approaching bird overhead… “OVER!!!” Fellowship even across the acres. Riding with my Pop on the red four-wheeler as he rested his shotgun across his lap while we carried cold waters to anyone in need. Checking in on how their hunting was going and surmising whether they should be moved to a spot with more overhead traffic. Back then, it seemed like every spot was a good one. He was so peaceful. He wasn’t there to get his limit so much as he was there to share with his fellows a rite of passage, he held close to his heart. It was so much more than a sport. It was an event. A cherished event. Crossing the creek, up the dirt, past the grazing cattle left unbothered by the activity of the afternoon. Winding around the farm as the creek flowed through and being silently inspired and awed by the beauty of such a simple place. The way the water had cut through the earth and made its home, allowing the bank to slope so gently into it as it happily jumped over the rocks and tickled the mouths of the cows taking a sip as it made its way by. Sitting up against my dad’s strong back as he navigated the paths he had walked as a boy and knew better than the back of his hand. His dream had come to fruition. As a boy, he told me later on during one of his story times – usually sitting at his bedside when he was in the hospital a few times- that he had hunted all the land he now owned as a boy. It was his dream to own it one day. And here he was, sharing his dream unbeknownst to the others they were partaking in a boy’s vision from long ago. He had worked his whole life for this. For what seemed like just a day to remember for some, it was a day a whole life in the making for one. This is what it was about. This is what he had envisioned. This is what dreams were made of for one dirt farming plowboy. Was it the plantation that we had visited along the way with beautiful horses and Spanish moss hanging from age old trees? Was it fancy clothes and granddad’s gun passed on through the generations? Was it sporting dogs awaiting the beckoning of their master to retrieve? Perhaps in a different way it was. It was humble. It was simple. But it was magnificent in its own right. One day out of the year. One sacred day. One day that my dad let go of his duties to the farm. One day he let go of his outside responsibilities to his “job”. One day he could absolutely be calm, relaxed and find enjoyment in a day set aside for others to appreciate the tradition he felt a duty to carry on. A tradition he put in motion so long ago. His hunting spanned many states and many seasons. Many seasons of his life. Many a men have a story to tell that revolved around hunting with my dad. A primitive ritual that resonated innately in his soul. He was never going to allow it to die with him. He not only shared it with us, he instilled it in so many others. Bill. Was a hunter. A man of men. A man’s MAN. Tough. TOUGH. Leather wouldn’t touch him. He wore the scars of a life of hard work. A life of activity. He bore a massive, beautiful scar on his left forefinger from whittling with a knife as a boy. I think it was my favorite scar. Every one had an interesting story behind it. The one I never saw before he showed me that crossed his palm from a sithe he told me he got from cutting corn by moonlight to save the heat from the sun during the day. The scar on his wrist from punching a guy who got too big for his britches and thought it smart to tweak my dad’s cheek. Daddy felt obliged to hit him so hard he broke his own wrist, no… he splintered his wrist when that big old balled up fist went tearing into the guys jaw. The now faded barely visible scars down his breastbone that reminded us he survived open heart surgery to replace his aortic valve so carefully done by our beloved friend Dr. Walker who has held both of my parents hearts so gently in his hands, who now hunted alongside of my dad. I often wondered if he ever glanced at my dad recognizing that his handywork had given this unique human being the opportunity to continue to thrive is this world connecting lives if even for this one day but generally, it was a connection that would last a lifetime. I was and am so grateful to him that God gave him such a skill to do His work. Forever my friend, Bill Walker, you are.
As I sit typing this, a tear begins the many that flow down my face. It is the overwhelming presence of his absence on this one perfect day of the year that brings some of them. This day brought into our lives another family that would change our lives forever. The Wards. Each one would show up in our lives with something that would add life to this event. Starting with Todd bringing his boys, Trent and Troy. Young boys but matching my dad with his two boys. Then one day he would bring Babe, Taryn, his girl… also the youngest, just like my dad and me. My kids latched onto these people who lived 721 miles away as if they were long lost friends. Closer than the friends they went to school with and saw daily, these people would find a permanent home in all of our hearts. Jake and the boys would play countless hours of tonk (dad’s favorite card game) in the barn hall for quarters or perhaps other treasures- maybe chew or who knows what the booty would be, only they will ever know. This event would spawn years of memories to South Dakota, Arkansas and even Argentina. As they grew, my daughter would be absconded from school for a waffle house date with the Ward kids. As the years passed, McKensie would join the group. Then Austin. Weddings, beach trips, shopping and fun were only a few things they began sharing. Later on they would see heartbreak together and joy of new children and the things we never expect that life will hand us. Never, ever having a clue that one day… they would become step-siblings. A random chance would bring their dad into my life storming through like a hurricane for a brief but infinite existence- all because of a dove hunt.
The dove hunt, I later discovered was in fact Todd’s favorite time of the year too. It was the only time he would take a whole week away from the yards. Maybe the only Tuesday he would miss “taking care of another man’s living”. But he made sure they were in the very capable hands of Scott Acker. He would only entrust such a responsibility to someone else of very high standards. This time of year was a time that he could also let go and relax. Be in his element. As time went on and we became a couple, he would let go of getting his limit and enjoy riding with my dad to deliver waters and public relations to the hunters. He knew the vision. He embraced it and wanted to cultivate it right alongside of the man. It was such a special time of our lives that we chose to get married right in the heart of the season. My dad passed in 2018. We were married the following year, September 6, 2019, on the top of my dad’s farm overlooking the dream we had so cherished- equally. It would only be 18 months later that Todd would go on to join my father and the hunt would now be a memorial to two incredible men. Such a bittersweet tribute.
So, you see, dove season is so much more than a sporting event. It was a time a young woman who struggled to find words fit to have conversation with her dad could learn to shoot a gun, hunt birds, smoke cigars and sip bourbon with a gentleman so she could find a moment in time to share in her father’s world. To be able to find him on his level. To take a day and mold herself into something she could relate with her dad in a way they both could enjoy. See, the “gender roles” had specific and definite boundaries for that generation. I learned to cook, clean and do “womens work” while my brothers learned the man things. I had to take it upon myself to learn a gun. To learn to shoot and hunt. I learned the things I could… to understand my father’s world. I can back a trailer, put up hay and cut steaks. But the dove hunt was the holiday. A time for just him. It has become a tribute. A memorial. More than a headstone on a grave, more than just a memory. An actual moment in time where you could partake in the dream of a boy who made a mark on the world bigger than life. Camouflage shirts bearing his name. Hats that signify our reason for showing up. A tradition that new generations are learning. A boys dream. Teaching my grandkids to play in the creek is not just about having fun throwing rocks and catching crawdads… it is about carrying on the legacy of a man they never even met. Hopefully, instilling something more in them that caught the attention of a young boy so many decades before their own birth. Perhaps sparking something in them that he found that would spur on a beautiful life that was truly LIVED. Finding things in this world to create a hugely successful career yet remaining grounded in the dirt of the farm and the mud of the creek.
How cool is that. Dove Season. So much more than hunting.
JHW+
Previously Letters to Linda 