A couple weeks ago I answered a friend’s question, telling her my husband and I have been married 42 years. Throughout all of these years, he has been a thoughtful life partner because his sweet mother raised him to be a gentleman. I count my lucky stars.
One day in November, though, and I do mean every single November of these 42 years, I play second fiddle to another female. It was this subject my friend was pushing toward.
The female taking center stage in his life right now is named Tracey. She can do nothing wrong. She is everything a man like Doug hopes for, and I’ve even heard him say this in long phone conversations while I sit within earshot, sipping my morning coffee. “It just stuns me how great she is!” he said to his brother.
It has been said that a man follows the teachings of a good mother throughout his life while mirroring his father in actions. That, my friends, is where this origin story takes root.
Don Sutherland learned to look forward to November, and when Doug was barely old enough to run along behind him, he was sometimes carried.
“You’ve gotta keep up!” his dad told him.
There were unbearably cold nights that the son cried, told to stay home and go to bed, you know, like normal people want to do.
“I promise I won’t get tired!” the child begged. I think that statement right there tells you he already had been bitten by the autumnal force.
That boy, in ensuing years, would be out all night and still make it to school on time. He paired up with others as crazy, or should I say dedicated, to being night owls for a season. When I first met him, he was partnered with a dairy farmer, which he said was the perfect combination, because they had to keep with morning milking time as their final bell.
There is very little doubt I could ever hold a candle to the competition, and I can still name several. There was Dixie, and I remember one he called Sis, now Tracey.
My father was more bothered by it than I was in those early years, trying to talk sense into his son-in-law.
“Why in the world would you go out in the freezing cold, chasing something you never lost in the first place?” my dad asked Doug.
There was money in it, Doug argued. At that time it was true, and Doug made a point of giving generous Christmas gifts with that windfall. Today, there is no return. One farmer neighbor has offered Doug a bounty on his trips out with Tracey, a few bucks on every successful turnout.
I offer my sympathy to you if someone you love has this autumnal fever, masquerading as a sport called coon hunting.
I watch with quiet concern as my great nephews grow more spellbound each fall, their Uncle Doug returning home with great stories of Oliver and Johnny shooting one out of a tall tree for Tracey. Already they can sit and share long, animated stories of their latest night out. And so it lives on…
