It was the mid-1980s between Thanksgiving and Christmas, a time of frantic shopping and desperate planning of holiday meals and visits. I was the Hancock County Game Protector, and my work was typical for the season — checking small game hunters out collecting rabbits or the rarely encountered pheasant and catching up after the statewide deer season. A report of trespassing sent me in a new, unexpected direction.
I was met by an older gentleman pushing the far side of his 80s accompanied by a little terrier of the same vintage, except in dog years. He said that he thought he’d heard shots in a nearby woodlot and offered a ride on the tail of his Ford N tractor to investigate.
Together we took the slow, bumpy trip with the aged dog following. Walking may have been a bit faster, at least for me.
Nothing of consequence was found. During our unhurried return he began telling stories about the “old days.” I was invited into his home and he brought out photo albums containing black-and-white pictures of his wife and a series of beautiful English setters.
He described how pheasants were more common than pigeons and how he guided out-of-town hunters. He chuckled as he recalled how badly they shot. He told me how he would call his good friend who was also the local game warden and that, as a joke, he’d come out and give the weekend warriors a little scare.
He raved about the sack lunches his wife prepared, and his eyes glowed as he talked of the little messages she left in his lunch bag. He laughed aloud when he remembered the time a visiting hunter grabbed his lunch by mistake.
He showed me photos of his son holding his best setter when both were pups and got teary as he told me how both died while in their prime — one from an accident and the other a broken heart.
Then he told me that this was his last week in his house. He’d come to a decision with the help of his grandson that it was time to move into a nursing home. He said that he used to like to swing his L.C. Smith, and his son a Winchester, but his grandson preferred golf clubs.
As I left, he took my hand with rough, arthritic fingers and gave it a firm shake, thanking me for stopping. I gave him my card and told him to call anytime. I don’t know if anyone was trespassing, but I believe there was a bigger reason for my visit.
I was his conduit to the past, a friend’s familiar uniform that carried memories of days afield. I was privileged to be there as he remembered his sporting lifetime and bid his farm goodbye. I hope that he knew that he found someone who might just understand.
The holidays aren’t about gifts, decorations or meals; they are about the time we’re gifted and the memories we build. The holidays are about service, family and friendships, not shopping; and sometimes,they are just about listening.
Santa, my wish list is this: That there’s a young man and his son sharing sack lunches — one with a very special note tucked inside — along a cloud-strewn fencerow while a setter in its prime nuzzles a fallen rooster…and that we all take time to listen.
And, while I’m at it Santa, I also like Ben Heggy’s chocolates…
“Christmas is a necessity. There has to be at least one day of the year to remind us that we’re here for something else besides ourselves.”
— Eric Sevareid
