There’s a fellow I know who built a structure in the woods. It started out as a simple lean-to where men could gather in November, shoot deer, and swap stories around the campfire. It was what you might call an outdoor man cave.
When year after year his buddies complained about the cold and few deer appeared, the fellow decided to enlarge the shack and call it a cabin. With occasional help from his children, he downed trees, put up walls, nailed on a metal roof, cut holes for windows, made shutters, hung a door, and built two benches. He installed a wood burning stove and constructed a loft.
He scoured yard sales and bought an old table and chairs. He whittled hooks for hunting clothes and made shelves for miscellaneous gear. He built a front porch and an outdoor bench. He felled more trees and filled a storage area with a supply of birch. He found kerosene lanterns, rifle racks, and picturesque outdoor scenes which he hung around the cabin.
During warm weather, when his work was done for the day, he relaxed on the porch and watched the sun set. With his dog by his side, he listened to the evening sounds as they fell around him. The hoot of an owl, the croak of frogs, or the cry of a hungry coyote echoed throughout his 80 acres.
Eventually, he built a second room, turning the simple deer blind into a “lodge.” His grandsons were too young to appreciate the gift grandpa had created, but every now and then their parents brought them out, and they toasted marshmallows around the campfire. I often joined them, and we talked about the old days when some of the land pastured cattle and some saw fields of hay.
I was talking to this fellow the other day. He said it’s been a long time since anyone spent a night at the lodge, and nobody used it as a hunting camp last year. Maybe it’s too rustic or too outdated. He said he doesn’t work on it any more. I don’t think he’s given up, but folks tend to lose heart when something meaningful to them doesn’t mean much to others.
Maybe someday someone will rediscover the magical place he created. I hope so because it’s a shame the work of my brother’s hands stands forlorn and forgotten. But maybe life is like that. We build things we think are special and important. Things that tell people who we are, but maybe our gifts of labor and love are meant only for our eyes — something we can look at or remember as we grow old.
What got me thinking about the gift in the woods was deer hunting season. When I was young, uncles and cousins gathered at our house. The first light of dawn saw the men drinking hot coffee around our kitchen table and making plans for the day. Although there was always disagreement about who would watch where, everyone enjoyed the camaraderie hunting inspired. My cousins grumbled about driving the woods, but every November they showed up early and stayed late. They congregated at our house for Gram’s cinnamon rolls hot from the oven and a warm scone slathered with Mom’s strawberry jam.
Unlike today, hunting actually took place in the woods, not the backyard. My cousins were the hounds. It fell to them to drive the bush and chase deer into the open where an experienced relative sat watch. Once a deer was in sight, the older fellow picked it off. If the deer was wounded but did not fall, the younger boys tracked it and finished the job, giving them bragging rights.
Over the years, traditions change, loved ones pass away, and children move to distant places. As we age, Thanksgiving becomes less about food and more about reminiscing. Whether stories told around your Thanksgiving table relate to deer hunting season or other memorable occasions, I hope they’re pleasant reminders of the people who make your life special.
Maybe this year my brother’s sons and grandsons will come home and spend a few hours creating cherished memories that will last a lifetime.
You know what I mean don’t you?