The cold November woods were still as a tomb as the man quietly watched for any signs of life. With a lead grey sky it looked like it was making up to be a cold wet Thankgiving. And a hungry one at that, the man thought, if he couldn't bring home some game. In this fourth year of what they were calling the Great Depression money was scarce, and having been without work, there was little in the cuboard at home for his wife to make much dinner for their kids. So the man was out in the woods with his old single barrel shotgun, looking for anything that would go in a pot.
He took his gloves off and blew on his hands trying to warm them. The gloves were worn thin, as was the old wool workcoat. He had always taken the family shopping at the end of harvest sesson, but with the summer drought taking his corn crop it was not in the cards. Clothing would have to be patched up for another season. Now all he wanted badly was a couple squirrels or rabbits for a stew.
He looked up at the lowering dark grey sky and prayed.
"Lord, I know I'm not a very religous man, and I ain't been in church as often as I should have been. But I'm askng you for a favor. Not for me, but for my kids, I don't want them going hungry on a Thanksgiving. Please, just give me a chance to feed my kids, Lord."
There was no answer to his prayer in the form of a beam of sunshine, nor a voice of any kind, not that the man expected it. He slowly walked on through the cold grey winter woods. Then an hour later, when he was just begining to turn home in a depressed mood, there was a slight movement in the grove of big oaks ahead. He froze in place and watched carefully. Then he saw her.
It was a large doe, head down, feeding on the rich acorns fallen from the oaks. Waiting till her head was down and feeding, the man took a small side step to put the trunk of the big oak between himself and the deer. Then ever so slowly, he broke open the shotgun and took out the shotshell and loaded a pumpkin ball into the gun. Slowly closing the shotgun, he pressed the barrel home in the receiver while keeping his thumb pressing on the opening lever so as not to make a sound. Then he took a carefull step, then another. He froze as the deer moved into sight, and waited till her head went down again and stepped to the side again to put the tree back between them. Another few carefull steps to close the distance a little more. He drew back the hammer and waited.
Then she came into sight on the other side of the tree. She stopped and looked in his direction for a very long time. The man breathed shallow through his mouth, wishing he could still his pounding heart for just a few moments. The deer slowly took another step, and then put her head down. Slowly, like molasses in January, the man raised the old shotgun and took carefull aim.
Whether the deer had been watching him out of one eye, or his slow movement was enough, the doe bolted, and the man tracked her. Taking a slight lead with the brass bead he told himself he had only this one shot, please Lord, let it go true. He squeezed off the shot and the 12 gauge kicked back into his shoulder.
The deer staggered in mid stride, then stumbling and falling and then comming up and running a bit more than 50 yards before falling and going still. The man tried to control his rapid breathing while he reloaded the old shotgun, and then slowly came up to the downed doe. Her eyes were open and tongue lolling out, and the man knew his family would have a fine venison roast for Thanksgiving. He knelt by the fat doe and thought he may even have enough meat to trade for some dry goods like flour and suger. He reached into his pocket and took out the old trapper pocket knife his dad had given him decades ago. The jigging on the bone handles was shallow from all the handling. It was worn from years of being used, but not abused, and the grey razor sharp blade made field dressing the deer an easy task.
Then he knew he would be in church next Sunday, and kneeling there in the cold woods he looked up and gave a simple but heartfelt thanks.
He took his gloves off and blew on his hands trying to warm them. The gloves were worn thin, as was the old wool workcoat. He had always taken the family shopping at the end of harvest sesson, but with the summer drought taking his corn crop it was not in the cards. Clothing would have to be patched up for another season. Now all he wanted badly was a couple squirrels or rabbits for a stew.
He looked up at the lowering dark grey sky and prayed.
"Lord, I know I'm not a very religous man, and I ain't been in church as often as I should have been. But I'm askng you for a favor. Not for me, but for my kids, I don't want them going hungry on a Thanksgiving. Please, just give me a chance to feed my kids, Lord."
There was no answer to his prayer in the form of a beam of sunshine, nor a voice of any kind, not that the man expected it. He slowly walked on through the cold grey winter woods. Then an hour later, when he was just begining to turn home in a depressed mood, there was a slight movement in the grove of big oaks ahead. He froze in place and watched carefully. Then he saw her.
It was a large doe, head down, feeding on the rich acorns fallen from the oaks. Waiting till her head was down and feeding, the man took a small side step to put the trunk of the big oak between himself and the deer. Then ever so slowly, he broke open the shotgun and took out the shotshell and loaded a pumpkin ball into the gun. Slowly closing the shotgun, he pressed the barrel home in the receiver while keeping his thumb pressing on the opening lever so as not to make a sound. Then he took a carefull step, then another. He froze as the deer moved into sight, and waited till her head went down again and stepped to the side again to put the tree back between them. Another few carefull steps to close the distance a little more. He drew back the hammer and waited.
Then she came into sight on the other side of the tree. She stopped and looked in his direction for a very long time. The man breathed shallow through his mouth, wishing he could still his pounding heart for just a few moments. The deer slowly took another step, and then put her head down. Slowly, like molasses in January, the man raised the old shotgun and took carefull aim.
Whether the deer had been watching him out of one eye, or his slow movement was enough, the doe bolted, and the man tracked her. Taking a slight lead with the brass bead he told himself he had only this one shot, please Lord, let it go true. He squeezed off the shot and the 12 gauge kicked back into his shoulder.
The deer staggered in mid stride, then stumbling and falling and then comming up and running a bit more than 50 yards before falling and going still. The man tried to control his rapid breathing while he reloaded the old shotgun, and then slowly came up to the downed doe. Her eyes were open and tongue lolling out, and the man knew his family would have a fine venison roast for Thanksgiving. He knelt by the fat doe and thought he may even have enough meat to trade for some dry goods like flour and suger. He reached into his pocket and took out the old trapper pocket knife his dad had given him decades ago. The jigging on the bone handles was shallow from all the handling. It was worn from years of being used, but not abused, and the grey razor sharp blade made field dressing the deer an easy task.
Then he knew he would be in church next Sunday, and kneeling there in the cold woods he looked up and gave a simple but heartfelt thanks.
