"The Conversation"
The weight of the school door argued against the man pulling at the handle, but it was unpersuasive. Upon stepping inside the building’s cavernous lobby, the man was greeted by a sign that read ALL VISITORS REPORT TO MAIN OFFICE. He glanced around until he saw a small paper sign pointing the way. Around the corner and down the hall he went, until he found it.
The plump, pleasant looking lady who was seated behind the Formica desk didn’t look up when he first walked in. A few moments later, she looked up from her work and took him in. Immediately, her face indicated surprise at his appearance, as if this were the first time she’d ever been confronted with a student’s father dressed head-to-toe in full camouflage.
“Hhhhhhhiiii. May I help you?” she asked curiously.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m here to pick up my son. Checking him out a little early today.”
“Yes, sir,” she offered suspiciously. “And what may I note is the reason for, um, early dismissal?” She pinched her pencil eraser between her top and bottom pre-molars and raised an eyebrow.
He hesitated slightly before offering, “It’s some personal family business.” He said it as ordinarily as he could, hoping to imply that it was perfectly routine to check one’s child out early for personal family business that required heavy camouflaged clothing.
“Of course, sir. What is the young man’s name? I’ll have him brought right up.”
A handful of minutes later, an apprehensive young boy appeared outside the windows of the office. He was not much bigger than the bulging back pack strapped to his shoulders. As soon as he noticed his dad in the office, his face changed from trepidation to excitement.
They exited the school and climbed into their truck.
“What are you doing here, Dad?” the boy asked.
“I thought you might like to go up to the camp for the weekend,” the man responded. “I figured you wouldn’t mind checking out a little early today to get a head start. Of course, I can always just leave you here to finish the school day.”
“No! This is great,” the boy said. “Besides, we were all finished anyway. We were just watching a video about the Founding Fathers to kill time until the bell rang. We’ve already watched it once this week.”
“I can think of a few people up in Washington who could stand to watch that video a few times,” the dad murmured.
“Sir?”
“Nothing.” With that, they exited the school grounds and were off.
Discussion was light and sporadic on their way to the camp. The boy ate a cheeseburger and some fries they’d gotten at a fast food place. After passing the empty paper bag and wrappers to his dad, the boy looked out the window at the trees as they blurred past the truck. He placed his head in his hand and leaned his elbow against the door.
“What’s on your mind, pal?” the man inquired.
“Not much. Just thinking,” came the retort.
Countless more trees, a few more cutover sections and dozens more pastures flew anonymously by before the boy shifted in his seat and turned slightly toward the driver’s side.
“Dad? Remember when I killed my first deer? That doe? We were both so excited and we jumped around and you gave me high fives and stuff. I think you called everybody you know that night.”
“Of course I remember, buddy, that’s one of my favorite memories,” the dad responded.
“I know you were all proud of me and stuff, and I was real excited, too, but –” the boy stopped abruptly in mid-thought.
“Yeah?” came the short but interested question from the driver’s seat.
“. . . well, I felt sorta bad at the same time, too. About killing that deer, you know? I wasn’t real sure how to feel. You were all proud of me but I felt sad and excited all at the same time. Is that wrong?”
The man stared fifty miles out the windshield as his son’s admission and subsequent question sank in. He spied an orange clay logging road jutting off the asphalt about a half-mile up ahead, and took his foot off the gas.
“Dad?” the boy asked nervously.
“Hang on, pal.”
The man coasted the truck the half-mile to the logging road, pulled off the asphalt and put the gearshift in Park. He turned 90 degrees in his seat and put his arm around his son.
“First of all, buddy,” he began, “I’m really proud of you for admitting how you felt that night. That wasn’t easy and it takes a big man to admit something like that. Listen, son, there’s no way around it: killing is a part of hunting. If anybody tries to say different, they’re not being totally truthful about it. But it’s not the only part of hunting, do you understand? That night when we were celebrating your first deer I smeared blood all over your face, do you remember that?”
The boy chuckled and smiled shyly while looking down into his lap. “Yes, sir,” he said in a relieved tone.
“Well, I wasn’t so much celebrating the death of that animal or the fact that you’d killed something as I was celebrating the moment we’d shared together and everything that it means and stands for.”
The man continued, hoping to get it right. “Son, death is a natural and necessary part of life. And killing is just as natural and necessary a part of hunting. But it’s not the only part. If the only joy you get out of hunting is the killing, then there’s something wrong.”
“That’s why you’re always saying that we have to treat the animals with respect and eat what we get, right?” the boy asked.
“That’s exactly right,” the man replied.
“Son, you’re going to have a better understanding of life and death and the natural processes of the world around you because you’re a hunter; I firmly believe that. But you’re also going to have some wonderful experiences with family and friends that will give you a lifetime of fulfillment. That night you killed your first deer? I have our photo in my office and I think about it every single day of my life. You can’t get that hardly anywhere else.”
“So you’re not mad or disappointed in me? For feeling like that?” the boy asked.
“Heck no, pal. I’m proud of you. That’s exactly how I want you to feel. I want you to thank God for that animal and show it the respect it deserves every time you go hunting. If you do that, son, you’ll be alright. And you’ll enjoy a lifetime of great days outdoors.”
(c) Roger Guilian, 2010
The plump, pleasant looking lady who was seated behind the Formica desk didn’t look up when he first walked in. A few moments later, she looked up from her work and took him in. Immediately, her face indicated surprise at his appearance, as if this were the first time she’d ever been confronted with a student’s father dressed head-to-toe in full camouflage.
“Hhhhhhhiiii. May I help you?” she asked curiously.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m here to pick up my son. Checking him out a little early today.”
“Yes, sir,” she offered suspiciously. “And what may I note is the reason for, um, early dismissal?” She pinched her pencil eraser between her top and bottom pre-molars and raised an eyebrow.
He hesitated slightly before offering, “It’s some personal family business.” He said it as ordinarily as he could, hoping to imply that it was perfectly routine to check one’s child out early for personal family business that required heavy camouflaged clothing.
“Of course, sir. What is the young man’s name? I’ll have him brought right up.”
A handful of minutes later, an apprehensive young boy appeared outside the windows of the office. He was not much bigger than the bulging back pack strapped to his shoulders. As soon as he noticed his dad in the office, his face changed from trepidation to excitement.
They exited the school and climbed into their truck.
“What are you doing here, Dad?” the boy asked.
“I thought you might like to go up to the camp for the weekend,” the man responded. “I figured you wouldn’t mind checking out a little early today to get a head start. Of course, I can always just leave you here to finish the school day.”
“No! This is great,” the boy said. “Besides, we were all finished anyway. We were just watching a video about the Founding Fathers to kill time until the bell rang. We’ve already watched it once this week.”
“I can think of a few people up in Washington who could stand to watch that video a few times,” the dad murmured.
“Sir?”
“Nothing.” With that, they exited the school grounds and were off.
Discussion was light and sporadic on their way to the camp. The boy ate a cheeseburger and some fries they’d gotten at a fast food place. After passing the empty paper bag and wrappers to his dad, the boy looked out the window at the trees as they blurred past the truck. He placed his head in his hand and leaned his elbow against the door.
“What’s on your mind, pal?” the man inquired.
“Not much. Just thinking,” came the retort.
Countless more trees, a few more cutover sections and dozens more pastures flew anonymously by before the boy shifted in his seat and turned slightly toward the driver’s side.
“Dad? Remember when I killed my first deer? That doe? We were both so excited and we jumped around and you gave me high fives and stuff. I think you called everybody you know that night.”
“Of course I remember, buddy, that’s one of my favorite memories,” the dad responded.
“I know you were all proud of me and stuff, and I was real excited, too, but –” the boy stopped abruptly in mid-thought.
“Yeah?” came the short but interested question from the driver’s seat.
“. . . well, I felt sorta bad at the same time, too. About killing that deer, you know? I wasn’t real sure how to feel. You were all proud of me but I felt sad and excited all at the same time. Is that wrong?”
The man stared fifty miles out the windshield as his son’s admission and subsequent question sank in. He spied an orange clay logging road jutting off the asphalt about a half-mile up ahead, and took his foot off the gas.
“Dad?” the boy asked nervously.
“Hang on, pal.”
The man coasted the truck the half-mile to the logging road, pulled off the asphalt and put the gearshift in Park. He turned 90 degrees in his seat and put his arm around his son.
“First of all, buddy,” he began, “I’m really proud of you for admitting how you felt that night. That wasn’t easy and it takes a big man to admit something like that. Listen, son, there’s no way around it: killing is a part of hunting. If anybody tries to say different, they’re not being totally truthful about it. But it’s not the only part of hunting, do you understand? That night when we were celebrating your first deer I smeared blood all over your face, do you remember that?”
The boy chuckled and smiled shyly while looking down into his lap. “Yes, sir,” he said in a relieved tone.
“Well, I wasn’t so much celebrating the death of that animal or the fact that you’d killed something as I was celebrating the moment we’d shared together and everything that it means and stands for.”
The man continued, hoping to get it right. “Son, death is a natural and necessary part of life. And killing is just as natural and necessary a part of hunting. But it’s not the only part. If the only joy you get out of hunting is the killing, then there’s something wrong.”
“That’s why you’re always saying that we have to treat the animals with respect and eat what we get, right?” the boy asked.
“That’s exactly right,” the man replied.
“Son, you’re going to have a better understanding of life and death and the natural processes of the world around you because you’re a hunter; I firmly believe that. But you’re also going to have some wonderful experiences with family and friends that will give you a lifetime of fulfillment. That night you killed your first deer? I have our photo in my office and I think about it every single day of my life. You can’t get that hardly anywhere else.”
“So you’re not mad or disappointed in me? For feeling like that?” the boy asked.
“Heck no, pal. I’m proud of you. That’s exactly how I want you to feel. I want you to thank God for that animal and show it the respect it deserves every time you go hunting. If you do that, son, you’ll be alright. And you’ll enjoy a lifetime of great days outdoors.”
(c) Roger Guilian, 2010
posted by Days Afield Host | 1:04 PM
