In August of 1996, I moved from my family home of North Carolina to the San Francisco Bay area in California.  In September of the same year, I went on my first California hunt… a trip into the Sierra to hunt mountain quail. 

After the hunt, which was a limited success, I rushed home, eager to call my dad and share the experience.  He used to love going afield for bobwhites, before the sprawl of suburbia (and feral cats) decimated the quail populations in our area, so I couldn’t wait to tell him about this new kind of quail and the excitement of chasing them through the Sierra high-country.

When I got back into my apartment, I noticed the message light flashing on my answering machine.  It was my brother calling, telling me that my dad had fallen from a ladder and struck his head on the brick driveway edging.  It was bad.  They didn’t expect him to live, and I needed to get back home as quickly as I could.  I dropped everything, the hunt forgotten, and booked an immediate flight.

He didn’t die, but the bleeding and swelling in his head did irreversible damage to his brain.  Over time, he showed some hopeful signs of partial recovery, but the damage ran deep and the tide of improvement soon turned.   Other health problems increased, partially exacerbated by the brain damage.  HIs mind and body are failing now, and it’s painful to see. 

My dad was never a big man, but he was strong and vital. He taught me the kind of toughness that a small-statured man learns from a harsh world, and reminded me of that strength throughout my life.  Even when I grew to stand a full head above him, he was always ready to remind me that determination and focus are more important than physical size… and to teach me that as long as I use my head as well as my strength, I am a match for any man.    He also taught me that the confidence of knowing this would keep me from having to prove it. 

He was no big sports star, although he loved to play football and he passed that love along to me.  He taught me and coached me in other sports as well, including baseball, basketball, and boxing.  His lessons of strength, perseverance, and using my head helped me to do well in these efforts, and the experiences, in turn, improved me both as a team-player and as an individual.  I’m no athlete today, but I’m in pretty good shape.  I believe my mental and physical fitness can be directly attributed to his influence. 

He wasn’t a real “hunting nut”, and I honestly think he enjoyed the solitude of the hunt more than the sport itself, but he introduced me to guns and hunting and I know his pride was very real when I took my first deer.  Over time, as he began to hunt less, I think he got a vicarious satisfaction as I began to pursue what has become a lifelong passion.  

Really, I think my dad was mostly just a regular guy.  That’s certainly how he’d have come across to the rest of the world… a normal, albeit really friendly and likeable, fella.  But like any son, I see him differently. 

To me he’s always been a hero… larger than life, and, until recently, invincible. 

Oh, if you don’t like poetry, stop reading here…

It’s hard to see your hero fall 
To find he’s made of flesh and bone
To learn he’s human
not made of stone

It’s tough to see the man of steel
That great immortal brought to bay
by the rust of time
brought down by age

It hurts to see that ramrod back
Once strong and straight now bent and frail
The burdens of life
there tell their tale

Painful to hear the idling beat
Of that vital, thudding, mighty heart
that loved so deep
and played so hard

And now to watch the memories fade
as the eyes grow dull and vision dims
Once so alive
now tired and thin

I know somewhere the memories bright
Deep in his mind still burn and tease
Of days afield
and on the sea

And I hope he can hear my words
deep inside his troubled, scrambled mind
I say, “I love you”
one more time

 

Related Posts

No related posts.