Rust

Got a call from my best friend growing up the other night, and it's been weighing on my mind.

As many who read me know, I lost my dad in a farm accident when I was nine. This is right about the age that you start to realize that there is a lot to your father, and you just start to get to know him. I never did drive a tractor, other than the old lawn mower (though I ran one into the rabbit hutch), and, though he talked of hunting occasionally, I never did learn about shooting or hunting from him.

I met my best friend just before our church started its school, and when the school year began, we were both enrolled. We became close friends very quickly, and we spent much time at each other's houses, our parents getting new kids in the deal. His father soon became a father figure to all of the kids in my family.

Al took us up North to camp, and in the fall, he took us hunting, telling us what to look for, and where most deer would be seen... and why. When he built a small bunkhouse to go along with the trailer that he had up there, we boys were right there. Heheheh... the Perfect One, in trimming the posts that we used to mount the floor joists, left one a little tall. After the cabin was finished, we noticed it. It's been called "the pivot point" ever since, as it's right where you need to turn to go out the door. (Imagine the Minister of Silly Walks pivoting and kicking, and you've got a picture of what we do when we hit that spot.)

For years, we boys went hunting with them, hunting their land and the surrounding acreage. The owners encouraged us to hunt it, as we were responsible, and it helped to push the deer to other areas, keeping them moving. One land owner died, and soon his land was forbidden to us. We stopped going up there, as there was only so much room for 8-10 people to hunt, and 40 acres didn't cut it. Besides... that's right around the time I moved to Illinois, and I could not afford to pay for the non-resident license. I've really missed it, and John called to let me know that they all missed us coming up with them. Then, just before he hung up, he told me the news that's been bugging me since...

Al needs a cane to walk.

Al is a big man, powerfully built, and almost my height. He's always seemed indestructable, even the few times that he'd been hurt. It just doesn't seem like it can be... he's in his late fifties.

Many years ago, all of the kids from our family got together and bought him a beautiful Browning A-bolt .300 magnum rifle. A powerful gun, it left its mark on three of our eyebrows. Heh... not mine. Anyway, at the time we presented it to him, we made it clear that we were all going to go out west elk hunting. Unfortunately, schedules did not cooperate, and over the years, it was dropped to a low priority.

Now... I don't know if it will ever come about. But believe me, I'm going to try to work something out, if it's only Al and myself. He deserves it...

Growing up on and around farms, I know about death... I know things age. This doesn't bother me. It's life. What bothers me is the speed with which it pounces upon you... something you'd have thought I'd learned long ago. Lord knows I've gotten bitchslapped by life more than once...

The night I got that call, I had so many thoughts running through my empty head and nothing seemed to come out right as I was writing about it. It seemed like I was feeling sorry for myself, or for Al, or thinking that life just isn't fair. Hell... that ain't the case at all. Life just is... deal with it. Then I ran across a post from Mushy, which kinda sums it up in a different way. It may seem fatalistic, but it's the damn truth.

Folks rust...

Posted by That 1 Guy at November 21, 2006 07:51 AM | TrackBack