These lines from an obscure song in the animated classic, “Charlotte’s Web” haunt me in this transitional time of year. Father Time turns the seasons. Mother Earth adjusts her garb accordingly. Thus, the imagery of autumn’s displays of colorful beauty leading into the barrenness of winter. This is one of my favorite times of year as I can layer a sweater every day and knit a new cowl to keep the chill from my neck. And at the same time, this change in the weather and seasons causes me to miss my dad more than normal.
I think about him almost every morning with the chill in the air. This was the most exciting time of the year for him as hunting season begins with archery, then muzzleloader and then rifle. Deer are very active right now and I see them crossing my path on just about every trip I make in the early morning or late in the evening. I’ve grown up in Pennsylvania my whole life and have seen literally thousands of deer, but it still makes me want to grab the phone and call my dad to tell him about the six pointer that scampered down the meadow on my way to work. Little moments like those would feel like good omens for the coming weeks when he would walk for hours on the mountain hoping to fill his tags.
Watching my family prepare for their own excursions into the woods to harvest some game also stirs up my melancholy. We have had to shift our traditions and with change comes uncertainty and the understanding that things will never be the same. There is no going back to the familiar territory with the cherished routines. The irony hits me, that while we were in those moments, they felt so ordinary and mundane. There was nothing remotely magical about them. But now that they are gone and inaccessible, how significant they seem. What a curious revelation that we seldom understand the value of a moment until it has passed beyond our grasp.
We run around the house, gathering up all the equipment needed for a day in the woods. Backpacks, binoculars, tissues, hot seat, game calls, ammunition, license and orange vest all emerge from their storage bins. Boots and coats, gloves and hats, guns and scopes line up in the staging area. Anticipation of the next day and the promise it may hold often robs a hunter of his sleep. And that same anticipation wakes him up before the alarm even rings as the morning dawns.
If you didn’t grow up in a hunter’s home perhaps none of this makes any sense to you. How could these strange activities evoke such deep emotion inside me? For our family, the pageant of the hunt was a deep family bonding time and I am blessed to have seen that connection passed down to my children as well. This may not make sense to you, but today I am grateful for the fall and for hunting season and even for the sorrow that swells in my heart because it’s all tied up in a greater joy called family.
