Thanksgiving 1970 holds a memory for me. I was eleven years old. Hunting season was in full swing. Dad was off from work. This was my first year to deer hunt with dad.
Thanksgiving was usually cold and snowy in northern Vermont, and this day proved no exception. Dad took me to the edge of a wooded-area that faced an open field. "Sit here," he said. "A deer could possibly walk out into the open. I’ll take a stand further down the edge of the field."
My first deer stand. I was excited. But I was also cold and tired. I drew my arms in tight to my body for extra warmth. I pulled my hat as far over my forehead as I could to still allow my eyes some sight. I shivered. I closed my eyes. I dozed off.
How long I remained a tight bundle of shivering nerves I don’t know. I just remember the sensation that I was being watched. I opened my eyes and saw something, no someone, in the field watching me. It was dad.
For a moment I forgot being cold and tired. My racing heart revived me. How long had he watched me? Would he be mad that I feel asleep on a stand? Why was he just standing there?
He smiled, waived his hand, and said, "Let’s go home."
Grace covered me. And we’ve talked about it a lot through the years. With smiles. "Do you remember the time you fell asleep?" "Yes, I do."
Any Thanksgiving memory of your dad that stands out for you?