In keeping with my personal tradition, a Christmas-themed short story. From previous years, A Christmas Encounter, about an old man and his faithful companion, is here. And The Christmas Gift, about the lesson that it is more blessed to give than receive, is here. Both those tales were based on true stories from our region. Christmas at Mine No. 12 isn’t. Brimstone was a coal-mining community, and it was an extremely poor community in the first half of the 20th Century, and there were some mine tragedies that occurred there. This one, though, is completely fictional, and comes only from the presence of an unseen spirit I feel each year at about this time as I make many hunting trips up the Indian Fork Creek Valley. The coal has played out and the valley is deserted. But the spirit remains.

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It’s been a while since we’ve delved into the realm of fiction. Let’s have a short story, in honor of Halloween. This is a little longer than my previous stories, and a little darker. I’ll be in trouble with my mom and grandpa over the PG language. I don’t like it either, but it’s sometimes necessary. This story is one of those sometimes.

The story after the jump . . .

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This is not a new story, but it is new to the blog.

“Yeah, he’s out there alright.”

The old man grunted as he sat down.

“He’s laying low in those pines, but he’s out there. Soon as this rain lets up, he’ll be ready.”

Raindrops slid down the window as the boy sat on the sill, nose almost touching the glass. A slight fog stained the window as he breathed. He stared intently through the rain at the pine grove just beyond the clearing.

The coffeepot began to whistle. “Coffee’s ready,” the old man said to no one in particular, getting up to pour himself a cup. It was JFG, of course. The old man never drank anything but JFG coffee. Keeps the gray hairs away, he always said. Perhaps there was something to that. In his 78th year, his head was only slightly peppered with gray hairs.

“Yeah, he’s out there alright,” the old man repeated dreamily as he shuffled to the stove for the coffee. “I’d wager a nickel to a dollar that he’d go at least 170 this year. Biggest buck I ever seen, no doubt.”

It was a grandfather-grandson tradition. The two had made their way to this old hunting cabin on top of the mountain for four straight years. At 12-years-old, the boy had killed a couple of deer, but nothing big. Still, as is the case with every boy his age, every deer was a braggin’ deer, and the boy was rightfully proud of the ones he had bagged.

His grandfather had taught him everything he knew about hunting. From scouting to sitting in the truck at a field’s edge and observing deer in the preseason to directing the boy on the stand on early morning hunts. “Fly your arrow straight, Little Man,” the old man would whisper when a “shooter” approached their stand.

For the past few years, the old man had promised the boy that the kid would get himself a wallhanger; a true trophy buck. The man had put nine deer on the wall himself, and dreamed of seeing his grandson bag a trophy buck before their hunting days together were done.

During those same years, the old man had been watching a beautiful buck — a Boone & Crockett if he’d ever seen one — ease in and around the pine grove behind the cabin. Six times he had seen him over three years. The first time, the buck was a nice, wide six-point and the man had known that this one would grow into something special. By the third year, the buck was 13 points of typical mass, quite the largest buck he had ever seen. He had almost let an arrow fly the last time he was on top of the mountain the previous year, but at the last minute decided to hold out and hope that Little Man got a shot at him the next year.

He had smiled wistfully on that November day, as he watched the biggest buck he’d ever let walk — the buck he’d always dreamed of killing — saunter slowly out of sight. But he knew that next year he would be able to put his grandson in the same stand. And maybe, just maybe, his grandson would be able to bag a true trophy. That would make it all worthwhile.

“Grampa, do you think he knows we’re here?” the boy asked as he continued to stare at the pine grove, just a few hundred yards from the cabin.

“Yes sir, he knows, alright,” the old man said. He held the mug in front of him, steam rising in front of his face, as he stared thoughtfully at the cabin wall.

“This is his territory here,” he said. “I’d bet he pays real close attention to everything that goes in and out. If it’s a smaller buck, he’ll just take care of business. If it’s a human, he’ll just sit right there and quietly wait for us to make the next move. He’s out there now, lying underneath the boughs of one of those white pines in the dry. He can probably see the smoke rising from the chimeny from where he’s at right now, and is just waiting on us to make the next move.”

The boy turned back to the rain-smeared window. Then, with a puzzled look on his face, he turned back to his grandfather. “If he knows where we are and is waiting on us to make the next move, how are we gonna get him?” he asked.

“Well, Little Man, we’re gonna outsmart him,” chuckled the old man. “Yessir, we’re going to fool the ol’ boy.” He took a drink from the worn mug before continuing. “A buck like that isn’t just any buck. He’s lived this long by being smart and by outsmarting hunters just like you and me. But I happen to know where the trail lies that he uses to travel through those pines yonder. If we can slip out there and keep quiet and still, and keep the arrow straight, I believe we’ll have a shot at him.”

The raindrops were slowing and the boy could see some light in the western sky if he pondered whether it would really be as easy as the old man said. Getting a buck like that was bound to be tough. But, then, if there was anyone who could outsmart a buck at his own game, it was his grandpa.

“You ever seen him, Grampa?” he asked.

“Oh yes. I’ve seen him several times. Seen his sign more often than I’ve seen him, of course, but I’ve seen him a few times.”

“Why didn’t you shoot?”

The old man shifted his gaze to the window, a far-away look in his eyes, perhaps as he thought back to that November day the previous fall, when the buck had stood broadside at just 25 paces.

“Well,” he lied, “I guess he just never got close enough.”

Both the boy and the grandpa knew that this would likely be the last hunting season the man would share at the cabin. Diagnosed with Alzheimers in the spring, doctors expected his condition to deteriorate quickly. Already, he sometimes had difficulty remembering important dates, like birthdays and anniversaries or doctors appointments. One time he had gone to the grocery store and couldn’t find his way back home. But he hadn’t forgotten the best tricks of deer hunting. He sure hadn’t forgotten that.

The boy pondered his grandpa’s condition. He didn’t know a lot about it, other than what he had learned in his fifth grade health class. The teacher said that a person’s brain lost its ability to function and that they eventually wouldn’t be able to take care of themselves. The doctor said that his grandpa’s condition was beginning to advance. Looking at him, you couldn’t see any signs of it. In fact, he was the picture of health.

He thought back to his first deer hunt with the old man. He had been eight years old that year and he had thoroughly scouted the area around the cabin with his grandpa. There had been no illness back then, and the two had talked anxiously for hours about the upcoming hunt. When it came to hunting, the old man was as excited and impatient as a kid. They had hunted for four hours that morning while only seeing a couple of does. After sitting in the truck and listening to John Ward call the Tennessee-Alabama football game on the AM radio while eating dinner, they had returned to the woods for an evening hunt. As luck would have it, they had both scored that evening. The boy got a forkhorn and the old man had shot a six-point. “Keep your arrow straight, Little Man,” the old man had whispered as the buck walked slowly into view. Shortly after those words, the six-point had walked into the clearing behind the four-point. The old man told the boy to shoot when he was ready, while slowly pulling back the string on his own bow. Just as the boy let his arrow fly, the old man shot. Both arrows were true to their mark, and both had been all grins as they had walked from the woods on that October evening.

“Looks like the rain is letting up,” the old man said, jerking the boy’s attention back to the present. “Guess it’s time.”

The boy didn’t have to be told twice. Any opportunity to get into the stand was a welcomed opportunity, and this one was especially so. Though he had never seen the buck they were hunting, he knew that if Grampa said it was the biggest buck he’d ever laid eyes on, it had to be a monster.

A short time later, the hunting companions were easing into a ground blind that the man had built a few weeks earlier.

“We’ll ease in here and I’ll betcha he’s gonna come wandering out here before dark,” the old man whispered.

The boy gripped the handle of his bow and settled back against the trunk of a golden-leafed poplar to wait. It wasn’t long before he heard the tell-tale crunching of footsteps in the leaves. His heart jumped into his throat as he anxiously scanned the forest floor for the source of the noise.

A flash of movement. Then another. Something brown slipping through the underbrush. The boy began slowly raising his bow. Then the deer slipped clear of the undergrowth and it was only a doe. She walked slowly into the clearing upwind of the blind and began feeding on the acorns that had peppered the ground.

The old man looked at the boy and grinned. “She had you and me both fooled, didn’t she, Little Man?” he whispered. Turning his attention back to the clearing, his smile froze. “There he is!” he whispered earnestly. As the boy slowly turned back his head, he saw the most magnificant buck he had ever seen. Thirteen points and every bit of 175 inches, the huge deer had followed the doe into the clearing. Standing just 35 yards away and angling slightly from the pair, the deer needed to turn only a bit to offer the perfect shot.

The boy’s heart was thumping as he slowly rose his bow and began his draw. He held it at full-draw and waited as the buck stepped sideways to approach the doe. “Keep your arrow straight, Little Man,” he vaguely heard the old man whisper as he zeroed his sights and attention on the biggest buck he would probably ever kill. He waited for the deer to take one more step, then carefully flipped the trigger on his release and watched the arrow sail true to its mark.

* * *

Lowering the bow, Travis watched as the deer bounded for the edge of the clearing, then fell in a heap. Breathing a sigh of relief that hardly met the exhilaration he felt within, he got up and walked to the edge of the woods to retrieve the deer.

Walking up to it, he counted eight perfect points. Not the biggest deer he had ever killed, but then few things could match the impressive 13-point buck he had shot that day in 1984. It was then, on his grandpa’s last hunt, that he had had the honor of bagging the deer that is every hunter’s dream. His grandpa had been plenty proud and the two had joked that day that they would be back the next year to chase the big buck’s offspring. But the old man’s condition had quickly worsened during the winter and he was gone before the last of the spring thaw.

Yet, as the man sat in the edge of the clearing holding the antlers of the eight-point and reflecting on the hunts of years past, it was almost as if the old man was still there; as if he had never left.

A breeze kicked up, scattering leaves and rolling through the tops of the pines in the grove. As the sound rushed by, the man could almost hear a voice riding on the wind:

“Keep your arrow straight, Little Man.” He grinned. “Thanks, Grampa,” he whispered.

Grabbing the deer by the antlers, he turned and headed for home.

– July 2003

A wild turkey has six toes and short, dull claws. A wild turkey hunter has 10 fingers and opposable thumbs. A wild turkey scratches through leaves and cow piles for food. A wild turkey hunter has battled to the top of the food chain. A wild turkey has a brain roughly the size of a peanut. A wild turkey hunter has a brain roughly the size of a cantaloupe. A battle of wits between the two and the outcome would be . . . well, a no-brainer.

But that wasn’t the case with me and Ol’ Soft Gobble.

Every hunter occasionally runs into a bird that gives him the slip and makes it personal. The hunter soon becomes fixated on that bird; nothing else matters. “Season-wreckers,” some call them. And for good reason. Even the best turkey hunter can find a bird that will eat up his entire season without presenting a shot if the hunter doesn’t have the willpower to concede defeat and find other birds to hunt.

I’m a far cry from one of those “best hunters,” but Soft Gobble certainly had all the qualities of a season-wrecker. He earned his name for his quiet gobble. If you weren’t familiar with Soft Gobble, you’d almost swear the bird that had just gobbled on the next ridge was a jake. But if you were familiar with him, you’d just grin and say, “Nope. That’s Ol’ Soft Gobble.” If you lined up Soft Gobble with a couple of other longbeards, I’m not sure I could distinguish between them. But there was no doubting the old boy’s quiet vocalizations.

I don’t remember the first time I heard Ol’ Soft Gobble. Likely as not, I mistook him for a jake. But as that season (and the next) rolled along, it became obvious that Ol’ Soft Gobble was one smart bird. A hunting buddy set up on the bird on several occasions. I set up on the bird on several occasions. We set up on the bird together on several occasions. But always to no avail.

Ol’ Soft Gobble had a penchant for roosting in the same place most nights. On the edge of a narrow ridge lined with bluffs, he’d stand sentry in a stand of white pines. Calling him to the gun was akin to talking a squirrel out of a hickory tree. The most seductive sequence of yelps, clucks and purrs were rendered useless by Soft Gobble’s stubborness.

Still, unless he pitched off across the creek, there was only one way off the ridge. It would seem easy. Position one’s self in the middle of the narrow ridge a hundred or so yards from his tree and intercept him as he leaves his bedroom for the happy scratching grounds on down the trail. But still Ol’ Soft Gobble managed to evade us.

When push came to shove, we devised a plan, placing two hunters a hundred yards apart to cover both routes of possible travel from the roost to the open woods. But when Ol’ Soft Gobble pitched down, he worked his way around the edge of the ridge among thickets of mountain laurel, gobbling occasionally to mock us as he headed for the deeper woods.

For the rest of that season and all of the next, one or the other or both of us hunted Soft Gobble. There were times when he almost didn’t make it. On one such occasion — it was Good Friday — he was apparently without his usual harem of hens and was responding (somewhat) to my calls. But I had foolishly forgotten to silence the ringer on my cell phone, and an untimely phone call spoiled the day.

On another occasion late in the third season — when Soft Gobble had to be at least four years old, which is like a senior citizen in human years — my brother and I managed to slip close to the patriarch and a handful of hens traveling with him. For two hours, we were within 60-to-80 yards of the old bird. He was spitting and drumming and strutting the entire time, putting on a show for his harem. A couple of times, we got good looks of him strutting just out of gun range. At times, the hens would wander too close for comfort. We’d be sure he would follow, but were worried that the hens would bust us. It was nerve-wracking, and Ol’ Soft Gobble managed to give us the slip again, when we finally gave up on him budging from his comfort zone, tried to shift positions, and were busted.

Perhaps the most intimate meeting Ol’ Soft Gobble and I ever had was midway through the final season I hunted him. I was on the next ridge over when I heard the familiar, soft gobble ring out. I ignored it at first, but temptation ultimately won out. I headed after Soft Gobble’s roost tree once again.

By mistake, I nearly tripped right over him. It was fully daylight and I just happened to look up and see the old bird sitting on a limb, nearly 50 feet up a large beech tree. The tree was no more than 40 yards from me and on the edge of a hill. Because I was higher up the hill, Soft Gobble was just a little higher than eye level from me.

How he failed to see me, I don’t know. But he stayed perched calmly on his limb. I was surprised to see that he was here alone, without any hens, and was suddenly brimming with confidence. Here I was, in bonafide shooting range of Ol’ Soft Gobble, the bird that had eluded me for so long, and he had no hens with him to spoil the show. What could possibly go wrong?

The problem was that despite the excellent weather, Ol’ Soft Gobble didn’t want to come out of the tree. He sat there until the sun had risen. Confident that I was hidden well behind a bush, I gave a few soft yelps to try and coax him off the roost. In the process, I managed to call up another bird. It wasn’t until I heard the sudden spit of a gobbler behind me that I realized the second bird had slipped in on me. Instinct kicked in and caution went to the wind as I quickly whirled with my gun in an effort to get into shooting position before the second gobbler broke into view. But he never showed himself.

Whether Ol’ Soft Gobble saw my sudden movement through the foliage, or whether he saw me when I first slipped in on him, I’ll never know. But after another 15 or 20 minutes on the roost, he decided it was time to go. Instead of pitching down, he sailed off the roost, and was still sailing over the treetops when he went out of sight down the hollow. I am convinced to this day that the old-timer knew I was there the entire time and stayed put on the roost simply to mock me.

What became of Ol’ Soft Gobble is anyone’s guess. Mine is that he died of old age. I suppose he could’ve finally met up with a hunter smart enough to beat him at his own game, but I prefer to think that he managed to evade predators of two legs or four right up until the time that he died of old age and headed off to the happy scratching ground in the sky.

I’ve hunted Soft Gobble’s ridge a number of times since, never with a lot of luck. But whenever the wind is blowing away from me, or the spring foliage has thickened up, and a longbeard’s gobble is quieter than usual, I can’t help but think of Ol’ Soft Gobble. It isn’t hard for a bird to give me the slip, and many have. But none have earned my respect like an old bird with a soft-toned gobble . . . like that old “season-wrecker.”

According to meteorologist Mark Rose, from the National Weather Service in Nashville, there have been multiple reports from Fentress County of up to an inch of ice, with downed trees and power lines.

That has prompted the NWS to issue an ice storm warning for Fentress, Cumberland and Overton counties for the overnight. And NWS Jackson, Ky. has upgraded the forecast in McCreary County to call for 2-4″ of snow and sleet accumulation.

Meanwhile, NWS Morristown is still struggling to catch up. They have lowered our overnight low to 32 degrees (which is good, since that’s where we’ve been since about 4:30 p.m.), but call for little or no ice accumulation. We’ve had ice accumulating on trees and power lines here since well before sunset. At 32.7 degrees, it isn’t nearly as bad as it could have been, of course. We were a degree or 2 away from this being a major ice storm. Hopefully we won’t see any of those downed power lines like Fentress County has been seeing.

This is just a repost, from June 8, 2007. Since I can’t retrieve my old blog content, I’m going to repost some of the stories I had posted before, just to have them on here.

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This story, from December 2007, was written the Christmas following The Christmas Encounter. The two stories have absolutely nothing to do with one another, except that they’re both based on true stories.

The Christmas Gift

“Momma, you think we’ll have snow for Christmas?” Bobby dawdled over his breakfast as he looked outside at the sunny blue sky.

“In this weather?” Katie laughed. “I’d say the chances are probably slim.”

It was an unseasonably warm December, with temperatures climbing into the 60s, much too warm for snow.

“But it can cool off, right?” Bobby asked from behind his orange juice glass.

“Probably not that much.” Katie laughed again as she dropped a banana into her son’s lunch bag.

“Oh,” Bobby said gloomily, slurping cereal from his spoon.

“Come on, Bobby-O,” Katie laughed once more. “Cheer up. Christmas isn’t all about snow, you know.”

At twelve years old, Bobby was plenty old enough to know what Christmas was about. Grumpily, he almost said so, but resisted. He didn’t think his mother, harried as usual as she tried to get her three children off to school on time, would appreciate the sarcasm.

“Yeah, I know,” he sighed. “But it sure would see more like Christmas if it were snowing.”

“Mommy,” four-year-old Josie piped up from across the table, “How’s Santa gonna land his sleigh on our roof if there’s no snow?”

The third Kilder child, 14-year-old Sally, chimed in. “Santa has to skip the houses where there’s no snow,” she said. “Looks like there won’t be any presents for us this year, Josie.”

“Nuh-uh! You’re lying!” Josie cried. But he looked doubtful. “Mommy, will Santa really skip our house if there’s no snow this year?”

Katie shot Sally a disapproving look. “Jo, your sister is trying to be cute and funny. Santa is magic. He doesn’t need snow.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t think there was nothin’ funny ’bout it,” Josey said, scowling at his older sister. “Do you reall think he’ll be here whether it snows or not?”

Katie smiled. “Did it snow last year, Jo?”

Josie thought, then frowned. “I don’t ‘member.”

“Well,” Katie laughed, “the answer is no, it didn’t. And it didn’t the year before that or the year before that. It hasn’t snowed on Christmas Eve since you were born. And, guess what? Santa made it here every year. Actually, I’d say Bobby can’t even remember a white Christmas. It doesn’t snow on Christmas very often in Tennessee. So don’t pay your sister any never mind and finish your cereal.”

“Yeah, but at least it ain’t always hot as summer on Christmas,” Bobby said moodily with his head half-buried in his cereal bowl.

“It might snow, B-B,” Josie said. “Daddy says this is the magical time of year. That means anything can happen.”

“Not when it’s sixty-five degrees three days before Christmas,” Bobby sighed. “I guess we’ll celebrate in shorts and flip-flops. I just want to see one snowy Christmas before I’m dead.”

“Don’t be facetious and crude, Bobby,” Katie said crossly. “There are a lot of terminally ill kids in the world who wouldn’t find that remark funny.”

* * *

It was only coincidence that four streets deeper into the neighborhood, on Maple Street, lived twelve-year-old David Singer. And David, it was growing painfully apparent to his parents, was terminally ill.

“It’s such an ugly phrase . . . terminal illness,” Janie Singer had told her husband, Randy, after doctors delivered the news that they must consider the possibility that their son would not survive his illness. “It sounds like something you would pick up at the airport, like the flu.”

David actually didn’t live at 143 Maple anymore. These days, he made his home at East Tennessee Children’s Hospital in nearby Knoxville, where he was in intensive care. And although he hadn’t been to school in six weeks, it was also coincidence that he happened to attend the same school — Middletown Junior High — as Bobby and Sally Kilder. And further coincidence that David Singer and Bobby Kilder were classmates.

But at the same time Bobby was finishing a bowl of Cheerios and dreaming of a white Christmas before heading off to Mr. Kirkpatrick’s home room, David’s life was slowly slipping away inside room 512 at Children’s Hospital.

David had first been diagnosed with a malfunctioning heart when he was three years old. “Congenital heart defect” is how the doctors had termed it to Randy and Janie Singer. Google had led Janie to the American Heart Association’s website, where she learned that congenital meant that her son, who had appeared completely normal and healthy until he had complained of shortness of breath and she had taken him to the family pediatrician out of fear that he was catching a touch of the bronchitis that had been making the rounds, had been born with the ailment. After routine tests, Dr. Morris had referred the Singers to cardiologists at Children’s.

“David has what we call a hypoplastic heart,” the specialist had said that day nearly a decade earlier. “That’s a fancy way of saying that the right side of his heart didn’t completely form.”

Feeling as if her head had been detached from her body and was floating high above the consultation room at the hospital, Janie heard herself asking a question that seemed surreal: “How long?”

The specialist had cleared his throat uncomfortably, but had been reassuring when he said, “With the proper care and treatment, there’s no reason to think that David cannot live a full life well into adulthood. But,” he had added, “His childhood probably won’t be normal.”

In fact, David’s childhood had been normal. At least, relatively speaking. He was probably the only child at Middletown Elementary to go through an open heart surgery — let alone three by the time he was in the fifth grade. But, yet, he enjoyed most of the same things other children of his age enjoyed, and he and Bobby Kilder had even played on the same kickball team in gym class.

But in early November, David was rushed to Children’s Hospital after collapsing in the cafeteria. After a battery of tests, Dr. Dunnoway — the cardiologist — had said that David’s heart had “simply worn itself out.” He admitted David into the intensive care unit, and the youngster was placed on the national waiting list for heart transplants. ‘With a heart, David will recover completely,” Dr. Dunnoway had told the stunned parents. “But there’s no guarantee that he will be able to hang on until a heart becomes available. Unfortunately, there are too many children battling heart defects . . . and, as you can imagine, there aren’t too many available hearts.”

“Prepare yourself for the worst,” he had added. “I’m not going to be dramatic and tell you that this could be your son’s last Christmas.” He sighed heavily, then added, almost hesitantly, “to be perfectly blunt, if David hasn’t received a heart by then, he won’t make it until Christmas.”

Unable to say anything else, Janie had said, “There has to be something we can do. What can we do?”

Sighing again, Dr. Dunnoway asked, “Mrs. Singer, do you believe in God?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“Pray. Pray for a miracle.”

* * *

After school, Sally Kilder bounced upstairs to her room, where she would spend most of her evening like she spent most of every evening — on the phone. Young Josie Kilder, home from pre-school after half a day, had after a day, had busied himself with an assortment of action figures. Bobby plopped down on the sofa to wait on Matt Hinken’s forecast.

Hinken, the chief meteorologist for Channel 6 in Knoxville, was immensely more popular during the winter months, when kids everywhere made the universal wish for a snow day. But it wasn’t so much a snow day — school had let out for Christmas break that day anyway — as a Christmas snow that Bobby Kilder was hoping for.

“It doesn’t snow when it’s been in the 60s for three weeks, Bobby,” Sally had said as she rolled her eyes and pressed her phone to her ear, where she and whoever was on the other end — probably that weird Haley Rollins from eighth grade, Bobby figured — would spend the next ninety minutes chatting about who was hot and who was not in home room class.

“You never know,” Bobby said. “We can hope. It might be a miracle. A Christmas miracle.”

Later that night, Bob Kilner sat his family down for what he called the Kilner Family Tri-Weekly Devotional. Bobby wasn’t overly fond of devotional time. Memorizing the Lord’s Prayer and who had begat whom in the book of Genesis wasn’t necessarily his idea of fun. But he knew better than to say so. The First Amendment didn’t necessarily apply to those who were under eighteen and also happened to live under his father’s roof.

Rarely were others given an opportunity to speak during Bob’s Tri-Weekly Devotional, but tonight he started with a question.

“Can anyone tell me what Christmas is about?”

“Family time,” Sally said. “Presents!” Josie yelled. Wishing uselessly for snow, Bobby thought to himself as he brooded over Matt Hinken’s evening forecast, which had called for temperatures in the 50s all the way through the five-day forecast, which included Christmas Eve the following day and Christmas Day the day after that.

Bob opened his Bible and began reading. “Acts 20 says, ‘In everything I showed you that by working hard in this manner you must help the weak and remember the words of the Lord Jesus, that He Himself said, It is more blessed to give than to receive.’

“Now why do you think he would’ve said that?” Bob asked.

“Because that’s how Christmas came about to begin with,” Bobby said, even without thinking. He didn’t particularly like devotion time. That didn’t mean he wasn’t acutely aware of the Biblical stories that Bob Kilner told his family three nights each week. “Jesus was born to give.”

“That’s right, Bobby-O,” Bob said. “Christ’s gift to mankind was the ultimate Christmas gift. John 3:16 said, ‘For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten son, that whosoever believeth in Him shall not perish, but have everlasting life.’ And that’s why Jesus was born on Christmas Day and wrapped in swaddling clothes and placed in a manger. That’s what Christmas is all about.”

Bob concluded the devotional by asking one of the family members, as usual, to lead the others in prayer. It was Bobby’s turn. After asking God’s blessings on the family and other customary prayers, Bobby ended by saying, “And, God, please let us have snow this Christmas.” He heard Sally snicker from beneath her bowed head. Josie joined in, though Bobby figured he was only laughing because his older sister had laughed.

“You ever see a boy so hung up on snow?” Bob asked his wife later that night. “Oh, I don’t know,” Katie had laughed. “Honestly, a little snow would put us all in the holiday mood.”

* * *

As Bob Kilner read from Acts 20 and John 3, Randy Singer was also reading Biblical scriptures inside Children’s Hospital ICU, where he and Janie gathered each night with David and their younger son, Howie. David was growing progressively weaker, and Randy and Janie exchanged concerned glances over their son repeatedly as they kept vigil inside his room. Doctors, apparently realizing that David wasn’t likely to hang on much longer, allowed Randy and Janie to stay in the ICU as long as they liked. But Howie could only be admitted during regular visiting hours.

“We have to face the reality that time is running out for David,” Dr. Dunnoway had told the Singers in a hushed conference at the side of the room after making his evening rounds. “I thought we would have a heart by now, to be honest. But I’m not sure how much longer we have. The only advice I can give you, and I know it isn’t advice you want to hear, is don’t leave anything unsaid.”

“You’re saying . . . tonight?” Randy asked fearfully.

“I’m saying we really don’t know,” Dunnoway answered. “Tonight, tomorrow, tomorrow night . . . it’s hard to say. But soon.”

“Doctor,” Janie began, then hesitated. “Is there any chance David can make it until Christmas, when his grandparents are able to fly in?”

“I think . . . it would be a miracle,” the doctor said.

“You should know,” he added, dropping his head, “it will be painless. He won’t be in any pain.”

Tears rolled down Janie’s cheeks as she reflected on the word Dr. Dunnoway had used: miracle. It was a funny thing, that word. A few weeks ago, they were hoping for a miracle which meant a phone call saying that a matching heart had been received. Now a miracle meant simply that their son would be with them through the Christmas holiday, two days away.

As Randy gathered his family around David’s bedside, he read from the second chapter of Luke, the Christmas story.

“For unto you is born this day in the city of David a saviour, which is Christ the Lord,” he read. “And this shall be a sign unto you: You shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.”

“So,” he said. “Howie, what would you like for Christmas?”

“I want a Power Wheels fow-wheeler!” Howie said.

“And, David,” said Randy, “what would you like for Christmas?”

Quietly David said, “For everyone to be happy. And for Howie to get his four-wheeler. And to see him ride it.”

Janie shielded her face so her children wouldn’t see the tears beginning again. “It would be a miracle for him to see Christmas morning,” the doctor’s words ran through her head again. They didn’t have to tell David that it had become apparent he wouldn’t go home again. He knew that.

As Randy and Howie talked quietly about whether Santa Claus would be able to fit Howie’s Power Wheels down the chimney, Janie focused on a Christmas card on the bedside table that had been signed by each of David’s classmates at Middletown Junior High.

“Mom,” David whispered. Startled, Janie glanced up. David attempted to force a smile. “I’m going to be here for Christmas morning,” he whispered. “I promise that. But I know I’ll never be able to see Howie ride his four-wheeler. Would you take a picture of him on it and bring it?” Janie could only nod in response.

* * *

There are some things in life that simply cannot be explained. Why children like David Singer are inflicted with a senseless illness, for example. Or any of a number of other seemingly unfair events or afflictions.

Robby Jacobs would never be able to explain why he chose to climb behind the wheel of his car that Christmas Eve morning while so drunk that he could barely stagger from the house.

The 27-year-old grocer had fought with his wife the night before. It was a humdinger of a fight and she had left for her mother’s. Angry at her for leaving at Christmas, he had drank the rest of the night away. He was more than hung-over the following morning; he was outright drunk. And when his wife of three years had refused his phone call when he had called his mother-in-law’s residence, he had decided to make an old-fashioned beer run to the corner convenience store before the streets became too crowded with holiday travelers and last-minute shoppers, so he could purchase more liquor for the evening. “No sense in spending Christmas Eve alone without Jack and Jim for company,” he had reasoned.

He attempted, and failed, suicide and spent eight years in jail, but could never explain why he had even been drunk at nine o’clock in the morning, much less why he had decided to climb behind the wheel of his car.

* * *

The cashier at the Golden Gallon could never explain the unspeakable horror he witnessed that Christmas Eve morning. He didn’t celebrate Christmas; he didn’t believe in it. It was a good thing, because the events of that morning would have ruined the holiday for him.

He saw the car coming before he heard the crash; realized it was going way too fast before he saw it veer onto the sidewalk. The next two seconds seemed to move in slow motion. He wanted to tell his last customer that had walked out the door to watch out, but the customer seemed oblivious to his surroundings as he walked ont othe sidewalk.

The cashier didn’t see the crash; he was already rushing around the counter when he heard the screeching tires, a soft thud, and a grinding crashing sound as Robby Jacobs’ 2003 Honda Accord crashed into the side of the Golden Gallon.

* * *

Katie Kilder couldn’t explain how she could be too busy to attend to routine errands. It was the first day of Christmas break, and she was trying to become re-accustomed to having three children under foot all day as she hurried about the house, making last-minute preparations for the arrival of her parents later in the evening.

“Bobby-O, could you be a big help and run down to the store and grab a quart of egg-nog?” she had asked, handing him a five-dollar bill. “It’s Grandpa’s favorite and I’m afraid I forgot to pick any up at the grocery store.”

She had just finished rearranging the mistletoe above the fireplace mantle for the third time that day when she heard a pounding at the front door. Opening it, she found herself face-to-face with a breathless Roger Jenkins, who lived just down the street.

“There’s been an accident,” Mr. Jenkins said as he struggled to catch his breath. “You need to come.”

* * *

Bobby couldn’t explain the weather’s turn that day. The previous day had been in the mid 60s, but today was only in the 50s when he had awoken, and the temperature seemed to have dropped since daylight. He was watching clouds building to the northwest when he walked into the store, and perhaps was still watching them after paying for the Mayfield eggnog and taking his change from the cashier. Perhaps that’s why he stepped onto the sidewalk and into the path of a drunken Robby Jacobs without seeing Jacobs’ out-of-control Accord hurtling down the hill towards the Golden Gallon.

* * *

Mr. Jenkins hadn’t said anything other than “there’s been an accident,” but he didn’t need to. The look on his face was enough to convince Katie that something was terribly wrong. A crowd had already gathered around the crumpled Accord, which was resting at an awkward angle against the block side of the Golden Gallon. In the distance, she heard the approaching sirens. As she ran down the hill, she came to an abrupt stop as she saw a yellow plastic eggnog bottle lying in the roadway, the milky white fluid leaking from its busted side. The enormity of what had happened struck her like a pallet of bricks as she raced into the growing crowd of rubber-neckers at the scene.

* * *

Bob and Katie Kilder paced anxiously in the waiting room of the University of Tennessee Medical Center as they awaited a report from a member of the medical team. Bobby had been airlifted from the scene of the crash. As a former billing specialist at the Middletown Memorial Medical Center, Katie knew that patients were airlifted from the small hospital’s helipad whenever possible. Only in the most dire situations was the traffic stopped so that a Lifestar helicopter could make a touch-down at an accident site to pick up a patient. Her eyes had seen what her mind refused to register as EMTs had worked over her son’s crumpled body. Police officers had rushed her back to the periphery of the scene, but she had seen enough. Had her mind registered what she had seen, she might have known that the prognosis wasn’t good, even before she saw the grim face of a young doctor who would turn out to be Gregory Johnston, the on-call ER doctor this Christmas Eve morning.

“Mr. and Mrs. Kilder?” he sked as he emerged from the inner area of the ER. “We have Bobby in a room and you may see him now.”

“How is he?” When are you going to operate?” Bob asked.

Dr. Johnston managed to look into Bob’s eyes, but chose his words carefully. “There won’t be a need for operation, Mr. Kilder.”

“What do you mean?” Bob asked. “Does that mean that the damage was less . . .”

“No, no,” Dr. Johnston interrupted. “Please understand. We can’t operate.”

“What do you mean?” Bob asked again, feeling numb.

“An operation would be useless, Mr. Kilder. I’m very sorry.”

“But we can get a second opinion, right?” Bob asked, feeling stupid and almost giddy at the same time. “How can an operation be useless? Can’t you at least try?”

The young doctor again spoke carefully. “Sir, the impact was simply too much for Bobby’s body to handle. Nearly all of his internal organs were . . . were damaged beyond repair. Even if surgery could make a difference, he wouldn’t be able to survive it.”

Bob started to question the doctor again, but his voice broke off in a sob.

“Sir?” Dr. Johnston said. “Your son is conscious now. He probably isn’t very alert, but he is conscious for the moment. He’s on a lot of medication. He doesn’t feel anything, which is good. He’s on life support, but when he loses consciousness, he will be gone and it will just be the machine beating his heart for him. Please see him. That’s all we can do.”

Leaning on each other, Bob and Katie numbly followed Dr. Johnston down the hallway to Bobby’s room. From his bed, Bobby’s face was unscathed, except for the breathing tube attached to his nose. Katie didn’t want to think about what was hidden beneath the bed sheets, however. What seemed like half a dozen monitors beeped rhythmically as dr. Johnston quietly exited the room and closed the door behind him.

Katie took Bobby’s hand and squeezed, fearing her son had lost consciousness already, but Bobby opened his eyes and looked up.

“Hi, Bobby-O,” Katie said through her tears.

“Mom . . . sorry,” Bobby mumbled.

“Don’t be sorry,” Katie said, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Wasn’t . . . watching . . . going,” he said in a barely audible voice.

Katie knew her son was internally bleeding to death and would be unconscious within minutes. Her mind raced as she tried to think of what to say, as her husband simply stared from a stupor, too shocked to say anything.

“Mom . . .” Bobby said. He seemed to be summoning his strength to try to say something.

“Sshh, save your strength,” Katie said.

Bobby shook his head. “No. Must say,” he said, weakly. “I was thinking . . . about what Dad said . . . from Acts. About . . . better to give than receive. Tell them . . . want . . . donate . . . organs.”

“No, that’s crazy talk, Bobby,” Katie said. “You’re going to be fine. You’ll be up and . . .” she stopped as Bob squeezed her shoulder. She caught his eye and he gave a gentle shake of his head.

“Son,” Bob said, “Are you sure that’s what you want to do?”

Bobby nodded. “You said . . . that’s what Christmas . . . is all about.”

Bob nodded as his eyes filled with tears.

“Bobby?” Katie said, but her son’s eyes had closed. He did not answer. “Bobby, we love you,” she said. She felt a slight squeee of her hand in response, then Bobby’s hand went lax.

* * *

After giving the Kilners a few minutes, Dr. Johnston stepped back into the room.

“Bobby said he wanted to be an organ donor,” Bob said. It was all he could think of to say.

Dr. Johnston nodded, not saying what he privately thought: That most of Bobby’s organs could not be salvaged because of the nature of the accident.

* * *

“Sorry I’m late,” Randy Singer told his wife as he walked into the ICU at Children’s Hospital just a couple of miles away. “There was a pretty bad wreck down at the corner market that had traffic tied up. They said someone was killed.”

“That’s terrible . . . right at the holidays,” Janie said absently as she watched her son breathing quietly. David hadn’t been awake since the previous evening, and though no one said so, she knew from the look of the nurses as they came and went that it was just a matter of time. She had been silently cursing Randy for being late, afraid that he wouldn’t be there when . . . when the time came.

“Has he been like this all day?” Randy asked. Janie nodded. “What’s he holding on for?”

“For Christmas,” Janie answered. “He promised us he would be here for Christmas. He wanted to see the look on Howie’s face when he opens his four-wheeler.” A tear slipped down her cheek. She brushed it away as she heard the sound of voices approaching from the hallway.

“You’d think they could be a little more respectful,” she said shortly.

“Take it easy,” Randy said, putting an arm around her shoulder. “I’m sure they’re just . . .” He was cut off by Dr. Dunnoway bursting into the room.

“Mr. and Mrs. Singer?” he asked, a grin appearing on his face. “We’ve got a match!”

The grin quickly faded and he became sober once again as a team of nurses scurried into the room, unhooking tubes and hooking up new tubes as they prepared David for transport.

“I have to be honest,” the doctor said. “David’s heart is far gone. I’m not sure that we’re in time. But we have a shot. We’ll have to medicate him pretty heavily to try and get his heart responsive enough for the new heart. It’s the only shot we have, and it’s probably no better than 50-50, maybe even as low as 30-70, but it’s a shot. Do I have your permission to try?”

Still stunned, both Randy and Janie could only nod in agreement as a nurse shoved a consent form at them.

* * *

It was 7 a.m. on Christmas morning, and some in the ICU wing at Children’s Hospital must have thought they were still asleep and dreaming as a small boy clad in Superman pajamas came wheeling down the hallway on a bright green battery-powered four-wheeler. The power was turned off; instead, it was pushed by a man in wrinkled slacks and in need of a shave.

Randy pushed Howie into David’s room. Their son, still waking up from surgery the previous day and hooked up to a multitude of monitoring devices, opened his eyes groggily as Howie squealed from his seat on the Power Wheels. “Merry Chrissmas, Davie!” he yelled. “Lookit what Santy brung!”

Randy grinned at Janie. “David wanted a picture, but we brought him the real thing. Dr. Dunnoway said that we could wheel him in here just for a minute if we didn’t disturb the other patients. I think he’s still a little overwhelmed by the turn of events and would’ve let us march a five-piece band in here playing Jingle Bells if I’d asked.”

“Santy brung you a new s-box 360 you wanted too, Davie,” Howie said, bouncing up and down on the seat of the small four-wheeler. “I seen it under the Chrissmas tree!”

From his bed, David, still unable to talk as he recovered, smiled weakly. He whispered something. Randy looked at Janie, puzzled, and shook his head. David tried again: “I . . . told . . . here . . . Smas.”

Janie laughed. “I think he’s trying to say, ‘I told you I’d be here for Christmas.’”

* * *

A heart-broken Katie Kilner, not yet knowing that her son’s heart had saved young David’s life, numbly stepped out of her car to walk into her home. Perhaps again completely by coincidence, it was at the exact same time that Janie Singer stepped out the door at Children’s Hospital for the first time in six days, for a breath of fresh air and a place to say a silent thanks. She was amazed at the sharp turn in temperatures. And, as she stood there, savoring the air that smelled clean instead of medicated, snowflakes began to fall, slowly at first, but quickly gaining intensity.

“Huh. Imagine that,” Janie said to herself. “Snow on Christmas. I guess it really is a day of miracles,” she laughed.

As she watched the sheer beauty of it, she heard — she didn’t completely understand, but she heard nonetheless, from somewhere she couldn’t explain, perhaps riding on the wind:

“He Himself said: It is more blessed to give than to receive.”

– 12/10/07

“They’s probably ten or twelve good catfish in that hole right yonder.”

The old guy made a rumbling noise deep in his throat and spit on the dusty ground between his boots.

“I’d reckon a feller could catch him five or six good-sized catfish real easy,” he added as he fished around in the back pocket of his overalls for a worn-out pouch of Levi Garrett.

I was puzzled. How could a man possibly know exactly how many catfish were in a single hole of water?

But this old man seemed right confident in his prediction, so I shrugged, threw my rods across my shoulder, and headed down toward the creek.

“Might want to watch them pigs. They come tearin’ out of them thickets and don’t know which way they’s headed,” the old man yelled from behind me as I eased down the slippery hillside.

If an angler were to pay an expert a sum of money to draw up a list of likely fishing holes, this particular hole wouldn’t even warrant consideration for that list. A small hole — not more than fifty feet long and probably about thirty across — along a narrow river that was not much more than a creek, somewhere in a community I’d never heard of in the hills of eastern Kentucky.

I had come out here on a hunch. A buddy’s buddy had said that there were catfish to be caught along this stretch of the creek. And, if there were fish that needed caught, I intended to get in on the catching.

So I had made a quick stop by the store for a couple bowls of nightcrawlers and headed out to talk to the property owner, who had been described to me as “a right peculiar, if not somewhat grumpy old son-of-a-gun, but nice enough to let most cross his property to get to the river.”

When I had arrived at my destination, I was more than a bit skeptical about the entire deal. A flock of chickens and a pot-bellied pen stood sentry over the driveway — or, more accurately, in the middle of the driveway — and weren’t about to let anyone by. Honking the horn was useless. Brushing the bumper against the hog fared no better.

It sure was tempting to just put the Jeep in reverse and head back towards town. But the number on the mailbox said 481, same as on my directions, so I decided the best course of action would be to park the Jeep, hope for the best, and hike the final two hundred yards to the rickety old farmhouse that stood — or, rather, leaned — just down the road.

A short time later, I was approaching the house, scuffing my feet against the gravel in an attempt to clean the pig manure from the bottom of my shoes. I was followed closely by one pot-bellied pig and fourteen chickens.

As I walked onto the farmhouse lawn, the front screen door screeched open and a tired-looking man of seventy-five or so sauntered onto the porch.

“Reckon you come to try the fishin’,” he predicted, eyeing my tackle box and three rods that I towed along with me.

“Well, I sure hoped to,” I said, maybe a little too anxiously as I waited for the man to tell me to scram, that he didn’t allow no trespassers to trespass along his creek.

The old man just stood and stared.

“Looks like ol’ Sonny done made chums with you,” he said, nodding towards the pig.

I was at a loss. “Chums?”

The man may have appeared a take-it-slow kind of fellow, but his demeanor changed in an instant.

“What parts is you from, boy?” he asked, leaning forward and peering over the porch railing at me.

“Tennessee, sir,” I said, a bit meekly.

“Tennessee,” he jeered. “Where ’bouts in Tennessee ‘xactly?”

And so I told him. “A little town on the border. In Scott County.”

“Might’ve known,” he said as he turned and shuffled down the porch steps, mumbling something about ex-wives and Black Creek.

“What part of Scott County ‘xactly do you hail from, son?” he called back over his shoulder.
Between concentrating on sidestepping each manure pile I came upon and the fact that I wasn’t about to tell him that I had been born and raised in Black Creek, the apparent community of one or more of his ex-wives, I didn’t answer.

Not hearing a response, the old fellow stopped short and slowly turned. He put a stare on me that could have fried dinner. I concentrated hard on looking down at the nearest pile of pig poop. Finally, he spat and slowly wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“The first thing me and you got to understand, boy, is when I speak, I ain’t just lookin’ to waste my breath. Good Lord knows I ain’t got much of that as it is, thanks to twenty-seven years of coal dust and cee-gars and what not. So I would appreciate an answwer.”

Continuing to stare at the pig pile, I merely nodded my head.

The old man spit again. “Good. We understand each other. We’ll get along just fine now.” He grinned and continued walking. “So where-bouts you come from down in Scott County?” he called back to me again.

My mind was racing, but I couldn’t come up with a suitable answer.

“Stinkin’ Creek, sir,” I finally said, desperate for an answer.

“Stankin’ Creek?” The old man cackled. “You will fit in just fine up here, son. And I believe I’ll take you to my favorite catfish hole down yonder.”

After easing carefully most of the way down the bank and sidestepping several piles of Sonny’s business along the way, I made the mistake of taking my mind off my walking and started looking for the first good spot to cast a line into the hole. That was all it took for my left foot to come down squarely in Sonny’s deposit. In the next instant, I was looking at the sky, with rods and tackle scattered in all directions around me. The seat of my Levis, thankfully, had just missed what Sonny had left on the river bank there.

If the old man was amused by my tumble, he didn’t let it show.

“Reckon yore momma never taught you how to walk right,” he jeered as he stomped down the river bank. “Guess I better stick around and babysit you or you’ll wind up drowned in the river and the entire county would know about my secret fishing hole when the rescue squad came down here to fish your carcass out.”

He didn’t offer to help me up. Instead, he grabbed my favorite rod-n-reel.

“You gonna use this one?” he asked. “Reckon it’d be all right if I went ahead and used it?”
I sat up gingerly, feeling myself for broken bones and wincing at the pain shooting through my left rear cheek.

“Well, c’mon, boy. The fish ain’t gonna bite all day,” the old man said. “Where’s the bait?”
Limping over to my tackle box, I grabbed my bowl of nightcrawlers from the bottom and handed the worms to Wilbur.

“Nightcrawlers? Boy the first thing you got to learn is what bait to use. You don’t need them,” he said, tossing the worms over his shoulder and into the bushes. “Let me see if yesterday’s bait is still any count.”

Wilbur shuffled over to the bushes and grabbed a plastic Piggly Wiggly bag. Waving away the flies that swarmed the bag, he tossed it over in front of the cinder block he was using for a seat.

The first thing I noticed was the gut-wrenching odor that came from whatever was inside the bag. Wilbur, however, didn’t appear to be phased by the odor, as he fished around in his overalls until he came up with a pocket knife. Reaching into the bag, he pulled out a slab of what appeared to be a very discolored meat of some sort. Brushing off the fly eggs with the knife, he cut a small section from the end.

“Put this here on yore hook,” he said, offering me the rankid meat.

Turning my head slightly to avoid the fumes coming from Wilbur’s “bait,” I asked cautiously,” what is it?”

“Liver of deer.”

“Deer liver? Where’d you get it?” I asked.

The old man spit a stream of his Levi Garrett into the creek. “Shot it day ‘fore yesterday,” he said, matter-of-factly.

“Shot it?! Deer are out of season.”

Wilbur nodded. “For a fact.”

“Uh, are you not afraid of the game warden getting word that you are out here poaching his deer for fish bait?”

“The possom police?” Wilbur threw back his head and cackled, his tobacco-stained teeth, what were left of them, glinting in the sun.

“Well, that’s pretty derogatory towards them . . .”

“Listen, boy,” Wilbur interrupted. “The first thing you got to get into yore head is that I don’t care what you think is derogora-whatever in the heck you just said. The second thing is that I know the game warden pretty well and he’s a pretty good feller. Even for a rabbit sheriff. And the third thing is that I didn’t just kill that deer for fish bait. Me and Sonny will eat good for the next few days.”

“Sonny? Sonny is a carnivore?!?”

“No. He’s a pig. You see’d him up there at the house.”

“Well, yeah, I seen him. And I been stepping in him all the way down here to this mudhole that you call a catfish pond. But what I mean is, Sonny is a meat-eater?”

Wilbur looked puzzled for a minute as he scratched the three-day whiskers on his chin.

“Well, I reckon he is, if you put it like that,” he said. “He shore likes deer, anyway. Sonny will eat just about anything. You know how pigs are.”

“Yeah, I reckon I do,” I said as I began to wonder exactly what was in that extra-large potbelly of Sonny the Pot-Bellied Pig, and whether it had really been a good idea to kick him when I had gotten out of the car.

In any event, it was high time that I hit the road. Catfish to be caught or not, this fishing expedition was quickly turning into something that I did not want to be a part of. And I especially wanted to be gone when Kentucky’s finest came rolling up in their little green trucks, ready to levy fines for deer poaching.

“Well, it’s getting late and my wife’ll worry about me if I’m late,” I lied, looking at my watch. “Guess I’d better be getting.”

As I tried to stand, Wilbur reached over with lightning-quick reflexes and grabbed my shoulder, pushing me back down onto the upside-down lard bucket I had been sitting on.

“No you don’t, son. I done showed you my secret fishing hole and my secret fishing bait. Now we’s gonna catch some fish!”

Seeing no way out of the predicament, I decided to stay and at least try to catch a catfish or three while I was there. After all, that was the reason I had made the three-hour trek to Kentucky in the first place.

As Wilbur waved the flies away with one hand and used the other to place the stinking, rotting liver on his hook, I reaffirmed my belief that folks will do anything to catch a catfish. In fact, it almost reminded me of a time that my uncle had attempted to catch a catfish on Norris Reservoir in Campbell County.

He had apparently been told by a fellow with whom he worked that there was a concoction that was a sure-fired way to catch monster catfish. And so he ha fallen for . . . er, decided to try it.

Against what I’m sure had to be some objections from his wife and most likely his better judgment, he took and mixed several pounds of chicken livers, fresh chicken blood, canned catfood, garlic cloves and a variety of other ingredients. He placed the entire concoction into a blender, where it was ground into a fine potion. Afterward, he put the mixture into a pantyhose, tied the end, and placed it in the hot sun to rot for several days.

I am told that by the time he got to the lake, this mess was creating a stink worse than the rotten carcass of a polecat. He had to use rubber gloves to even handle the stuff, I was told. And the real kicker: He didn’t even catch a catfish! Not one! And that, my friends, is proof that some folks will do anything to catch catfish. I had heard some wild tales of the lengths to which people would go, but the rotten-liver-in-a-sock definitely takes the cake and proves that some will fall for almost anything (don’t worry, Larry, I didn’t tell ‘em it was you).

Anyway, like I was telling, I was sitting on the riverbank beside the old man, swatting at the horse flies that were dive-bombing me and wishing like the dickens that he’d throw the rotting liver away. But he seemed right set in what he was doing, and as I looked on in disgust, he dove elbow-deep into the Piggly Wiggly bag and came up with a chunk of meat, which he promptly stuck on his hook and tossed into the middle of the thirty-foot-wide fishing hole.

Spitting a stream of Levi Garrett onto the ground, Wilbur extended the bag in my direction, nodding at its contents. “Your turn, son,” he said.

Now I consider myself a man’s man. I can gut a deer and skin a rabbit and not blink an eye. I’ve always considered myself enough of a man to stomp my own snakes. But this was a bit much. I wasn’t about to reach my hand into something that would put the EPA on alert. My momma raised me with better sense than that.

“Uh, Wilbur, I think I’ll just use my nightcrawlers,” I said, reaching towards the bowl of Canadian Crawlers that he had tossed into the edge of the bushes.

Quick as a wildcat, Wilbur pounced on the bait and tossed it into the depths of the muddy water.

“I’d like to see you use yer worms now, boy,” he jeered, his cranky gaze never leaving my eyes as he spat sideways into the river.

“Now, go ‘head and reach in thar and get you some bait.”

Reluctantly, I extended my hand towards the bag. Just as I was about to reach inside, a cloud of dust rising on the dirt-packed main road caught my attention.

Spitting another stream of Levi from the side of his mouth, Wilbur raised himself up off the cinder block for a better look as the vehicle rolled nearer.

“$#@!, boy. It’s the possum patrol!” he yelled as the dust cloud rolled close enough to make out a green truck in its midst. “Gimme that bait!” Grabbing the Piggly Wiggly bag from my hands, Wilbur threw it into the depth of the fishing hole.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

The green pickup stopped in the dusty road and a uniformed officer walked towards us through the field, an overweight pot-bellied pig and twelve chickens following closely behind.

Wilbur grabbed his rod-n-reel. “Gimme one of them words!” he said excitedly. “We got to look non-conspi . . . non-conspit . . . whatever!”

“Non-conspicuous?” I asked.

“Yeah. Yeah. Gimme a worm!”

“Well, Wilbur, my worms are in the water, where you threw them,” I said, trying to avoid a smile of triumph.

“$#@!” Wilbur repeated.

“How y’all boys doin’ today?” the wildlife officer asked as he strolled up to the creek bank.
“Mmmmm-hmmmmm,” Wilbur mumbled as he toyed with his hook.

“Y’all catchin’ anything?”

“Mmmm-hmmmmm,” Wilbur repeated, trying his best to look non-conspic . . . non-conspit . . . whatever.

“What y’all usin’ fer bait?” the warden asked.

Wilbur tossed his thumb over his shoulder in my direction. “Boy there brung the bait,” he said.

The warden turned to look at me for the first time. “Mornin’,” he said as he tipped his hat. “What y’all usin’ for bait?”

At a loss for words, I looked around anxiously, hoping to see a caterpillar nest in one of the trees that hung over the bank . . . anything to provide a good answer. All I saw was Sonny using the officer’s leg for a scratching post as the chickens wandered around his feet.

“Chickens,” I answered.

“Chickens?!? Don’t y’all know it’s illegal to use domestic animals for fishin’ bait?”

“Well, I haven’t ever used them before,” I answered. “Wilbur here was just about to show me the proper way to tie them on the hook.”

Well, maybe it was a stretch. I have heard of baby chickens being used for catfish bait. But full-grown poultry? Still, it must’ve sounded convincing to the warden.

“Sir, I need to see your fishin’ license,” he said as he turned back to Wilbur.

“$#@!” Wilbur mumbled under his breath, fishing around in his overalls pocket for a worn and tattered wallet. As they peered inside the wallet, neither man saw me slowly backing towards the cane break that stood on the river bank.

The last thing I noticed as I turned to bolt after reaching the edge of the cane was the swirl in the middle of the fishing hole as fish swarmed the Piggly Wiggly bag that Wilbur had thrown into the water.

“I’ll be darned,” I thought, as I ran blindly through the cane. “Old man was right, after all.”
And that’s the story of how I lost my best three rods-n-reels and two bowls of Canadian Crawlers on the banks of a nameless Kentucky river.

The preceding is in honor of Steve Oden, who told me as a young journalist just starting out in the newspaper industry that the best advice he could give me is to “never let the truth stand in the way of a good story.”

There’s something special about deer camp. As any old-timer with many deer hunts under his belt will tell you, deer camp is about camaraderie . . . it’s about reliving old memories and making new ones . . . it’s as much about fellowship as it is about the hunt.

I hate to be the messenger of dissent, but the old-timers are flat wrong!

All my life, I had heard about the excitement and mystique of deer camp. So, during my junior year of high school — and just a few months after the exciting Ford Escort mud buggy incident — Little Eddie joined my brother and myself on a deer camp in the mountains of Brimstone, an old coal camp near Robbins, Tennessee. This was my first deer camp and I was sure it would be a memorable one.

For weeks leading up to the hunt, we planned our trip. We mapped out the area where we would hunt; we prepared lists of items we would likely need from the grocery store. We were going to be prepared! Visions of rolling off that mountain after the hunt with three trophy bucks strapped onto the vehicle rolled through our minds.

As the hunting trip loomed closer, the weather forecasters delivered ominous news: A major artic cold front, the biggest of its kind in several years, would roll into the region the day before we were to depart, bringing with it frigid temperatures. Nighttime lows would fall into the teens, they said, which was very unusual for November in Tennessee. Such temperatures would have been fine for an ordinary deer camp. But we didn’t have a cabin at our destination, and we didn’t own a camper. Our deer camp consisted of setting up an Ozark Trail tent by the side of the road; a tent better suited for the river bank in the middle of July than the side of the mountain in the middle of November.

Our families laughed at us. We would be home before the night was out, they said. But that made us all the more determined to show them that they were wrong. We were going camping, by heck!

When the day of the trip finally arrived, we signed ourselves out of school at lunchtime. We had packed my old Pontiac Grand Prix to the gills earlier that morning. It still amazes me that we were able to fit three bodies into the car with all the gear that we were carrying.

A light rain was falling and temperatures had dropped from a morning high in the mid-40s into the low 30s as we turned off the pavement onto a rutted road that led straight up the side of the mountain. At the base of the hill, a group of suburbanites were camped, their nice camping rigs pulled into a nice sem-circle around a raging bonfire. They stared at us in awe and wonder as we turned onto the mud road, better suited for an ATV than a Grand Prix, and bounced up the side of the mountain. But we were hunters, and we were going camping, by heck!

Thirty minutes later, we arrived at the top of the mountain. I was covered in mud from making the ill choice of standing directly behind the rear tire and yelling, “Okay, give it some gas!” as we were attempting to push the car out of one of the three ruts we had fallen into as we made our way up the mountain. The car sported a few dings and dents that it hadn’t when we left the main road. The temperature on top of the mountain was in the mid-20s. Looking across the way, we could see that the rain was freezing into ice on the tops of the opposing mountains, turning the bare trees a bright shade of white.

But we were in camp! And it was time to set up the tent. Because we were men, and we were going camping, by heck!

An hour later, I had determined that we wouldn’t be killing a deer on this trip. We had cussed and yelled at one another enough to scare away any deer in the greater Robbins area. The tent was held up by fishing line stretched from the car to trees, from downed logs to more trees . . . it looked like a large tent bug caught in a spider’s web.

But the tent was up! And, as darkness fell and the cold air whipped numbingly around us, we were more than ready for some food. We pulled out the Coleman lantern, eager to cast some light on our camp so we could see to fry up some of the venison burger that we had brought with us.

The lantern blew up.

Cursing Little Eddie’s cheap equipment (he had traded a half-rick of firewood for the tent and the old lantern), we bemoaned the prospect of spending the night on top of the mountain without light. But we at least still had the camp stove. And some hot, grease-soaked deer burger sure sounded good at that particular juncture.

The campstove blew up, too.

Things had gone from bad to worse in a hurry. Here we were, in 20-degree weather, a tent that would probably fall with the first strong puff of wind, no lantern and no campstove.

Miraculously, Little Eddie was able to take the can of fuel intended for the lantern and get a fire lit from the water-soaked logs that lay around the camp site, which was situated on an old logging landing on a flat place on the mountain.

We were able to cook the burgers in a skillet over the open flame, and things seemed as if they, perhaps, wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Then we saw a flashlight bobbing around the side of the mountain, along the old logging road that intersected the main road at our camp. Now, to me, this meant one of the hunters from the camp at the foot of the mountain was returning from a long day in the woods. But to Jeremiah, who had watched the Ned Beaty flick Deliverance shortly beffore making the trip, the flashlight meant something a bit more ominous, perhaps. He dove into the tent and emerged with his Savage .270.

Imagine the poor hunter, walking around the side of the mountain, cold and wet and miserable, anxious to get back to camp for some warm coffee after a cold day in the woods. Then he happens upon a camp of teenagers in the middle of the road, one of them illuminated by the camp fire, a wild look in his eyes as he jacks cartridges into a high-power rifle.

The flashlight paused, then turned and headed off the road and straight over a bluff-lined mountain. We never heard whether the poor fellow made it back to camp.

A short time later, we hit the sack. The temperature had dropped to 12 degrees, according to the FM radio station in the valley of Wartburg below that was playing on my car’s radio, and it felt every bit of it. Still wearing my mud-covered coveralls and boots, I crawled into my sleeping bag and prepared for a long, miserable night.

A short time later, things got exciting when one of the blazing logs on the fire fell free and rolled towards the tent. It was a rush of excitement as Little Eddie noticed the log rolling towards the open window flap and struggled out of his sleeping bag and into the frozen mud in his sock feet, using an extra quilt to slap out the fire before the log rolled into the tent.

That excitement over with and out of the way, I finally was able to drift off into a cold, shivering slumber, only to be awakened a short time later by the sounds of whispering. Jeremiah and Little Eddie were getting into their boots and camouflage, preparing for their deer hunt. Looking outside, the sky was growing lighter. Oh no! Overslept . . . how was that possible in this miserable cold?

As they picked up their guns and blaze orange and stepped out of the tent, I dug around in my sleeping bag until I found the battery-operated clock I had carried along. It read 12:30 a.m. What the . . . ? Then, looking outside, I realized what had happened. The thick cloud cover had finally broken up, allowing a full moon to shine through, drastically brightening the landscape.

Miserably, we turned back in. But there would be no more sleep this night. It was just too cold. Several times we left the tent for the sanctity of the Grand Prix, using the heater for warmth and praying for the arrival of the distant dawn.

Daybreak eventually did answer our prayers, however, and we got out of the tent and slipped into our hunting gear, which was literally frozen stiff. The ground was frozen so hard that you couldn’t step without setting off a racket that would have tipped the decible scale and scared every deer on the mountainside.

By 7:45 a.m., I had had all I could stand. The old strip bench I was watching wasn’t producing so much as a squirrel skirting around in search of nuts, let alone a deer. The scrapes lining the bench, which had looked so promising the week before when we had come scouting here, now were frozen and barren. So I decided to admit to being a wimp and headed back to the car . . . only to find Jeremiah and Little Eddie had beat me back.

We loaded up our gear, packed up the car, and headed for home. If any of us were wondering why we had endured that miserable night for an hour or so of hunting, we kept it to ourselves. Because we were men, and we had camped, by heck!

But I’ve never been back to deer camp again. As far as I’m concerned, deer camp is for those who don’t have enough sense to sleep in their warm beds at home. Perhaps I’ve simply lost my sense of adventure. Or maybe I learned on that miserable November night on Thanksgiving’s eve that deer camp isn’t quite the experience that it is made out to be. At least not when the night is spent in an Ozark Trail tent in 10-degree weather.

As I’ve written various outdoors columns over the years, people have asked me, “Garrett, why don’t you ever write about coon hunting?!” And, after giving it some thought, I decided, “Yeah, Garrett, why don’t you?!” And, so, here is my first (and only) relation of coon hunting:

Coon hunting is a ritualistic gathering that involves camaraderie, fellowship and reliving old memories with friends while making new ones (if it sounds like the same description as deer camp, it is because the both involve the same mystique). In short, coon hunting is to men as shopping is to women.

All that said, I have participated in this great event only once in my life. By the time that night was through, I had decided several times over that there would be no ritualistic tradition of coon hunting in my life.

First of all, any recreation that requires you to trip around in the woods in the middle of the night with only a flashlight to show the way proves to me that some of us have too much time on our hands. Secondly, night is the time when bears, wolves, cougars and sasquatches are on the prowl. Which translates to this: Night is the time when we should be at home on the sofa, watching Monday Night Football or Law & Order re-runs.

But enough of that. Back to my one and only coon hunt. We were hunting in the back of an old cornfield that bordered the Big South Fork National River & Recreation Area. Understand that the words “Big South Fork” are equivalent to “big bluffs and steep hillsides.” Not the kind of place I would ordinarily choose to be in the pitch black of night, cougars or no cougars.

Little Eddie and I set out after the sun had set. Our dog was supposed to be the best hound that money could buy. Actually, he was free. But he was a hound . . . well, at least half-hound . . . and the gentleman who had previously owned the dog said that the mangy thing would tree coons with the best of them, and that was all that was important.

And so there we were, in the back-end of nowhere, armed with single-shot shotguns, a pocket-full of shells, and a scaredy-cat of a coon dog. Oh, and it was bitterly cold. We picked a great night to hunt, what with the Artic air floating down from Canada. Couple the frigid temps with snowflakes flying around the air, and conditions were just downright miserable.

But we were coon hunting. Tradition and camaraderie and all that. Here’s a basic breakdown of our hunt.

10:05 p.m. - Hunt begins. Pontiac is stuck; bottomed out in tractor ruts. We’ll have to walk the rest of the way.

10:10 p.m. - Dog has struck his first trail. This coon hunting might not be so bad after all.

10:15 p.m. - Dog is still on coon’s trail. He’s circling back through the corn field. Coon is headed right for us. I love coon hunting.

10:17 p.m. - Coon turned out to be a rabbit. Dog might not tree, but he’ll darned sure make a good rabbit dog.

10:22 p.m. - First signs of frost bite setting in. Nose is turning gray. Toes blue. Dog is on trail of another coon/rabbit. I hate coon hunting.

10:25 p.m. - We’re running now. Cornfield is behind us; river is in front of us (River = gorge; gorge = bluffs). Dog is getting further away. Trying to catch him.

10:35 p.m. - Ever had your ears slapped by a sapling in fifteen-degree weather? ‘Nuff said.

10:45 p.m. - Dog’s barking is now distant. Must be a fast-moving coon/rabbit. Maybe he’s chasing a sasquatch.

10:55 p.m. - Dog no where to be found, nor heard. Road has disappeared in undergrowth. Nature’s calling. Dicey situation.

12:05 a.m. - OK, we’re lost. Flashlight batteries are getting dim. Little Eddie just shot at an owl. He missed and thank God for small favors. Expecting TWRA to jump from behind the bush at any minute to issue citation. Hope he brings coffee.

12:30 a.m. - Don’t have to worry about cougars. Little Eddie has cussed enough to scare away any wild animal in the general vicinity of the Cumberland Plateau.

1:40 a.m. - Wonder of wonders, we found the road again. Now to get back to the car . . .

2:30 a.m. - We are back at car. Have used tractor to pull it from ditch. No major damage. Oil pan has slight leak. Little Eddie has informed me we can’t call it a night until we find his prize-winning coon hound.

3:00 a.m. - Still no dog. Little Eddie is playing mating games with an owl using my barred owl turkey locator.

4:00 a.m. - Have decided to give up search for dog. Have sworn under blood oath never to coon hunt again.

And that is how my first coon hunt happened. The dog never came home, and I’ve never been back. If I am ever spotted in the coon woods again, rest assurred that it is a hostage situation. If it don’t move during the day, I ain’t hunting it. The only time I’ll be in the woods at night is when I’m sitting on the river bank in July with a rod-n-reel in my hand.

Coon hunting? A lot of people enjoy it. It’s a true Southern pastime. Me? I’ve been told by the coon hunting pros that if I ever have the opportunity to hunt with a red bone or a Walker or some other full-blooded pedigree I’ll be hooked on coon hunting for life, and perhaps that is so. But until that day comes, ten o’clock will find me propped in the La-Z-Boy with a glass of sweet tea and watching the Discovery Channel. If you’re ever coon hunting in my neck of the woods, stop by for a glass of tea. But don’t expect me to help you find your dog.