Heroes
By: Han @YellerwoodHan
Old Friends, Heroes, Lifetimes.
Don’t let a single memory fade away. I try to keep that in mind the older I get. I do a lot of reflecting in my personal time, and many of the memories I cherish were made with friends I found through chasing music — and with family, in the woods, hunting.
My father has always been my hero. He’s larger than life to anyone who meets him. My love for music and hunting was born through him. He’s a staunch fan of old country music, and he passed that on to me. He’s also the best turkey hunter I’ve ever been in the woods with. A true-blooded houndsman.
On nights I can’t fall asleep, I replay hunts in my mind. Ones we’ve been on together. Ones I’ve been on by myself. Even the ones where we didn’t have success. I replay hunts where I can hear dogs in the distance, knowing they were my father’s. Those memories have made me into who I am today.
Colonel Tom Kelly once wrote that in your formative years, there are things that mark you — and if you’re lucky, you can remember them just as they happened. I am one of the lucky ones.
I’m also lucky I grew up around my grandfather, and on the land he grew up on himself — a blessing I’ll never take for granted. He was a hunter, a houndsman, an old-school man. Chewed tobacco and wore blue jeans every day of his life. Carried a bone-handled Case knife until the day he went to Glory.
I never saw him get angry. I never heard him say a curse word — or a bad word about anyone, for that matter. I wish I had those traits, but I do have the memories.
He had only one usable arm since birth, but it didn’t stop him from killing more deer than most people will ever see. I can’t look at a Browning shotgun without thinking of him. A 6’4”, 320-pound man who got as excited as a child when he stepped into the woods.
He was respected. He was honest. Most of all, he took me along and made sure I would have these memories. In my earliest years, I was his and my dad’s sidekick. I hope my son has the same feeling one day.
He learned those traits from his own father.
My great-grandfather left home at 15, walking. He came to his sister’s home in the town we now all still live in. He worked as a mechanic, saved enough to buy his own car lot, then a grocery store — and finally started and ran a sawmill.
During deer season, if someone told him they’d seen a track on one of the dirt roads around town, he’d shut down the mill, go get his hounds, and the whole crew would go hunting. My grandfather and his brothers would watch over the mill in his place.
When they complained about losing money by closing down, he’d say:
“If your work is interfering with your hunting, you’re working too much.”
I’ve had countless old-timers tell me about the kind of man he was. Respected. Honest. And like my grandfather — an outdoorsman.
Though we don’t run the mill anymore, we still meet up with family and friends every Saturday during deer season to turn the hounds loose and hunt. It’s something I’ll pass down to my son. Maybe one day, his son too.
Old Friends. Heroes. Lifetimes.
Three things that mean a great deal to me.
“I’m feeling a little bit easier now, knowing that you’re all here.”
- Han @YellerwoodHan
Extremely well written, thanks for sharing