Perhaps it is the heat but I start and scrap blog posts this week. My writers brain is taking a vacation. I decided to look back at some stories I have written and share one at this time. I hope that this brings a smile to your face.


From my vantage point I can feel and see the wide, uneven pine boards of the floor. The same boards were used on the walls. Galvanized nails have been hammered in sporadically to allow tools and coats to be hung; readily available when needed.

Soft yellow light bathes the room’s occupants; giving their faces a ghostly sheen.

The others regard me as unfriendly and leave me to my own cramped corner. Jack, opposite me is whittling an as yet undetermined item. His large gnarly hands work deftly with the knife; displaying years of practice. Some of his carvings sell well at the posh gallery in the city. Birds and animals come to life under his knife and hands. Fluffy feathers and soft fur carved from the wood; so realistic that the viewer often reaches out to touch the carving.

Next to Jack, Walter slumps in the captains chair; his large slightly overweight body spills over the seat. Walter is not known for his grooming and his body emits a smell that would knock over a healthy horse. His marriage of twenty years had come to an end earlier this year and left him brooding and morose.

Charlie looks around the room and picks up a deck of cards, shuffling them. Being Jack’s son he is the youngest member of the hunting party. He is not content to spend a quiet evening, whittling, reading or staring into space. Sometimes he takes the Honda ATV and drives over to the nearby Thomson camp. Drinking and card playing could usually be found there.

Bill sighs and lifts his large head to watch Charlie. After years of hunting with this group he thinks that he knows them well. Each year he looks forward to joining them at the camp for deer season. He stands, stretches his lean frame and decides to attempt to get a card game organized. Bill always worries about Charlie driving back from the rowdy Thomson camp after a night of drinking. Charlie is the same age as Bill’s son, Jacob, who died in a fiery car accident five years ago. Bill can’t shake the feeling of being responsible for all young people.

I look up and see all the items stored in the open rafters; among them is Jacob’s bow. Bill has left it there and no one wants to suggest removing it yet.

Taking a deep breathe and slowly exhaling I take in the smorgasbord of smells in the small cabin. Grease from the side pork from supper mingles with gun oil. It  rained lightly in the afternoon and wet dog and soggy wool from the hunters coats hangs in the air like another layer of smoke from the old wood stove.

Another raunchy smell slowly creeps  in and the hunters turn to look at me. What can they expect, feeding table scraps to a dog? My digestive system does not handle side pork well.


3 thoughts on “Storytime

  1. Hi: Well done–you had me hooked for a minute as I figured this was from your life at some time and place. Have you ever been to a hunt camp–must have to describe it so well. Roy

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