You’ve probably noticed that this week’s edition is thin. There is a reason for that – though whether it’s a good reason or not is up to you.
As we were preparing to put this issue together, I lost my father. We had a complicated relationship, as fathers and sons sometimes do, but I loved him.
He was the man who taught me to drive a car. To change a tire. To shoot a gun. To field dress a deer.
Once, as a very young child, he caught me shooting at songbirds with my BB gun, and – when he saw I’d hit one – made me go pick it up and pluck it, and though we didn’t finish preparing it, the lesson was clear; you don’t collect an animal unless you plan to eat it.
Another time, early in my hunting journey, he set me out under a hickory tree with just six shells for my .410 shotgun. When I asked for more he told me six was the bag limit on squirrel, and asked why I thought I needed more.
The shotgun shells. The deer he let pass.
These were lessons too.
You don’t take an animal if you don’t plan to eat it, and you don’t take a shot unless you know where it’s going.
These weren’t lessons he always applied to his personal life. His temper was explosive, and the aim non-existent, less shotgun than dynamite, leaving regret and collateral damage in its wake. And sometimes, oftentimes, the person caught in the blast was me.
It made it hard, as I grew older, to maintain the kind of relationship with him I would have liked. We disagreed on much. We were both hopelessly stubborn. But I loved him. And he loved me.
He was my daddy. And my heart just wasn’t in putting together a big paper this week.
I hope you all can understand, and forgive me.
