My Facebook post: “Took Miles to a barbecue with a bunch of compound archers today. Ate antelope and venison shot and cleaned by a fifteen-year-old girl with her bow, who also prepared our meal. Meanwhile, the younger kids played with sticks in a blazing fire lit in a drought-ridden, no-burn area. Saw that picture again of the rattlesnake shot and left dead with a squirrel in his mouth. (To the bowman’s credit, after he removed his arrow; he ate the snake, but discarded the squirrel.) May be time to switch my son to a recurve bow.”
Had that been a paragraph from my autobiography; it would have read something like this:
I was raised in a family of big game hunters, although the stench or mere thought of freshly skinned and cleaned venison still turns my stomach to this day. Perhaps all that’s because of my lifelong love of animals. But more likely it has to do with the memory of my father slitting a deer–dangling, eyes wide-open and lifeless while hung from the Oak tree in the yard. It came as no surprise to me that Daddy slowly slit the animal’s throat just as my first date ambled up our lane in his Toyota Carolla.