It is true. Some things never change. Sunday evening, as I was watching my husband and sons prepare for gun season, I remembered writing the following blog - six years ago. Much has happened within my family, but one thing that never wavers is my guys' annual enthusiasm about hunting together.

 

It started weeks ago as they prepared their tree stands, cleaned and sighted their guns and got a jump start by doing some bow hunting.  Now, as many of you can relate, it's like Christmas Eve here:

 

It's the night before gun season and all through our house, my dog and I are the only creatures stirring as my hunters are snug in their beds; visions of big bucks swirling through their heads. Hunting gear has been placed near the front door with care with in hopes that 4:30 a.m. will soon be here. 

 

Here's the blog I wrote in November of 2012. Since then, my little boy has become a man and as I look through pictures, I'm a little emotional. I'm thankful for a husband who has taught his boys how to hunt safely and responsibly and that they have this shared passion. It's been wonderful watching my family grow and evolve and it's been nice spending those years writing for all of you.

 

As you read, I await phone calls and texts from my hunters, who themselves are mysterious creatures - and I count my blessings for each of them: 

 

I had a normal childhood, but grew up with very little concept of game hunting.

I mean, I knew people had once depended upon shooting wild animals for food. I took history class. I watched “Daniel Boone” on TV. And I remember Fred Flintstone eating those brontosaurus ribs. There had to be some hunting behind the scenes. 

It wasn’t until I married into the Perine family that I saw someone suit up to actually pursue this outdoor activity. My husband Jeff, his brother Bob and some of their colorful friends made a holiday of hunting season. Preparing for Christmas didn’t light a candle to this effort.

 

These guys would dig out a full spectrum of camouflage gear – and blaze orange vests, of course. They would spit shine their guns, load up on ammunition and set off for target practice. Then there was the trip – or trips – to the hunting supply store. They would buy a number of bazaar items, doe urine included, for their week-long venture into the local woods.

It was, I believe, our second year of married life when I remember Jeff setting his alarm for about 4:30 a.m. so that he could slip into his brave and fearless hunter mode by the time his buddy Dick picked him up at 5. For easy access, his attire was all in a neat little pile. I guess when he jumped into Dick’s van, he already smelled like urine. But the odor wasn’t the buck lure which he had purchased. I guess our cat didn’t like the interruption of our regular routine, and released her displeasure upon Jeff’s clothes.

Another time, after one of the guys relieved himself into an empty water bottle, another picked it up and took a swig – mistaking it for water, of course. The stories are endless, as are the parade of deer which have graced our driveway for years and years. Pictures have been taken. Deer have been dressed and butchered and most of that meat has been given away. Oh, there’s been the occasional deer steak and mess of deer jerky. But like the hunting, I leave the consumption of those goodies up to the guys.

When my boys Jeffrey and Jake came along, they followed suit. At a young age, they became protégés of their dad and big game hunt mentor, John Paul Miller (son of Dick).

 

Each year, our living room becomes hunting headquarters. Each of my three guys seeks out his respective closet and drawers for just the right socks, long johns, gloves and hats to wear for the hunt – and the camo backpacks in which to carry supplies. They make their shopping rounds: To Dick’s Sporting Goods (for anything they didn’t find) and to the grocery store for “hunting snacks,” which always include peanut butter crackers, beef jerky and Little Debbie Cakes.

It’s tradition.

And really, that’s what I appreciate about all of this. Yes, my house is disheveled. And when they all get home tomorrow, it will be even more so. I doubt I sleep through their getting ready in the morning. But that’s OK. I like to give them some kisses for luck and make sure they have plenty of blaze orange and hot chocolate.

The way I see it, the real harvest of “hunting week” isn’t how many deer my guys get. We’re not pioneers. We have grocery stores. The real value of all of this is the bonding that takes place between Jeff, his boys and their buddies. And they will have a long line of stories – about tracking deer, sleeping in tree stands and bad aim. Hopefully, the tales won’t involve urine.