To be a Thomas

I knelt behind the fallen log, the secrecy of our business multiplied in my imagination, even though I could barely catch a glimpse of the creature that held the attention of both my older brother and father. The gunshot echoed off the hillsides, ringing in my ears, and I peered over the iced bark with anticipation etched across my eyes. Seconds later I was numbly trudging through the deep snow, my hands in my armpits, following as eagerly as any other member of our trio to the fallen deer. The depth of the white fluff had lessened remarkably under the tree’s shelter, and I stood with my brother atop a grizzled root protruding from the ground. My boot absently went to scuffing a divot in the frozen dirt and snow, in hopes of warming those unfeeling appendages.

My father’s words faintly brushed over my thoughts. Something about turning around, but all of my attention was focused on the carcass. My young mind knew exactly what had just taken place, and it also realized that the shape lying in front of me was my dinner. Rather abruptly, a horrible smell beyond description intruded upon the crisp scents of winter, pines, and the nylon of my coat. Grimacing, I buried my nose in my collar and looked away toward the white trees farther up the sloping mountain. As my gaze wandered across the unfamiliar wood, my ears were listening to my father’s instructions on how to field dress an animal. I found the whole idea uninteresting, especially because I wouldn’t even be able to help carry the meat, I being far too young to be anything, save a hindrance.

I slept most of the way home, missing the beautiful sunset peaking between the branches. No matter, there would be one of matching grandeur tomorrow night, for sure. I awoke to my brother shaking my arm, and followed him down from the truck seat. A couple drowsy blinks, accompanied by my father’s figure walking around the rig to hand me a slimy piece of something, brought me back to reality. For a fleeting moment I found myself swallowed by disgust, but once I recognized it as the heart, my repulsive instinct fell away and I thought of just how wonderful my portion would taste at supper. A wide smile spread itself across my face, and I carefully gripped the slippery organ behind my back, feeling the way to our log cabin by memory.

Light streamed into the driveway as my mother opened the door, her silhouette standing to one side. I thought my secret wonderfully hidden behind my mask of disappointment, unbeknownst to me that my suppressed grin was obvious.

“Did’ya get anything?” my mother called from the doorway, and we three shook our heads. My mom went along with our trick, and played her part well when I revealed the yummy from my shadow.

Later in the evening, I observed quietly the spectacle of my parents hoisting the meat well out of the reach of the dark’s creatures. It swung solemnly on hooks from the eaves off the back of the house. I was told the meat would taste better when aged, than if packaged right away. Nevertheless, we dined royally, our meal consisting of fried heart and back strap, brown gravy made from the drippings, dried morels adding their own taste.

That night I retired to my old cotton sleeping bag on a hand-crafted bed and aging mattress, my dreams full of sledding and building igloos. Tomorrow those dreams would come true, and I couldn’t wait.

I am a Thomas child, and this is how I grew up.