A Gift Remembered

A GIFT REMEMBERED
A story about a lesson learned in humility and the man who delivered it.
by Jeff Janette

         I was up before daylight on a rather cool Saturday morning, waiting with the excitement of youth for the day which was planned. It was a feeling of anticipation I had experienced before on the opening day of rabbit season. I fumbled around in virtual darkness, hurriedly trying to rig myself out for the day, completing my ritual before the alarm clock had even gone off. What I did not realize was that the events of this day would make this trip one I cherish above all others.

         I had just moved to Alexandria from Natchez prior to the starting of the seventh grade. My father had died the December before, and my mother and I were forced to move back to Louisiana so she could find work as a teacher. Needless to say, I had been on a rollercoaster ride for the past nine months, and the only constants I had were the love of a mother and my love of the outdoors. Unfortunately, I was new to the area and had no means of getting anywhere except for my mother and my bike and neither could take me where my young heart yearned to be – hunting. Luckily for me, there was a man who shared my passion for the outdoors…Uncle Jim.

         Uncle Jim was my father’s brother who, unlike my father, truly enjoyed the arts of hunting and fishing. He was a rustic man who was blessed, of course, with three daughters, all of whom he reared to the best of his ability, but who just did not share his enthusiasm about hunting and fishing. That was where my brother and I came into the picture. He would take us hunting or fishing whenever the opportunity would present itself. The experiences were two-fold: he was able to teach, and we were able to learn. One of these experiences was on the horizon for me this day, but, today, it would take a different twist.

         I sat on the couch in full hunting attire, slowly sipping my coffee-milk as I awaited the arrival of Uncle Jim. The time passed exceedingly slow as seconds seemed like minutes, but I knew it was better to be ready when he came and not make him wait. (I had done that once before and found out that there was no excuse for such tardiness on the morning of a hunt.) Finally, the lights of the 1972 Ford two-tone pick-up flashed across the windows of the front of the house and settled on the door to the carport. Before he could tap his horn, I was out the door with gun in hand.

         As we reached our destination in the woods of Kisatchie National Forest, Uncle Jim was finishing a story about a rabbit hunt he and ‘old Blalock’ had taken part in on opening day back in ’74. Day had just begun to break as we stepped out of the truck, stretched, and walked around to let Dinah, our faithful (and only) beagle, out of her cage. She jumped down and sniffed the dew-covered grass along the side of the gravel road before taking care of her morning business. Once we had our shotguns readied, Dinah proceeded to enter the first-year cutover which was our target for the day. After about ten minutes, she notified us of her first trail and she was off. She was not fast or loud, but she was deliberate. Uncle Jim and I positioned ourselves atop a log and mound, respectively, and waited. Eventually, the hare would lope across one of our shooting lanes, and we would subsequently put him in our pouch.

         After a few of the methodical but successful endeavors, we found ourselves walking do an old logging road that led deep in the woods. Noon was rapidly approaching, and the rise in temperature, combined with the weight of three Swampers in my pouch was steadily taking its toll on my young body. I decided to sit on an old lay-down since the immediate threat of a passing rabbit did not appear to be on the horizon. While I sat on the log wiping beads of sweat from my forehead with my pouch lying beside me, I noticed my uncle standing about forty yards in front of me. He was motionless, seemingly staring into space. After a few moments, he turned and motioned for me to come. What was about to happen changed my views of the outdoors and life.

         As I neared him, I realized we were standing on a bluff overlooking a magnificent view of a hardwood bottom which subtly merged into the pine-laden hills beyond. It was no longer a wonder to me why he had stood mesmerized for so long. I soon found myself in a similar stupor, standing with a slightly-gaped mouth as my head slowly pivoted from side to side. I felt the strong hand of my uncle on my shoulder in a rare show of affection. “How can anybody look at that and not believe in God?” he uttered with the same conviction a Sunday preacher has when he addresses his congregation. Now, Uncle Jim had spent very few Sundays in church, and I had never heard him talk of religious matters, except may to swear at his dog, so I was quite taken by surprise.

         As the surprise quickly subsided, the meaning of his statement became clear. Such are that consists of trees, land, and water could only be fashioned my One. No artist, living or dead, could hope to capture the incredible mixture of hues and tones let alone create the magnificence that leaves a person feeling so small and insignificant. To look at such wonders is to look into the eye of God. The meaning had even greater significance to me coming from my uncle, making me realize that such appreciation can come anytime or anywhere and not just for one hour on Sundays.

         I still enjoy hunting and fishing as much as I did in my youth. The difference lies in the joy I receive from just being outdoors. The appreciation I have for the woods in which I walk, or the waters in which I fish, or the game which I target has been taken to a new level because of one simple phrase by a worn, simple man. It is an appreciation of receiving a true gift from the ultimate Giver.

         Uncle Jim has since passed on and such memories are unfortunately replaced with those of my own children and their experiences. I only hope that I, also a man of simplicity, can leave with my children a lesson equal to the one he has left me: wherever I go, or whatever I do, I am standing in the presence of the one true gift-giver – standing in the church crafted by his hands, unequaled by any other.


October 26, 1999