Behind the Scene: Radio show guest: Part 1

Oct. 20, 2016

It must be around 7 am PST. I don’t know or care because I’m sawing logs after finally climbing into bed after preparing an email to Pastor Catlin covering his questions concerning myself, the Practical Preparation for the Lord’s Second Coming book, and his rundown on what I can expect this evening a mere couple hours ago.

*Note to Pastor Catlin: I ran down your email “list of things” one by one and it took me this long to reply. It wasn’t until I was at the end of your email that I noticed your words: “I need CONFERMATION RIGHT NOW!” Oops. I fell asleep wondering if I was still on your schedule. 🙂

But unbeknownst to me right now, because my chainsaw’s working hard on that log pile, my husband is up and at ‘em.

You see, he’s been getting up before the break of dawn to go hunting. By himself. In the Olympic foothills. Not really what hunters are supposed to do. But the kids are long gone and hunting buddies of old have either moved away or have the resources to hunt in areas where vegetation is less dense than we have here in the foothills of a mountain range teeming with valleys of rain forests. Other hunters mostly go to either eastern Washington or over to Idaho where the hunting is easier. Their chance of getting a “clear shot” increases with less vegetation. But my husband doesn’t have the time and money for that so he has sticks “close” to home, in spite of the conditions here. He’s seen some does and a cougar but (so far) no buck.

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Duane scouting. Photo by L.M. Cobb

I just wish hunting season was over already. But the man I married is dogged when it comes to providing for his family. He and I were just talking the other night about how every buck he’s brought home has been one he’s prayed the Lord would send his way and we talked about how the Native Americans would pray and then honor the animal killed by thanking it for giving up its life so that the human beings could survive. But, although I do eat the meat, I hate hunting. I enjoy scouting but don’t want to be there for the kill. So he’s been hitting the hills alone.

This is a dangerous thing to do, really, for a number of reasons that my husband is well aware of. (His biological dad was killed while on a hunting trip.) And I pray he comes home safe every time he leaves. But right now he’s up and I’m sleeping. When I went to bed I assumed he was going out for a morning hunt, like he has been.

But he’s not. He’s getting ready to go to work at the senior center, “at the crack of dawn” to install new toilets. (This is a job he does part time. The rest of his time he is a general contractor.) He’s been parking his truck towards the western side of our home where there are no trees to fall on it during the frequent windstorms.

While loading his truck with equipment, coffee and lunch, he used the back door, then locked it from the inside and pulled it shut, as is his habit. Then he climbed onto the drivers seat to leave, but when he went to start the truck he couldn’t find his keys. He climbed out of the truck to check all his pockets. He searched the floor, in between the seats.

They’re not there.

He remembers then that he left them on the kitchen counter and as he turns towards the house, now locked, he contemplates what he’s going to do about that because he knows I have a long day ahead and he really doesn’t want to bang on the bedroom window to wake me up. While he’s thinking, the doe and her six-month-old fawn walk nonchalantly behind his truck to graze on the fresh mown grass in our backyard.

(She and  another doe and their young ones enjoy spending time on our property and often graze alongside my husband as he BBQs or works on some project or another.)

What he doesn’t expect to see is the handsome two-point following her—right behind his truck.  . . .

End of Part 1

 

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