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A CHRISTMAS GIFT Letters from Deer Camp
Buck had a difficult life growing up. Most of the families in our neck of the woods lived a simple and frugal life. Buck’s was more frugal than most. His father passed away when he was in junior high, leaving him with his mother and older sister. This is a letter I got from him a couple of years after his dad died.
August 24, 1968 Hoops, Hey, how’s it going? It’s been a couple of years, but I’m finally coming to terms with losing my dad. I haven’t talked about it much, but I’m ready to let you – my friend – know how it’s been going with me.
When I woke that morning, I knew that it would be his last day.
Oh, there was no surprise. Dad had his cancer diagnosed seven months before.
I slowly went down the stairs and drug my feet to the end of the hallway where my parents’ bedroom was. As I opened the door, the quiet and darkness unsettled me. Dad had wanted as bright and cheery an environment as possible for his remaining time. The pain had been so great these last few days that the medication could not prevent the light from hurting his eyes and the noise from hurting his ears.
As my eyes adjusted to the low light, I saw my sister standing at the foot of the bed and my mother sitting on the edge next to my father. They were holding hands, and my first impression was how strange it was that dad’s hands had remained so large and so strong looking while the rest of his body was so shrunken and gaunt and yellowish. He had been drifting in and out of consciousness for the last 48 hours, but as I walked closer, I saw that his eyes were not only clear, they seemed to have a bit of sparkle in them.
He talked to us briefly in a raspy, whispered voice. Told us how much he loved us, and enjoyed us, and that we should always take care of each other.
Now, he was tired and “you kids go get your breakfast taken care of while I talk to your mother.”
Sis hadn’t finished frying the bacon when we heard mom crying through the closed bedroom door. The next three days are pretty jumbled in my memory. Grief, condolences, relatives all mixed together make it seem that the time until the funeral only took an hour, while I remember thinking that time could never move more slowly.
I do clearly remember my thoughts when they closed the casket. The thinking of a 14-yearold boy is in terms of absolutes – black and white, right and wrong, justice and forever. Here was a good man, a strong man. A man who had fought in the Pacific during World War II, who had fought in Korea only a few years after that. Who had survived an overturned canoe during a late October duck hunt and whose only gunshot wound came during a hunting accident as a teenager 27 miles from the nearest doctor.
He was struck down by something he couldn’t fight against. If he could have, I know he would have come through that, too. How unfair.
How unfair, that a family so close was left without a provider.
Granted, a worker in the iron mines at this time was not at the top of the salary schedule.
Nevertheless, we were better off than many. How unfair that not only was I losing my father, I was also losing the only hunting and fishing partner that I had. Those days spent in the woods and on the water had been very special to both of us.
Christmas vacation started about six weeks after the funeral, and the adjustment that had been progressing along fairly well suddenly fell apart as the realization set in that we would be spending this one for the first time without dad. As many families, we celebrated Christmas Eve with “Pikku Joulua” - Little Christmas. The family drew names the Christmas before, and the tradition was that we had to make a gift for the person whose name we drew. I had drawn dad’s name and had started in the spring to make a new fish house.
I sheepishly told mom and Sis about it, and at first mom feigned surprise. She couldn’t hold back for long before she started to laugh. It seems as if dad had known about my project almost from the start after noticing that some of his scrap lumber and pounds of his coffee cans full of straightened nails started to turn up missing. He discovered the half-built structure soon after but kept mum about it. “You know” mom said, “Dad drew your name too, and this is the gift he made for you.” Mom went into her bedroom and came back out with the nicest looking 8-pronged spear you’d ever seen. “He’d hoped for both of you to use the house, of course, but dad would be happy to know that both gifts will certainly be appreciated.”
Sis and I woke up at about the same time Christmas morning and the race was on to get to the Christmas tree. Sure enough, though we’d had some doubts as to whether mom would have enough money to put some gifts under the tree, we were not disappointed.
Mom was up shortly, and we let her open the presents we had given her. Sis had made mom a new brightly colored robe, and I had spent what was left of my summer savings - $2.69 - to buy her a pair of furry house slippers.
Sis was next. There were two packages with her name on them.
The larger package was a new party dress. My sister had never had such a nice dress before.
“Dad insisted ever since you were born that for your 16th Christmas, your present would be a pretty party dress,” said mom. “He picked it himself before he died.”
The smaller revealed dad’s Bible.
It was given to him by his mother on his 10th birthday and our family history was well documented in it. Inside there was a letter written to my sister from dad. Sis read it to herself and quickly left the room with tears in her eyes.
Finally, it was my turn. There was but one package left under the tree, and given its size, I knew it wasn’t a gun, or a fishing rod, or even the hunting boots I had been hinting about. As I started to tear the paper, my heart sank when I saw the unmistakable “Buster Brown” boy and dog and at once thought that mom had squandered my Christmas money on the new dress shoes she insisted I needed.
Inside the box, however, was something quite different. Dad had left me his personal hunting gear. Included was his hunting knife and sheath, an army compass, a black Olt duck call, a neatly folded shell vest, a newly carved spearing decoy and a letter written with mom’s help during his last days. The letter read as follows: “Dear Buck, I hope you aren’t too disappointed that your Christmas present didn’t come from a department store. There were many things that I would like to have gotten you, but I have some very selfish reasons for giving you these old hunting tools. Before I get into that, I have a few things I would like you to know.
Aside from your mother, the most joy I have had from my life here on Earth is from my two children. Our time spent hunting and fishing cannot be described in any way that could begin to give justice to the pleasure I have known. You have shown a love for the outdoors, a sportsmanship for the game we seek and companionship to me that is seldom found in so-called “outdoorsman” three times your age. I have been proud to have been able to call you “my son.”
Life itself is not all that different than the experiences we’ve had in the great outdoors.
There is life and there is death.
There is the joy of chasing a dream and the disappointment of not always being able to reach it.
There are dangers that reach out to trap you when you least expect them. There is the immeasurable happiness of discovering that one companion who can share all your thoughts and feelings – and the indescribable grief of knowing that one day, they won’t be there.
You will run across some that have the same lofty ideals that you do, and some who would “fish a lake out” if they thought they could get away with it. You will have some of those successful days and some when you should have paid attention to the rain and just stayed home. You will find yourself aging just as the seasons of the year.
Keep those qualities of love and sportsmanship and companionship and apply them not only when you are casting for walleyes or still hunting for deer, but also when you must deal with your fellow man for a living or in settling a dispute. Practice them not only when watching the bluebills flying overhead, but when you’re looking for a mate. Cherish them not only when you let that brookie go because of its beauty, but when your fellow man shows you the same considerations. These things, I know you will do.
Well, back to my selfish reasons. As you well know, my days of hunting and fishing on my own have ended. I can’t bear the thought of not being able to spend more days out on the water or in the woods with the best hunting partner I ever had. If you would be kind enough to bring these things on a few of your trips, besides being a reminder of me, I really feel that wherever I may be, I will know that we are again hunting companions. I hope with my whole heart to be with you again in spirit the next trip you take into the woods. Best of luck!
Mom has some other surprises for you as you become old enough to take on some other responsibilities. Take care of the family as you are by this time, head of the Peura clan. I rest easy knowing that you will see to that.
Dad” The tears in my eyes almost kept me from finishing the letter.
I cried for two days, not knowing whether or not I’d be able to live up to the expectations dad had of me. That was the last time I grieved for my father. From then I have not had to because every time I leave for the outdoors, I have one more companion than anyone I am hunting with.
Hoops, thanks for listening.
See you Monday at school.
Buck
My buddy Buck has lived up to everything his dad had hoped for.
May we all aspire to live a life as such and be appreciative of all that we have been blessed with. A Merry Christmas to you all.
