Letters from Deer Camp

11:11 Letters from Deer Camp

March 21, 1986 Dear Hoops, I was about twenty years old the first time I noticed it. The deer season that year had been unproductive, and as we reached the last weekend there were no deer hanging in the garage. I was sitting in dad’s old stand above the beaver dam. The day was clear and chilly, with only an occasional puff of wind brushing against my cheeks. My mind wandered as the last few hours wound down.

The smallest breath of a breeze caressed my face as I looked to the north and the unmistakable scent of Old Spice aftershave wafted past my nostrils. It caught my attention. No one should have been within a half mile of me. I was well into my beard growing phase and hadn’t touched a razor in weeks. There were no shrubs or grasses that I knew could match that fragrance. It definitely raised my alertness several notches. My eyes searched to the north to try and identify what might be the source. A little movement at the far end of the dam caught my eye.

Bit by bit, a dark gray form started across straight at me. It was a fat little forkhorn buck. I waited until it reached dry ground on my side of the swamp and dropped him with one well-placed shot. I looked at my watch and it blinked 11:11 at me.

In the excitement of the moment and knowing what tasks I needed to do to get the deer dressed and drug back home, I immediately forgot about the Old Spice and the time on my watch.

Several weeks later I was heading into town for groceries when the smell of Old Spice hit me again!

Strange I thought. I looked down the road and towards both ditches and realized that I was passing a sign that dad and I had put up for Balsam Township a couple of years before he died. A quick glance at the clock, and it flashed 11:11! How odd!

Over the coming months I was visited a few times by the perfume that comes from the distinctive shaped bottle with the sailing ship on the side. Dad shaved every day and would splash the liquid into his left hand, pat his palms together and then slap his cheeks and neck. When I started scraping the stubble from my face at about age 13, I followed the same routine. The smell was delightful, and the liquid would cool and tamp down the razor burn my unpracticed fingers would cause.

I hated shaving and soon in my adult life began wearing a beard to minimize the need for putting my face through that torture.

Because I seldom used it, I would search quickly around me to see if I could find a reason for smelling it. Might there be a person nearby that was wearing it? Had someone recently brushed against and transferred the elixir onto my clothing? At times I would find a practical source. Quite often I couldn’t. Sometimes I could easily identify a connection to dad. A place he might have been, a tool he might have used, an event that happened while we were together. Not always, but often enough to think that if the odor made its presence known and I didn’t find a memory of dad, possibly I was missing something.

I also became more aware of the time 11:11. Once or twice a week I would check the time from my watch or a clock on the wall and the four ones would be staring back at me. It had to be more than coincidence. No other time would repeatedly show itself. Human nature being what it is, I started to believe there had to be meaning to it. Was it a sign or omen? Was it telling me of something important? Was it trying to communicate with me?

Not always, but often enough it would show up when there would be a mention by someone of dad, or I would be thinking of him, or some big event would happen in my life. I suppose on one hand it might seem a bit spooky. For me, it left the opposite impression.

Whether it was a message “from the other side”, or just an incredible number of coincidental occurrences, it was comforting to me.

I took it to mean that there was justification for a decision I made or that everything would turn out fine after a setback or that all things were right with my world.

Because in every circumstance, that was the case.

After mom passed, my sister Katri and I spent many days and weeks going through our old house. Cleaning needed to be done, clothes and other daily necessities needed to be sorted and disposed of or donated. All the boxes of photos, old letters and legal papers needed to be organized. It was a monumental task.

Sometimes we would meet to work together and sometimes we would spend time alone, pouring through memories as we did what needed to be done.

Many times, I would stay two or three days working on the project. Rather than sleep in my old bedroom I would spend the nights on the living room sofa, huddling inside of a sleeping bag. It was convenient and comfortable enough. One night I worked until about 9:00 and decided I needed to get a good night’s sleep, so I laid down on the bed in my parents’ bedroom.

I was almost immediately deep into slumber. Sometime during the night, I came part way out of sleep into that netherworld of part unconsciousness and part awake.

I became aware that my feet were being massaged. As I lay there I marveled at how good and relaxing it felt. A few minutes into it, I realized that I must still be deep enough in sleep to be dreaming and forced myself totally awake.

Assuming that the sensation would immediately disappear once the cobwebs left my brain, I was startled when it did not. I was completely awake, and my feet were still being caressed! It went on for fully three minutes. I looked toward the footboard but could see nothing. The sensation to the bottoms and the sides of my feet continued. I glanced at the clock to the side of the bed – 11:11!

All too soon, the massage stopped. I felt nothing else out of the ordinary. I saw nothing that shouldn’t be there. My thoughts were scattered. Should I be frightened? Is there a concern? What could that have been? My heart wasn’t racing. My eyes were clear. I was calm. It took quite a while to fall back asleep. The rest of the night went quickly, and I awoke refreshed and ready for the new day. No more unusual happenings took place.

Katri arrived shortly before noon and as we continued to sort and organize, I began to tell of my experience from the night before.

She stopped suddenly; her face ashen.

“I never told you this” she began, “but I had several visits a few months after dad died.”

Her bedroom was in the basement. It started one night when she was awakened by the sensation of someone walking across the bottom of her bed. She could feel each step as it crossed from one side to the other. Her first inclination was that she was dreaming but felt wide awake. She had a cat (black, of course) that slept with her. She was startled to see the cat watch and follow the movement. It scared her enough to get up and go upstairs to tell mom. After several minutes she calmed down and went back to bed.

Over the course of the next few months, her “friend” visited several more times. Occasionally it would sit on the bed beside her.

Sometimes it would emerge from her closet door, walk across the floor and stand bedside. Again, whenever it would appear the cat would be aware of its presence and follow the movement. One night it grabbed her arm between her elbow and wrist. Her arm from where it touched through her hand immediately went numb. While it had some form, it didn’t resemble a person or have an identity. As time went on, she became accepting of its presence.

She came to regard it as a protector as it seemed to appear when she had some conflict going on and it had a calming effect on her. It has appeared to her in every place she has ever lived. Though its visits have come less often, she’s not afraid to see it again.

There is an author by the name of Ruth Hein who has written several

books about the supernatural and she and Katri got together for an interview. She wrote a chapter about my sister’s story in one of her books, “More Ghostly Tales from Minnesota”. She keeps my sister’s identity secret by calling her Katie. If you come across the book, you can read it for yourself! It has been a long time since I smelled the Old Spice. But 11:11 shows up often. I have tried to come up with an explanation why that is the time that seems to be important. Dad passed sometime after mid-morning, but I don’t know the exact time. He was duck hunting and was caught in the Armistice Day Storm – November 11, 1940. He described it as a wild day. Warm in the morning with a cold front arriving fast later in the day. As the system moved in the blizzard brought ducks into his decoys that he’d never seen before – pintails, redheads and shovelers. Fortunately, he wasn’t far from home and could walk the shoreline back to his house without having to row across the bay. Maybe there’s some connection there. I never knew what time of day I was born. Katri hasn’t been included in this interaction, so it seems that its significance pertains to just dad and me. I hope there will come a time when all mysteries will be shown to me. In the meantime, it appears at least once a week. I don’t go looking for it. All of a sudden, it’s just there.

Hoops, this letter may sound bizarre, but it’s true and gives me much comfort that maybe “the old man” is still lookin’ out for me. Whether he is or isn’t, every time I see 11:11, good thoughts pass through my mind, and I am at peace.

You take care, Buck