Autumn is my favorite season for several reasons. Mostly because it was my dad’s favorite, too. Not only was his birthday in September, but Hunting Season started then. He said he never remembered the correct date for his birthday because it always came in the middle of hunting season, and he was more excited about that.
So I became excited about hunting, too.
On those magical autumn mornings, we’d get up early and enter the woods before the squirrels started looking for their breakfast. We’d walk as quietly as we could, though acorns continually crunched under our feet. Twigs snagged our pants. Trouncing through the ground cover, the crisp morning air would wrap around my face. My boots would get soaked from the dew. Dad would lead us to a spot—a perfect spot—where we would wait for the squirrels.
That’s how it went—every time. Every magical and perfect time.
No talking. Hunters don’t talk. Instead, we bonded over milk-coffee (mostly milk in my case) and snack crackers or the occasional piece of candy. After all, hunters needed to keep up their strength up as they watched and waited for a good shot.