The Small Moments
Abigail Jones
Every morning was the same during hunting season. Pop-Pop would wake me at 3am. He said getting out to the stand so early was so we didn't disturb the deer, but really I think he was just impatient. We dressed and ate quietly so as not to wake the others in the house and try our best to keep the floors from creaking and groaning even when we tiptoed with bare feet. It was an old house that my Pop helped his father build when he was younger. It wasn't a house so much as it was a tin can with four walls. Before daybreak, we’d head out, packing all we needed on the four wheeler. Our guns were slung over the sides of the beast, and our ammo was packed in the bucket strapped to the front. Hunting was never something I enjoyed, but I'd never miss an opportunity to spend those times with my Pop. Those moments I had with him out under the starry sky in the woods with the changing leaves and stinging cold air are the ones I cherish the most.
I remember one of the first times I went out hunting with him. I was tired, of course, and a little cranky, but as soon as we cleared the trees and hit the open space, it was amazing. The cold surrounded me and the darkness engulfed me, then I look up. The sky filled with more stars than I've ever seen in my entire life. The darkness of the night was suddenly lit up with the wonder above me and within me. Clusters of billions of stars swirled together in the pitch black of space of the pure night sky. No lights or distractions, just a peaceful view. Out there in the woods was our place where we did our thing, and I loved every moment of those times with him.
A year after he died, we all went back to Louisiana where The Camp is. That's what we called the tin can with four walls. I stupidly decided that I would continue the tradition of hunting in our family since we are a family of all girls and none of them are interested in it. I felt like I needed to. I packed up my gear remembering what my Pop did and did the same. When I was sure I had everything, I threw on my coat and said goodbye to everyone, a 16 year old with a gun going out in the woods alone till dark. What could go wrong?
I knew the woods as if the map was imprinted on my skin. I never hesitated, never second-guessed where I should go. I reached the deer stand, which my grandfather named The Last Stand in keeping with the custom of naming deer stands. My family named ours The Hilton, Little Hilton, which I changed to Chipmunk Stand because they took it over pretty quickly. Then there's my stand, The Last Stand, which he built for us. Most deer stands are meant for one person, so this one was special because he built it for two. It was simple in design, four walls and two windows, but it was perfect. I arrived alone a little nervous and missing my Pop. I unloaded everything I'd need, sat, and waited. If I looked to my right, I’d see his side where he should be sitting. As soon as I got there, I regretted it. It wasn't the same, but I was stuck for the night. I really wasn’t paying too much attention whether I saw a deer or not. I kept thinking about Pop.
When I'm out there in the woods, so many memories flood into me especially one in particular: The day we literally laughed the whole time, the opposite of the quietness required for a successful hunt. I couldn't say for sure what got us going, but my grandfather's inability to sleep I believe played a part. My Pop suffered from heart disease, which gave him other problems, too. The one I believe was the most annoying to him was his restless leg. It made him miserable and caused him to stay up all night. It probably wasn't the safest thing to be out hunting with him and a gun when he hadn't been sleeping. Once he started falling asleep, which I didn't mind, but his finger was on the trigger. I think he was dreaming about hunting because his finger would squeeze it so lightly. This time like the other, he was tired but he was delusional and laughed for no reason which made me laugh. We talked for hours about makeshift deer stands strapped to the backs of wild African animals. I don't even know where this came from, but we both couldn't stop laughing.
It's such a small moment out of many with him, but it is so important to me. The small moments are the ones we remember the most, the ones we hold the tightest. What keeps me going and not wallowing in a puddle of despair are those small moments I had with him and with everyone I care about. I especially do this with my father. Out of a lifetime of shitty situations and scary moments, I still have good memories with him. Those tiny, microscopic moments mean so much to me. They are all I have of him. I choose to see the good however small it is. I'm not a positive person, but I choose to keep happy memories. After my Pop died, I was broken, and I've been trying to put myself back together ever since. That’s why I thought going out into the woods, the thing that we did almost every hunting season, was a good idea, but it just made it hurt more.
As the sun set and I no longer could see in front of me, I packed up and headed back to The Camp tired of being out there without him. When the sun faded and the night took over, the cold became colder, and I began to notice something didn't feel right. I started to not feel my hands, and every second that passed, it got worse. I began to sit on one hand and drive the four-wheeler with the other. When that hand couldn't take much more, I switched. I don't know why I didn't turn back and call my mom. I just needed to get out of the woods. Why didn't I bring gloves? I hurried, ignoring the pain in my hands and drove as fast as I could. I played how I was going to explain this over and over in my head. I was crying by then and I didn't want to scare anyone, but I felt like I might pass out. I saw the lighted carport of The Camp in the distance and drove faster. Without thinking too much about turning off the four-wheeler, I jumped off and fell to the ground screaming. Mom ran over.
“What's wrong? What did you do?” she said as she helped me inside.
“I can't feel my hands,” I cied out, a little irritated at how angry she seemed at me.
My mom ran inside, got a blanket, and wrapped my hands in it.
“The blood can't rush back to your hands too quickly,” Mom informed me, which scared me even more. Eventually, Mom brought me inside and ran hot water over my hands. I had started to get the feeling back and it didn't hurt as much, but as soon as the water hit my frozen hands, it felt like thousands of needles piercing my skin. Mom focused on my hands under the water.
“Why are you mad at me?”
“I'm not mad. I just thought you shot yourself." I felt a little offended by that. Pop was a stickler for gun safety and taught me well.
After I calmed down I kept wondering, Why didn't I bring gloves? Then it came to me hours later. I never brought gloves because I was never out there alone. Pop had always driven, so I never needed them. Now he's not here and that's okay because, as the feeling returned to my hands, I realized how much I missed him. The wonderful memories we made together are what I have left and that will always keep me close to him.