Seeing a deer, especially a trophy class deer, and putting the rifle on target and squeezing the trigger, is never a given.
Gonna tell y’all a little story.
Its the day after Thanksgiving, 1964. Colder than crap in North Louisiana. Hunting ducks on newly formed Lake Darbonne. Basically a flooded forest. As often occurs, the leaves on the oaks are still green in late November, only these oaks are now in 20 feet of water, not long to live. In the blind is my father’s assistant, Mr. Bobby Deal, My Father Willard O. Kirste Sr. and myself. We each had a shotgun, but one was an old malfunctioning bolt gun.
My father, let me use his new Ithaca. It was in my hand when the only ducks to come to the decoys flew in. Mr. Deal got his three and I got one. My father, with the junk shotgun did not get a shot. This was the only duck I ever shot. If memory serves, this is the very last game animal that shotgun ever killed. It is in our son’s possession now.
We drove home that evening, both as happy as clams. This was Friday. A little after 6:00PM, that evening, my father, at 41 years of age, had a heart attack, he never recovered. It was the very last day I ever spent with him, and it was a day, I simply will always carry with me. He was a very good man.
Never, degrade what a man does for his child. She will cherish this moment for the rest of her life, regardless. I have killed a bunch of deer in recent years, but I most remember the evening our son killed his first deer.
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