Submitted PhotoI will forever be indebted to this parcel of land for the gifts it has given to me. Dan and I celebrated this past spring after I called in this gobbler for him using his grandfather Billy Hull’s Success Turkey Call.

 

In her book “Deep Creek: Finding Hope in the High Country,” Pam Houston penned the following words describing her relationship with the ranch she calls home: “Right from the beginning, I’ve felt responsible to these 120 acres.”

I kept coming back to that sentence in my mind while reading Houston’s beautiful story. Her use of “to” versus “for” struck me. It resonated with me because I understood the feeling. Since the first time my feet touched the ground at our family farm, I have felt attached to it.

As the years have passed, my attachment has become love and, as Houston so accurately described, I feel a responsibility “to” this place. Why? The simple answer is that when a place gives you so much, that place becomes a part of you and, in turn, you feel an indebtedness to it.

Sitting in a blind this past Saturday thinking about what I would write about for Thanksgiving, I suddenly realized that I had a smile on my face. Yes, it was the opening day of deer season, and I was certainly happy about that; however, that wasn’t the real reason for the smile.

The smile had come in response to the sound of wood ducks flying overhead in the waning hours of the evening. I knew where those ducks were headed in the last minutes of daylight. They were en route to the lake at our farm to shelter for the night. The ducks have nested and raised there every year since Pop and I put up the wood duck boxes that our friend Johnny Bradford built for us more than a decade ago. Hearing their calls made me smile; it made me thankful.

Sunday morning while reading about the history of Thanksgiving, I came across these words in an article in “The Old Farmer’s Almanac” describing the changes the celebration has seen over time: “…the heart of the celebration remains: giving thanks for what we have and what we hold dear.”

After reading those words, I remembered my thankful feeling from the prior afternoon when I heard the wood ducks squeal overhead. The farm truly is a special place for me, a place I hold dear and a place that has given so much to me over the years, so many gifts.

As I thought about those gifts, the first that came to mind was the gift of outdoor “firsts.” Over the years, the farm has served as the training ground for the education of my children in the outdoors. Tate and Dan both caught their first fish here. Dan got his first turkey at the farm, and they both took their first deer here as well. All those experiences still remain as fresh in my mind as the day they took place.

This soil has also provided a gift or two that would be classified as unexpected and, at the top of that list, is a cat named “Jingles.” I have always been a dog person. I had barn cats growing up, but I never felt any real attachment to a cat. Jingles changed that. He was, at best, a stray and, more accurately, a feral cat. He even looked different than most cats. He looked wild.

We found him or, I should say, he found us during a Fourth of July holiday we spent at the lake. I vowed to take him to the veterinarian and find him a home and, after Dan’s prayers that night included the words, “Dear Lord, please tell Daddy to let us keep this cat,” I did just that — he came to live with us. In the process, he latched onto me and forever changed my feelings about cats.

The homestead has also given me the gift of fellowship. Our family has spent many special holidays and gatherings here. During each of those, we have laughed and sometimes cried as we gathered to break bread together. We have cooked s’mores while gathered around the fire pit, fried fish caught fresh from the lake to eat on the screened-in porch and shared a Thanksgiving table under the oaks in the front yard.

Ultimately, these grounds have given me the gift of “us,” for without this place, my family does not exist. This land is where Pop was raised, and without him, there is no Gena and Brad, no Tate and Dan. I think of that each time I see the picture of the younger versions of us holding a fluffy golden retriever puppy with the lake as the backdrop. That picture of our first visit here as a couple in 1993 resides in our den, and I love the memories it inspires each time I walk past.

This Thanksgiving, I am thankful for this place and for all that it has given to me. I write often about it because it has shaped me. In light of that, I leave you with these words to ponder from Houston: “How do we become who we are in the world? We ask the world to teach us. But we have to ask with an open heart, with no idea of what the answer will be.”

Until next time, Happy Thanksgiving, and I look forward to seeing you out there in our great outdoors.

Email outdoors columnist Brad Dye at braddye@comcast.net.