One of the most interesting men I ever met was John Taylor, who lived in rural Kemper County and who hunted anything huntable in the woods. He was an old man in the 1950s and he would walk to our deer camp and hunt with us back when I first started hunting deer shortly after whitetail deer first arrived in Kemper County. I once ate lunch in his home, an old home-made cabin back in the woods about a mile from our camp house. Raccoon was on the menu that day. Wild game was mostly what he and his wife ate.

John Taylor and his wife, Ida, both died in a car wreck on Highway 45 about 1965 or 1966. John’s granddaughter, Ethel Jarvis and her husband, Bill Thomas, had a son, Dave Thomas, who was crippled in a car wreck in his late teens. But he never let his being confined to a wheelchair keep him from enjoying the outdoors. He has been active in hunting much like his father and his great grandfather. His work with the U.S. Department of Agriculture ended with his retirement, and he has enjoyed his life in the outdoors ever since.

A poem he wrote tells of a typical deer hunt. It addresses deer hunting’s traditions, passed on from generation to generation and how the hunt can foster such an important bond between a hunter and his father.

Opening Day

It’s opening day of this year’s season,

I’m up at five for a different reason.

There’s a rush in my system, a nervousness I like,

It’s opening day and the weather’s just right.

There’s a chill in the air, new frost on the ground,

and hope that a big one is in this part of town.

I’ve checked my rifle, my bullets, and my knife,

my compass, my lunch, and oh yes, my light.

I arrive at the stand, at the crack of dawn,

just as the colors come out all their own.

There’s gold in the hickorys and red in the mables,

and bright green grass on their picnic table.

I hear leaves rustling to the right I believe,

is it a bird, a squirrel, or a big buck I see?

He’s coming closer, just a few yards and I’ll know,

I peer through the branches hoping he’ll show.

It’s a squirrel on the ground, looking for food,

but my hearts in my throat, choking me but good.

There’s another sound I’m straining to hear,

I hope this time it’ll be the first deer.

It’s getting louder, and soon I will know,

is it another squirrel, a deer, a buck or a doe?

I see movement now horns, and a bunch I believe,

my rifle’s all ready, a few more steps and I’ll see.

He’s stopped in the clear and the safety clicks off,

my rifle roars, he stumbles, then falls like I thought.

As I check him I’m excited at the drama just unfolded,

he’s bigger than I thought but just like I’d have told it.

Soon dad will be here and happier than me,

he’ll count up the points, hug the deer and then me.

So thrilled for his son, to follow in his steps,

To enjoy the hunt, the times, and especially his help.

He taught me the shot, the wait, and the patience,

to appreciate God’s most beautiful creations.

I wish he were here to see me today,

he’d be proud of my deer, and my hunt done his way.

One day I’ll see him just the way I remember,

a good and honest man, but so loving and tender.

– Dave Thomas