As Josey continues to find his written voice once again, his stories are becoming more personal. Often he will speak reverently of the woods and the elements of the natural world. Obviously it is where he feels most at peace. Perhaps he is so comfortable in the woods because he has seen much of the harm that can come from man’s hands. Entering the woods, he can leave his luggage at the edge of the trees and feel at ease. In the opinion of this narrator, I like to think it has an ancestral or genetic rationale. Through his mother’s family, Josey is of a Native American lineage. To me, the Cherokee blood in his veins leads him to be at peace when he is closest to the earth. Using knowledge of nature to heal has long been shared by his ancestors, from his mother and great uncle to the family members that survived the Trail of Tears. Whatever the reason for his connection, it has re-opened his heart to sharing healing words with those who need them. HLA-

“One a.m. and I just received a text message.  I wake up enough to read it.  It’s from a lady who heard me speak years ago at a trauma conference.  She asked me to sign one of my books and someone stole the book when she was not looking.  It took a few phone calls, but I found out about the stolen book and sent her another.  She is saved in my contacts as the Stolen Book Lady.  Signing my books has never been my thing.  In fact, if I could I’d write everything anonymously.  The first things I had published were written anonymously, but people always seem to want to know the author.

I walk out to the cabin porch and the storm is over. It rained all day Saturday.   The boys and I spent all day in our family meat shop processing deer and hog.  We are meat hunters.  We hunt to feed our family.  I’m not a believer in killing anything for its horns.  I do feel a buck has wisdom and knowledge that can be passed on, but only if you respect the life they lived.

The beaver just slapped his tail. I’m pretty sure it’s killing them to not dam up all the rainwater rolling out the spillway.  The spillway sounds like an unpopulated version of Niagara Falls in the south.   The temperature has dropped, but not enough to keep all the pond frogs from singing their song.

I go back to bed and it’s a lonely place tonight.  My bride is home painting in the kitchen. I doubt she internalizes it, but using your hands is good for the mind and soul.   To build, to cook, to fix, to clean, to take nothing and make something can help us process the unwanted luggage of life.

It is 3:30 a.m.s and now I’m awake for this Sunday morning. The puppy and I take a walk outside so she can find her spot.  I praise her and think that although she will never replace the magical shepherd before her, I do feel it was part of the plan that this pup would be here now.  We go back in the cabin for my morning stretch and the puppy is torn between helping me stretch and laying with my youngest on the sofa.

I wake up the boys and my oldest says he wants to sleep in and play with the puppy when he gets up.  My oldest hunted hard when he was younger.  You could not keep him out of the woods.  I miss seeing his footprints in the mud on walks to hunt.  There is no doubt he is a teenager, but so far he is still a good kid.  He has good manners, tucks his shirt in, and when asked works like a grown man.

The youngest and I walk down one of our little roads and he gives me a one-armed hug. He says he loves me.  My dad ‘s generation was not big on expressing emotions.  I know dad loved me because he put up with the colorful life I graciously blessed him with when I knew it all.   Dad and I were always close, but I kept it interesting.  When we had kids, I knew I would never shy away from telling them how I feel.   As my youngest fades into the trees his backpack is almost bigger than him.  I used to be like him but the older I get the less I carry with me to hunt.  I often wonder if I’m be becoming too sorry to carry a backpack, or do I just realize I do not need all that extra gear.

I climb my perch and notice the swamp filled up yesterday and last night.  The creek is up, and water pockets are all around me. It’s Sunday morning and by now, far from here, my Aunt Kathy has already said her morning rosary.   I’m confident I have crossed her mind already today as she has crossed mine.  Due to health issues, she will not be attending Sunday morning mass.   I have no health issues to excuse my poor attendance in church.  I told a reporter years ago in an interview the only time I go to church is to investigate why it caught on fire.  That interview is on the internet so now I have no excuses to use.   Our boys will tell you my church is here. My preacher is what surrounds me.  Nothing man made here but my perch and this tool I type on to reach you.   I cannot say I pray here but I do think here, and I often cry here.  Like all of us, I do carry things, especially here.   One would immediately believe what I carry here are the unwanted suitcases we seem to collect as we live a colorful life.  Sometimes this is true but on this Sunday morning it’s about going to church with my dad. 

I reflect on the son I was and the dad I am.  I realize the things he could have done better and the things I need to do better. As most sons do, I wonder if he is proud of the son who kept him guessing.   His life was cut short due to two rounds of cancer that did not make me angry. The cancer reinforced his words, “Son life ain’t fair”.

It’s 9:30 and in my church the host is a bag of homemade trail mix.  Over ten years ago dad made me a 50-pound bag of trail mix.   I bagged it into smaller bags and keep it in the freezer.   A few times during deer season I share a bag with him.  I apologize for the hell I raised and promise him I’m doing my best to take care of mom.   Dad had little to say when he was alive, but here in my church I think he says a lot more.

We all carry things we need and things we don’t need.   We might keep the contact name and number of a missing loved one in our phone as our way of holding on. I’m sure there are critics who would say it’s unhealthy, some of the ways we hold on, but if that keeps us going is it that bad?

If those ways allow us to smile, remember, and feel peace instead of loss is it that bad?

A red tail hawk just called out and today he is my priest.  He said, “Go in peace my son to love and serve the lord”. -WLV-