So, what would it be worth to you?
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Many years ago, retired Missouri Conservation Agent Dave Riggs and I were chatting during a break at a hunter education class over Christmas. I remember his words clearly: “You really haven’t been hunting until you’ve shared that experience with a grandchild.” At the time, I didn’t have a grandchild, so that gives you an idea of how long ago this was. This past weekend, Dave’s words came back to me as I found myself sitting in the stand on the family farm with my 13-year-old grandson, McCabe.
Forgive me, as I’m sure you all have stories of times spent with kids and how rewarding it was and is. But this story is more than just a hunting tale—it’s about the memories we create and what we leave behind.
If you asked anyone in our family what my thoughts going into this hunt were, they’d probably say I was hoping for McCabe to have a chance at a small buck. Not the kind of deer that graces the cover of an outdoor magazine—just a modest buck, as he had taken a doe the previous year. I never pray for success, though. My outdoor prayers typically give thanks for the beauty of the day, a safe hunt, and, if a shot is taken, that it results in either a clean, quick harvest or a complete miss.
You cannot imagine the long journey McCabe traveled to build confidence in shooting a center-fire rifle. He had been hesitant because of the recoil and noise, even with hearing protection. But six minutes into the season, a perfect buck appeared—a seven-pointer. McCabe made a perfect shot, resulting in a clean, quick harvest. We were elated.
After recovering the deer, we gave thanks to the Creator for the animal, His creation, and the time we spent together. Following that prayer, we shared a big hug and a fist bump. The rest of the morning was spent caring for the buck and taking pictures. The one accompanying this article is my favorite—not because it’s a good picture of McCabe or me, but because he asked for a picture with me.
After we took the picture, he ran down the lane to meet his mother and grandmother to show off his buck. I took this time to step back and reflect. That was when I realized what had just taken place.
Both of my grandfathers were outdoorsmen. Grandpa Cannon ran limb lines for catfish on Fox River, and Grandpa Fox, who I called “Governor,” hunted waterfowl on the Des Moines and Mississippi rivers. I was probably 14 or 15 when they passed away, so I never spent a minute in the duck blind with Governor or ran catfish lines with Grandpa Cannon in his small 14-foot V-bow boat.
Why did that happen? Was it my fault for not wanting to be with “old people,” or was it their fault for not bringing me along? I doubt it, as both men loved kids, especially Governor.
When McCabe asked for that picture, I saw all the lost opportunities that had slipped through my fingers—the moments I could have shared with those I loved but failed to. I also saw McCabe’s future. I imagined him showing that picture to his wife or kids, telling them about how crazy his “Papa” was and how he wished they could have met me.
This time of year always brings those reflections, as it’s the anniversary of my brother Kent’s passing. He died the day after spending Thanksgiving with my family. I called him every day, and we made sure we both knew how much we loved each other. Still, what wouldn’t I give to hear him tell one of his stories—stories only he could tell—or to sit with him in the duck blind for one more morning?
Hunting is just the tool my family uses to break down the walls that keep us from spending time together. A duck blind or deer stand is the perfect place to have a captive audience—at least until someone pulls out their cellphone.
My dad had a great voice and could sing songs in German, including “Lilli Marlene,” as well as many others. What wouldn’t I give to hear him sing to my daughter Amanda again, as he used to when she was little? My Grandma Cannon taught all her grandkids how to crochet to keep us busy, boys included. What wouldn’t I give to sit on her couch and crochet a long line, only for her to take it apart and make me do it again?
And Grandma Fox steeped the best tea I’ve ever had—at least until my brother introduced her to instant tea. I never forgave him for that.
Then there’s my mom. What can I say that’s enough? She showed me what it means to trust in the Lord and how to walk in faith. She wasn’t perfect, but the One she trusted is.
My melancholy isn’t just about losing Kent. This past week, a friend shared how much she missed her parents, and while I offered my support, it didn’t feel like enough.
Thanksgiving isn’t about football or eating until you feel sick. It’s a time to give thanks for the blessings we often take for granted—family, friends, and even the next hour of life. It’s also a time to reflect on those who shaped us, whether they were family members or strangers whose names now rest on headstones, like the soldiers who stormed the beaches of Normandy. What would you give to thank all those people for what they did for you?
I’d like to close with two thoughts. The first comes from Ringo Starr’s song Photograph:
“Every time I see your face / It reminds me of the places we used to go / All I’ve got is a photograph / And I realize you’re not coming back anymore.”
The second is a paraphrased version of a quote by Catholic priest and theologian Hans Urs von Balthasar:
“Each day is a gift from God, and what you do with it is your gift to Him and others.”
I hope you have a happy Thanksgiving and make memories.
