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Bud Grossmann’s
Words of the Week
for the Week of
November 20, 2005
Published as Family History
in a Gramma Letter dated November 19, 1996.
© 1996 by Bud Grossmann.
All Rights Reserved.
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Deer, 1973
© 1973 by Bud Grossmann
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AN EXCUSED ABSENCE
Tuesday, November 20, 1996
Dear Gramma,
“A jack of all trades!” people sometimes say when they hear the things I’ve done. Implicit in the compliment is the rest of the epithet: “...and master of none.” A résumé of my employment would run several pages. A list of experiences I’ve had once—but only once— would fill a book.
The hunting season of 1964 is a good example. I shot one wood duck, one mallard, one Canada goose, one pheasant, one woodcock, and I almost brought home one deer. So I am not a duck hunter, not a pheasant hunter, and most definitely not a deer hunter. Among my happiest memories, though, are the gray mornings when I toted my 12-gauge through the frosty fields and fog-shrouded bogs of your Wisconsin farm. I loved the quiet and the cold, the crunch of icy earth beneath my feet. I loved the sensation of wealth and power when I held in my mittened hands the heavy Savage shotgun purchased with summer earnings from raising cucumbers for H.J. Heinz.
Coming home with nothing to show for my outing—as happened more often than not—was no great disappointment because the hunting of game was as much fun as the getting of game. And, as I recall, obtaining permission to hunt deer that year was almost as satisfying as tramping through the snowy woods in my one and only quest for venison.
I thought of that deer season of ’64 when you and Aunt Dolly recently wrote about this year’s oversupply of deer in Columbia County. As I picture your situation, when you venture out-of-doors, you have to swing your cane from side to side to clear a path through all the Virginia whitetails loitering about. In most seasons only the bucks are fair game for hunters, but this year, you said, the DNR has declared a doe season, too. In 1964, the doe season was not in Columbia County but up around Tomah where Uncle Bob lived.
Uncle Bob invited me to come up to Tomah on the Greyhound to hunt with him on opening day. I wanted to accept the invitation, but I had a problem: deer season started at sun-up on a Saturday. I would have to miss my Friday classes at Rio High School if I was going to get to Tomah in time. To have my absence excused, I needed to face the high school principal, Oscar G. Meyer.
Mr. Meyer, who was known to students by a nickname I won’t mention here, seemed a gruff, no-nonsense administrator. I did not look forward to asking a favor of him.
First I went to my teachers and made sure I could complete my Friday assignments and weekend homework ahead of time. Then I asked my buddies what they thought my chances were for getting the principal’s permission. Slim, they said. Very slim.
At lunchtime I went to the school office. As I stood nervously outside the door, I remembered my father’s often-offered advice: It never hurts to ask. Maybe not, I thought, but it can sometimes give you a stomach ache. I knocked on the door and went in.
When I told Mr. Meyer what I wanted, he said, “What do you think would happen, Bud, if every student who wished to go up north to hunt deer came and asked me for a day off from school?”
“Well, sir, that might be awkward for you,” I admitted.
He turned in his swivel chair and silently stared out the window at leafless oaks and maples. When he turned back to me, he said, “I’m going to say yes. Go, and good luck to you. Now, I suppose you are going to leave this office and, like a town crier, announce to the entire student body that I’m letting you do this.”
“Oh, no, sir!” I said. “I certainly won’t! But I can’t promise you, sir, that I will be able to hide my smile.”
♦
Granny, I send all my love to you.
Love,
Buddy
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