What Do You Want Your Great-Great-Grandkids To Know?
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I have a photo of my great-grandfather, my grandfather, and my dad when he was 11 years old. Since Dad was born in 1919, the picture would have been taken in 1930. It appeared in the newspaper because either Grandpa or a neighbor, Ken O’Bleness, killed a swan. The picture means a great deal to me, but it would mean even more if I knew the full story behind it.
Country music performer and songwriter Jamey Johnson co-wrote a song in 2018 called You Should Have Seen It in Color. The song starts with a grandson looking at old black-and-white photos with his grandfather, who shares what was happening at the time each photo was taken and how he felt. It’s a great song, but to me it’s also a little sad. I have a few pictures of Dad hunting, some World War II photos, and many family pictures, but far fewer stories – and that is what I miss and regret the most.
I have always made every attempt to include my grandson in everything I do outdoors and to tell him why I do what I do. I also wrote a small baby book for him about staying at the cabin the night before the opening day of deer season. Hopefully, he will have plenty of stories to share about a crazy old man who loved many things: the outdoors, his family, and his Creator. If I recall, the book ends with, “Grandpa can make deer bologna, but only God could make a deer!”
The things I couldn’t share with him because he was too young were my “Bucket List Hunts.” It was important to me that he would know how special those trips were and why they mattered so much to me.
I’ve been writing outdoor stories for what seems like forever – probably around 30 years. My mother saved every article I wrote until she passed away, and I didn’t even know it until we were going through her papers. She had them all in a tote. My wife has also been saving them, so my family will know what I did and what I hunted or fished for. But that’s only part of the story. What’s more important to me are the feelings I had at the time. While print copies are great to have, my journals are handwritten – full of spelling mistakes but overflowing with emotion.
From my Black Bear journal, May 17, 2016:
“Barry (my guide) gave me a thumbs up and told me I had four trails to watch. I was dropped off at 12:30. I settled down for a long afternoon and evening, as I wouldn’t be picked up until 10:30 or later.
I continued to watch the trails and about 4:30 I looked to my right and saw a black bear walk out. I cannot describe how beautiful the bear and the surroundings were. He was standing on a small rise, looking down at the bait site. Then he walked down the hill, sauntering to the site.
The bear went to a tree that had been covered on one side with grease. He licked the tree, then went to the barrel. At this point I didn’t know if it was a boar or a sow, but I knew it was alone without cubs. (He also looked like the pictures they showed us of boars.) The bear sniffed the barrel, then licked the grape crystals smeared in honey.
During this time, I had put my rifle (a Winchester 1895) on the rest and cocked the hammer. The bear’s back was even with the top of the barrel and his head was above it, so I knew he was a shooter. I had a perfect broadside shot. The bear turned its head to the right. I would like to say I really took my time to aim, but I can’t remember. I pulled the trigger and the bear went down in a heap. It raised its head twice, and then it was over.
I laughed, I cried, and I thanked God for it all!”
That bear was, and still is, very special to me as it was my first genuine “Bucket List” item. It was also the first time I had ever been that far from home. The rifle I used was a reproduction 1895 like the one Teddy Roosevelt carried on his safari, except his was chambered in .405 and mine was in .30-06.
In May of 2019, I traveled even further from home to South Africa. On May 14, I wrote:
“P.H. Hannes and I left camp at 5:15 a.m. to head for a new territory about 45 minutes away. We were looking for wildebeest and gemsbok.
We arrived at the concession, and Hannes and I hopped in the back of the truck with a driver and two trackers. There were a lot of tracks and spoor, but we weren’t seeing much. After about an hour, Hannes asked the driver to stop. He and I jumped off the truck (well, he jumped and I climbed down like the old man I am).
We walked perhaps 400 yards when Hannes froze. We had been walking alongside a dry creek bed. Suddenly, four or five gemsbok began walking from our right to our left. I put my rifle in the shooting sticks. The next gemsbok to come out stopped when Hannes whistled. He whispered, ‘She is a dry cow and huge. Shoot.’
I had the gemsbok’s front quarter in the scope and pulled the trigger. What I remember most is hearing the bullet smack into her. She went straight down, but Hannes said, ‘Reload.’ I covered her, but she didn’t get back on her feet, although he said they often do as they are so tough.
My African dream and the reason I wanted to come to Africa had become a reality. But the highlight was when Hannes left me alone with her while he went back to get the truck. I was in shock, standing there beside such a beautiful creature. What was a kid from the Fox River bottoms doing this far from home, hunting in Africa? I felt so undeserving, and a little sad that my dad wasn’t there to see it.
By the time Hannes got back with the truck, I had regained my composure.”
I wrote that account either that night or after dinner. It may have taken ten or twenty minutes.
There is no doubt we will leave a great many things to our kids and grandkids when we’re gone. But those who inherit those things will have no idea what that man with the beard in the picture was really like. With just a few words jotted down in a journal, they will at least know what you felt and what you thought.
Besides leaving the next generation your things, leave a little bit of yourself behind as well. You may think it’s a hassle now, but they will appreciate it in time.
