Today is November 15, 2024.

On this day in past years, I've reminisced about my years spent hunting for Michigan's white-tailed deer.  I've done it in several ways, but generally by showing lots of old pictures, and sometimes by publishing an essay I've written.  This year, I'm going to post only one thing, my Ballad of Fred, the Great. 

Fred is my brother-in-law and we shared a lot of hunts over the years.  I don't think I need to describe him more than that because the poem does that for me.  I hope you enjoy it.  

The Ballad of Fred, the Great.

Minnesota was the home of hunter, Fred the Great, 

And many were the travels that he took beyond that state. 

He went in search of Cervidae of every sort to shoot, 

And while hunting them, he wore blaze orange, his favorite hunting suit.

But hunting had to wait sometimes, a job had to be done, 

And though his arms grew weary, and his eyes red from the sun, 

Fred had to work, as most men do, to make his ends all meet. 

He also worked to earn the points that made his life so sweet.

Fred picked up cars and trucks and such, that fate had just struck down, 

He'd load them up, two at a time, and haul them back to town.

All heads would turn when Fred pulled in, to see what he had brought, 

He might just have that perfect truck or ATV they sought.

His lovely wife, had a gift, for humorous oratory, 

But her exploits are not told here, they're in another story. 

She didn't choose to share his hunts, she preferred to set him loose, 

All that she asked: that he be kind to her stuffed friend, the Moose.

When leaves began to turn and fall, Fred's blood would start to boil, 

He'd start again to plan his hunt, this time to Gourley soil. 

He knew a Packer fan up there, with hunting land so green, 

It grew the finest white-tailed deer that Fred had ever seen.

Tall cedars fell to build Fred's blind, the Butcher Shop its name. 

Fred sat among the tree tops there, on patient watch for game. 

Lesser men would hesitate to shoot the gun Fred shot, 

Their bodies would be black and blue, but hunter Fred's was not.

A deer Fred shot, dropped like a rock. Fred's aim: extraordinary. 

He shot just three or four a day, no more than he could carry. 

He shared his game with all his friends, and at least on one occasion, 

He shared his blind and gun to boot, with nephew, rookie Jason.

Fred continues to this day, to roam those hunting lands, 

He guards the acres that he hikes from drunken, poaching bands. 

He stops now and again to rest, to drink a barley brew, 

And to talk to lesser hunters, as all the great ones do.

If you're up north of Packer Land, where mighty white-tails roam, 

You may hear legends told of Fred, by those who call it home. 

They'll tell their stories quietly, with words of wit and awe, 

About the hunting skill he showed, of wonders that they saw.

You may even catch a glimpse of Fred, he's fond of steak and beer, 

As he heads to town for such a meal, at Jill's, not far from here. 

He'll have his lady on his arm, you'll spot her, she's first rate, 

And friends and family near him, this Hunter, Fred the Great.

Thanks to Jeffery Archer

Jeffrey Archer is a great writer.  His list of short stories and novels is long.  After the conclusion of one of his novels, I found a bonus that he had given the readers of that particular book.  It was a story consisting of only 100 words. 

I enjoyed it of course, and not long after, looked up what a one hundred word story is called, if indeed it has a name.  I found that it is called a drabble.  

Since that time, I have tried my hand at writing them myself.  I added a few of them to a couple of my previous posts, most recently back in April of 2023. Today, in this post, I intend to publish a few more.

Two of my sisters have now joined me in writing drabbles.  I find it satisfying and I think they'd agree. It is a great way to spend an hour or an afternoon.  I'm always amazed at how time flies as I try to make an idea work. I use the thesaurus constantly, and even Rhymzone sometimes as I try to cobble the thing together.  

I find it somewhat difficult to publish my stories for fear of looking foolish, or worse. Oh well.  I'll just have to live with that.  

I'd like to suggest that all of you try your hand at writing a drabble.  If you hesitate to do such a thing, consider this. You don't have to tell anyone you're doing it and you can toss any out that don't work. (I've done that on a number of occasions.) But think of the pleasure it would give you if you do succeed. I'll bet that you'll want to share it with someone too. There are even drabble websites where you can get ideas or read what really good ones are like.    

Don't forget.  Your story can't be 99 words or 101 words. Make sure you use the word count feature wherever you write it.  (You'll be amazed at how quickly you reach 100 words.) 

Here are my latest. 

-djf

#49  Yearning 

The boy found its opening in the base of the hillside behind dense evergreens. Narrow, but tall enough to admit him. He crept in to the limit of the daylight. He shook with wonder.   

His recurrent dream started that night.  

Stairs led down from behind the basement furnace, and a corridor disappeared into the distance. Its sides were stacked with covered, but fascinating items. Another long corridor, lying at right angles to the first, appeared on the left. It led somewhere marvelous.  

The imagery seemed too real not to be.   

Easing the flashlight from the kitchen junk-drawer, he slipped out. 

#50 Saying Goodbye

I met Max when I was a student at NMU. My roommates were great, we partied occasionally, but they were so serious. Max never took life seriously. He’d always make me laugh when he came over. 

I stayed in Maquette after graduation. He’d still come by my new place. I’d always offer him a snack or maybe a drink. The years passed so quickly.  

And now he’s gone. I still can’t believe it.  

He hadn’t been around for a while and I wondered where he was. 

A neighbor said he’d been sleeping under a car. He was a great dog.  

#51  City Life, circa 1935

I’m walking down Main Street for the first time, see, and this cop yells, “Hey you!”

I says, “Who, me?”  

And the cop says, “Yeah, you, watch-man. You got the time?”

So I says, “Time for what?”

“No,” he says, “You got what time it is. I can see you got a watch on. So what’s it say?  

So I tells him, “I just sold my farm and broke it moving here. I’m looking for a repair shop.”

“If it’s broke,” he says, “you shouldn’t wear it; makes a guy think it works.”  

And he walks off.  

City life, sheesh!  

#52  The Sigh

A sigh is the younger sibling of a whisper, barely qualifying as sound. Its sphere of influence is inconsequential when normal physics apply.      

I released such an exhalation as I settled into my recliner. It was my wordless editorial, quantifying my comfort, a statement of bliss.    

However, it’s clear some frequency of brain waves also accompanies such a sigh, which propagates through an unknown ether, and which only wives perceive. They know them as beacons of opportunity.     

Within seconds, I heard determined footsteps approaching. 

“There you are, my high-bush cranberry plants just arrived. When are you going to plant them?”

#53 Back Country

The wind rose as twilight fell and night found their tent bucking like a living thing.  The girls found stones and covered each peg. 

They were in grizzly country and glad they had installed the electric bear fence.  

Their sleep was fitful. Visions of claws intruded, but sunrise lit the canvas as they roused, night terrors forgotten.  

Heather billowed out first, but stopped short. Three men stood at their firepit.   

The largest one advanced menacingly, and said, “You pretty young things up here all alone?”  

Heather sighed, “Zip it, Randy. You know it’s your turn to cook breakfast. Get busy!”