The deer stand and the Book Thief

The conversation went like this: I’m going to work on my deer stand. You can come if you want.
Oh, it’s optional?
You don’t have to. Come on Buckshot.
All four feet are ready for anywhere he can run like wind and fire.
I’m thinking, I could sit in the truck and read.
I go. Buckshot rides in my lap. Our four-wheel drive squishes and squirms 2.3 miles on rain-soaked roads. Buckshot jumps out of the window to chase a jake turkey. It flies off. He goes only as far as the edge of the woods, comesback and runs alongside the truck. It must feel great to run wide open. He's good for a mile or two at 25 mph.
We stop at an enclosed, abandoned stand near the road. I can't wait to read some more of The Book Thief.
Here, he says. Take this window cleaner and newspapers, climb up there and wash the windows.
Rats! There goes my reading time.
He goes ahead with a sling blade to clear a path. At the foot of the ladder, I look almost straight up. No way! He put up 300’ towers. I'm afraid to climb ten rungs. I get no sympathy. Focus. Both hands and both feet are engaged one rung at a time. I get to the top and have to make a choice. Stay standing, grab the rickety door frame and step in, or go in on hands and knees. Hands and knees win.
Here’s the broom. Sweep it out while you’re there.
The stand is about 4’ by maybe 6’ with a lawn chair taking up half the space. My every move is calculated. Plexiglas scratches and does not clean to glass standards. I clean a pair of small glass windows from the inside and reach as far as I can to wash one of them on the outside. He will need a ladder to wash them. You notice, I slipped that job onto him. Two windows were shot out. Not surprising. If a big buck was visible from that direction, the windows were expendable.
We are remote, but still, a man on a bulldozer comes down the road and stops. He asks my guy if he can help him fix blah blah on the dozer.
Sure. He comes to the stand and yells up, I’ll be gone about five minutes.
News flash: Mississippi minutes are not 60 seconds long; they can be hours or days or longer. I fantasize being Rapunzel, but even on a good day, I don’t have enough hair to “let down” far enough for anyone to climb up.
His 5" turned into an hour. While climbing the ladder, his phone rings. He frowns and nods. We’ll be there in thirty minutes. Deer stand repairs are abandoned. We go back to camp and find company. There’s no leaving until all the b.s.ing is done and everybody’s had a beer, except me.
We finally head out, and we can’t find Buckshot. I feel like Chevy Chase’s wife in that goofy vacation movie. We go without him, a first. I bury myself in The Book Thief so I don't worry about him. Twenty-five miles later,we load the piece of machinery. More b.s.ing amongst the adolescent grownups. More beer and I’m driving back as the sun dives below the horizon. Buckshot is waiting on the doorstep. We’re glad. He’s ecstatic.
It’s pitch dark. The outside barrel stove is still hot. The neighbor comes over with a plate. I brought your supper: three hot pieces of barbecued chicken and fries. Yum! All is well.
The guys chat around the fire. I slip away to The Book Thief. Horribly depressing, inspiring, humbling, too. I wish Liesel had kissed Rudy. It had never occurred to me to write a story from the perspective of the Angel of Death. Nice work Markus Zusak.

2013 Red Convertible Travel Series

USA Memorial Day

At Bitburg, Germany we met a man who, as a child, had helped his dad in food service and served General Patton. The General complimented this twelve-year old making a lasting impression on him. He glowed with pride and told us where to find Patton's grave. A fellow from our home community had been on the Color Guard for his burial.

At the American Cemetery and Memorial in Hamm, Luxemborg we stood at Patton's grave not set apart from his men, but with them as he wanted. It was a warm day. From a marble bench we prayed for and thanked them and left puddles of sweat. Our contribution would dry up, but theirs was permanent.

Solemnly we walked above the Normandy Beaches. Posted signs caution against walking below as there are still unexploded mines. This day all was silent, even the visitors. Back at our Auberge our host twisted up his face and said he'd seen more than he could talk about.

At Colleville Sur Mer the 170 acre American cemetery holds the remains of those who contributed their all to the cause of freedom. The American director said the perfectly aligned crosses are set in a trench of concrete.

At Dachau, Germany we spoke with the President of the Survivors. "He said he was there to be sure the ovens were never again lit for that purpose." To our surprise he was not a bitter man inspite of his parents and first wife dying while all were imprisoned. He married again and they had a son. The Press arrived to interview him. He laughed and said to watch him make a fool of himself.

Our bellies in our throats we walked through the crematorium trying not to imagine its horrors. Images surfaced anyway remembering the words of a fellow from our home that was here liberation day. "They were so emaciated we couldn't tell the men from the women. An American soldier threw a piece of candy that landed in the barbed-wire. Naked prisoners dove in risking deep cuts and scratches; anything for a bite of food."

My late husband was a generation older than I and a WWII veteran plagued with nightmares and bouts with malaria. When he passed on I hoped his meeting with the Creator would go like so:

Seen the horrors of war, dear one,

The man began to weep

No more, no more! the Good God cried

I'm granting you Grace and Peace

In death their souls have returned to God to be rewarded and made whole. Grace and Peace to all who have fought, and who do fight for freedom.

copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series