House Arrest

Unless you've been on Mars lately, you've been somehow affected by the Corona Virus / COVID-19. At this point, I'm not sure that the Martians could have possibly escaped the widespread panic caused by this pandemic.
History will judge us.
No one may ever know if we over-reacted but the scary possibilities of under-reacting are too much to even fathom.
At this point, nothing can surprise us.
School is no longer in session. Oh sure - Monday 3/30 we start "Distance Learning" but that's not school.
19 years I have been a teacher. Those innocent children that sat in my classroom on that Tuesday morning long ago when those planes flew in to those buildings - yeah, they're Moms and Dads now. They're professionals and even colleagues of mine. We learned then that the world stopped turning but only for a little while.
And now here we are again...the rotation of the Earth seems at a stand still...but it's not. This too shall pass. Grace before grades and Love before Lessons - school will be back in Real Session some day soon.
In the meantime, we take another gubernatorial approved walk around town with our dog. Play another board game with those people that are most important to us. Another click through the interwebs to see what has changed in the last 6 hours. And wonder with each sneeze, if it's our time...

Call your Grandma.

The BLOG is back up and running!

All it took was an International Pandemic.

Except sometimes they are watching...

Jeff Jennings is a Long Term sub in our building for a gal that's out on maternity leave. While teaching 5th grade Literacy, Mr. Jennings is also working on his Masters Degree and hoping for a permanent job teaching in the district he grew up in. Every once in a while I get to have lunch and visit with him.

It's good having Jeff around. He's a funny guy and a good story teller. A couple of weeks ago he asked me about 7th grade football. I told him that things were going well and that I'd settled in to a new, kinder and gentler coaching mentality. It's easier on my blood pressure coaching towards fun in pursuit of winning. But I confessed that I may have had a relapse during a timeout a week before.
Jeff listened while I admitted to raising my voice and getting after the whole squad. Parents in the stands thought that I was trying to "fire up the troops". My wife knew that the message was more about missed assignments, lowered expectations and general undisciplined mistakes.

That's when Jeff interrupted with a story of his own.

See, back in the day, Jennings was a 3 sport stud at Rush City. Football, Basketball and Track - he had it all and made things look effortless. I'm proud that he still calls me Coach. With a huge smile on his face, Jeff retold the story of his first varsity touchdown. He was a freshman and admittedly, big for his britches. Late in a game of little consequence, he caught a pass from Jake Bosman, made a couple of defenders miss and pranced in to the endzone. Jeff says he spun the football to the ground and raised his hands in the Titanic Pose as if to say, "Look at me, World."

With a chuckle, 30 year old Jennings said that 15 year old Jeff was snatched up directly in the facemask and pulled in close to Coach Kirby while the young coach hollerd, "ACT LIKE YOU'VE BEEN THERE! Act like you've been there! Don't you ever toss a football like that again. You hustle it over to the referee and hand it directly too him. YOU HAND IT TO THE REF and then go celebrate with the linemen that got you in the endzone!"

Apparently our Teachable Moment went a little long because Jeff said we played the extra point with only 10 players on the field. Jeff missed an assignment but was learning a valuable life lesson. In the teacher's lounge, 16 years later, I was beaming with pride as our player/coach relationship had now grown in to becoming lunch buddies. Jeff said he vividly remembers that evening under the Friday Night Lights. He also shared a memory of a touchdown he scored later that season to secure a big win for us in the closing moments of a game at East Central. He recalled looking to the sidelines and seeing me jumping for joy; happy for him and being his biggest supporter. At the sideline, I assured the young wideout that he was going to be in the endzone often.

In my infinite wisdom, I asked Jeff what the real life take away from that moment was. Jeff knew the answer I was looking for. Jeff said touchdowns are less about the individual and more about the team. Jeff said that handing the ball to an official is an ultimate sign of respect and a direct way to act like you've been there before. (Sidenote - he did score often. Jennings went on to play college football and run college track)

As he pushed in his chair and was ready to leave our conversation, Jeff said that after every touchdown he scored from that day forward, he handed the football to an official. Once in college, the ref asked him to toss him the ball. Jeff refused and looked over his shoulder fearful that Coach Kirby might be watching somewhere.

I wasn't.
But I wished that I had been there to watch him play that day.
*********************************************************************************

Tuesday the 7th grade Tigers lost a 6-0 battle in the trenches at Pine City. On a muddied field, the players poured their guts out, fighting for every inch on offense and defending every inch with grit and determination on defense.
The fullback/middle linebacker on that team lives under the same roof as me. He fought hard with everything he had. He shouldered the load of an undefeated season and tried so hard with every snap of the ball. In the endzone, our tying score went in and out of the hands of a wide open receiver. We gave ourselves one last chance with the effective use of our remaining timeouts but it wasn't meant to be. We held our heads high in defeat becasue we had played with pride.
Then the 8th grade game began. An already depleated roster was thinned out even more as Coach Morgan dealt with discipline issues and nagging injuries. One by one, 8th graders were falling by the wayside. He begged for reinforcements and the 7th graders came calling.
After already playing four challenging quarters of football, a few kids stepped up and gave their best effort against an opponent with higher participation numbers and a year of experience on them. But there was no quit in the 7th graders that fought hard for the yellow and blue. The right side of the offenseive line was made up of underclassmen. The backfield had a 7th grader in support of an 8th grader. On the outside, little wideouts threw blocks as best as they could. As a matter of fact, the two touchdowns that Rush City was able to put on the board were a direct result of excellent support play by the 7th graders on the field.
But after another 4 quarters, the Tigers once again fell short. This time 16-12. We met the Dragons at midfield for the requisite handshake and awkward pleasantries. Having done this a thousand times in my career, I know that it's usually followed by a team huddle. So as I gathered the troops, I searched the dispersing crowd for my own son. I couldn't see him amongst the players that knelt before me.

That is because he wasn't there.

Along the far sideline, a torn and batterered player was chasing down the referees. The striped men had a good headstart and the worn out player was straining to catch up with them . From afar I recognized the hobbled gait of my boy. #32 was insistent on making contact and thanking each official personally with a handshake. Beat down from 8 quarters of legal warfare, Logan pushed through the agony of defeat to do what he knows is right.

Even when no one is watching....

Except, sometimes they are.

Speed Dating the Kirbys... in FIVE...FOUR....THREE....

Why didn't you say the Two & One?
Ya just don't.

*Emma is on the Homecoming Honor Court - Sophomore Edition. 5'11" Setter on the Volleyball Squad. Got her Permit to Drive 3 weeks ago and hasn't hit anything yet. She settled for Converse in lieu of dress shoes for Coronation - partly due to necessity (hard to find size 11 - she's a growing girl) and partly due to comfort and style - Black converse are more her style. Emma is making those around her happy - she's a jokester - a dancer - a real good girl that makes us all so happy.

*Tyler - 23 years old today. Hard to swallow that Real World birthdays are a lot of different than birthdays are when you're in college. Gotta get up for work. He works at ATS Transport in St. Cloud. Has a lovely lady in his life. Very opionated about the NFL and NBA circus. Has recently remembered how fun fishing can be. We see him more lately - that makes everyone happy.

*Logan sometimes wears jeans. Has mastered the curl and flip of his perfectly quaffed hair, which is an essential 7th grade/middle school skill. He's run for a TD and thrown a TD in school ball. No bad for a guy that they compare to Jerome Bettis and Herschel Walker. He works hard on his school work and so far, his grades are fantastic...even though he was up late the other night helping out a fellow classmate through some homework over the phone. Late as in - almost 11;00 pm...but it was ok, she's cute. He's happy.

*Michele is on her last day at Broekema. She went from being the new girl to being the Employee of the Month to being the short timer in the matter of a few months. But the future is bright for her. A generous salary increase. Increased paid time off. A job she can see herself excelling at and hopefully in an environment with others that enjoy lifting each other up. She's going to be a trainer in an education based tech compnay but I don't want to say too much here until she tells Grandma Judy. ( I am not going to explain this one!) We're all happy for her.

* And me. The old dog can be taught new tricks... I'm coaching football in Rush City again. Headmanning the Junior High squad with a heck of a kid playing Middle Linebacker. I missed the locker room and the bus rides. I missed the inside jokes and the sweat and hard work. I didn't miss the laundry and the discipline issues that follow missed homework. Teaching in year 19. Talking about the Old Days more often. Now, I own a boat - Michele does actually. But she lets me use it. That makes me happy.

Gimmie Three Steps..... REPOST

Nugent – “Stranglehold”, Pink Floyd – “Comfortably Numb”, Skynyrd – “Gimme Three Steps”… it was like God had his thumb on the classic rock dial and knew exactly what I needed this week each time we roamed the North Shore. There’s few places in this world that I’d rather be than cruising Highway 61 with my wife and children. No real destination in mind. Sights set on some waterfall up the road or a rocky beach down the way. Usually we’ve only got rock throwing or ice cream on our minds.

For as many years as I can recall, Michele and I have toted our kids up the North Shore of Lake Superior on mid-summer, camping expeditions. Long ago, we started with one family tent and babies and have now graduated in to a Palomino pop-up camper and big kids. All along we’ve stuck to the plan of having no real plan. Meals come when we’re hungry. A hike here or a nap there whenever we feel so moved by the spirit. Bathing can mean a dip in the Gooseberry River or a hot steamy shower in the CCC bathhouse. We’ve caught and released more tadpoles than your Average Joe has seen in his life. When we’ve been lucky, we find the blueberries and raspberries in season and stop periodically along the trail for handfuls of those delicious little gifts from God. Nightly campfires are usually snuffed out early enough for us to play a dice game in the camper before hitting the sack.

This year was just a little different in that we stayed at Lamb’s Resort in Schroeder instead of our regular, good ole’ Gooseberry Falls. An hour drive up the rocky coast put us somewhere between to Tettegouche and Grand Marais. The privately owned campground had a slightly different feel to it but the big lake to the east was just the same. This year I caught brook trout and splake in the river. The kids seemed to have a giant waterfall to themselves. Michele read books on the beach and for the first time,  Raider joined us. He was a champ - swimming and hiking, laying around camp, and tending to the flies like it was his job. He’s earned a return trip, no doubt.

The visibility was as good as we’ve ever seen it. The Sawtooth Mountains presided over the cliffs of Lake Superior for as far as the eye could see. Gitche Gumme sat still most days, clear as gin and frigid as always. The kids spent a few bucks in the malt shop at Lamb’s the same night I took a tumble somewhere up the canyon chasing another trout. Michele diligently washed the dishes each day in exchange for never cooking a meal and Raider was the perfect complement to our storybook vacation.  

Like all good things, the trip had to end. Our vacation filled with everything proved to us that good company is all you ever need to make things enjoyable. As a troop, we tore down camp. Wrapped up sleeping bags. Stowed away utensils. Policed stray trash. We condensed what remained in the coolers and packed up the truck. Unfortunately, that’s when things took a little detour.

The keys to open the locking, hitch pin were nowhere to be found. The routine of set up and tear down has never changed. As soon as the trailer is freed from the truck, the keychain goes in the ashtray of the pickup. Logan and I are typically in charge of leveling out and cranking up and down the camper. Sure, Michele and Emma help out when needed but it was painfully obvious that the responsibility for this set of keys lay somewhere on the two barrel chested, Kirby boys. Panic set in as check-out time loomed. With everything tucked neatly away, we scurried to pull out bags and start digging through pockets. Together, the four of us scoured the truck and the bags from the trailer. We looked on the ground around camp. We opened and emptied bunches of Tupperwares assigned to hold random camp supplies excluding the keys. With sweat dripping and my heart racing, I could sense that Emma felt helpless; Logan felt guilty; and Michele felt annoyed.

My wife stopped the fruitless key endeavor and asked me to explain our options. I said that it may be time to start thinking about a bolt cutter or a hacksaw. Almost 45 minutes in to the search, Michele thought it was pointless to waste any more energy on something with such a simple solution and so she sent me on my way, with my tail tucked, in search of said tools.

At checkout time, the Camp Office is filled with all kinds of excitement. People leaving early and others in search of any random vacancies. That day, I was the schlep asking to borrow the hardware necessary for breaking and entering. Luckily our host had a hacksaw, although he questioned the condition of the blade. I headed back to camp with the second rate hacksaw. It was better than having to face my wife empty handed.

Thankfully, God had spared me the necessary 1/8^th of an inch I needed to squeeze the blade in between the locking mechanism and the parts of the trailer that needn’t be cut. And luckily, Master Lock had used sufficient metal to deter thieves but not the hardened steel that I feared would tear apart my borrowed hacksaw. Within minutes, I was through and knew that I had packed a cotter pin in the emergency kit that would safely hold the hitch in place. Minus a little hurt pride and about an hour of our time, we were no worse for the wear and on our way. I stopped at the Camp Office with the remnants of my Master Lock and returned the tool with a handshake and a thank you. Sheepishly, we pulled on to Highway 61 and headed for home.

In no time, the kids had their headphones on and were tucked back in to their digital worlds. Michele was flipping through a novel and I was begging for the air conditioner to help lower my pulse. A few miles down the road, I turned down the radio and caught my kids’ attention. To my wife and children I apologized for our slight detour and thanked them for another wonderful vacation. In the rearview mirror, I could see Emma break.

“What is it, Emma?”

Logan giggled.

Michele asked if I wanted the good news… as she reached down and pulled the missing keys from the outside pocket of her purse. A pocket she swears is only used for her cell phone. A pocket that she reached for while I was inside, returning the hacksaw to the Camp Office!

I could do nothing but laugh. Michele laughed. Emma laughed.

 And Logan said, “I’m just glad we didn’t find it in my bag!”

“Gimme Three Steps, Gimme Three Steps Mister and you’ll never see me no more….”

“Thank You and Yes, I can give more.”

An OPEN Letter from PCYH ACE Coordinator – Paul Kirby

Last Tuesday I may have grumbled under my breath a bit as I walked in to the rink to serve my shift. Instead of watching the Varsity game on home ice, I spent the evening slinging coffee, nachos and popcorn out of the concessions stand with the President of our local bank. As a coach of two youth teams and a member of our Association Board of Directors, I do not need the volunteer dibs. I was starting a pity party and ready to complain. However, I was served up a perfect dose of “humble pie” as my co-worker happily dished out pizza and popcorn with the zest of a teenager trying to hold a job.

Mr. Berube worked in his khakis and loafers, obviously coming straight from work without taking the time to change in to recreation clothes. However, it wasn’t so much the clothes that I noticed but was more of his overall demeanor. He was the life of the party - smiling and laughing and throwing out hot cocoa and coffee as quick as he could make it. I’m sure the President of a bank has got some serious responsibilities to match his presidential income. In my mind, I questioned why he wouldn’t just write a check and shirk those volunteer dibs but it was obvious that Corey was loving the opportunity to give.

That’s it….just give. You can always give more. We can always give more. And we don’t have to ask what we’d get in return. Sometimes it’s OK to just give.

Our Association needs more people like Mr. Berube. Endless enthusiasm, total optimism, a contagious smile. Spend some time with Corey and I’m sure you’ll come away feeling like it was time well spent. That’s him along the boards, ushering out our pre-game flag bearers. Although his eldest has graduated, you can find him in the stands rooting on the Varsity. Last I saw him, he was in the Penalty Box at the last PeeWee game, volunteering again.

Thanks Corey – I can give more.

***

On another note, I’d like to take this opportunity to say “Thank You” to all of the Coaches and Managers in our association. These people have accepted the responsibility, took the necessary training, and committed loads of time to their children and more importantly, other people’s children. These folks have dedicated their skill-set to making sure that the youth hockey experience is an enjoyable one for as many children as possible.

I coach for a number of reasons. One is that my children play. But can you even imagine the level of commitment it would take for someone to coach youth hockey without having a direct relationship to someone on the team? I admire those in our association that are true givers. Those that come to the rink for “the love of the game”. They come to the rink because they love kids and they love what hockey can do for kids. To those Coaches a very special and heartfelt “Thank You”.

***

Throughout our Association, we are experiencing the Highs and Lows of a long and grueling Hockey Season. Frustrations are mounting, as some teams are not meeting the adult expectations placed on a child’s game.

Somewhere in between a plate of nachos and another cup of coffee – Mr. Berube turned to me in a serious tone and said, “Coach, are they getting better?” – our sons play together on a winless PeeWee team. Without hesitation, I responded, “Yes.”

He smiled and then said, “And are they having fun?” Again, I came back with another, “Yes.”

“Then that’s all the matters,” the wise old banker said to me.

***

Everyone please take a moment to put things in perspective.

What do we want our children to take away from the journey of youth hockey?

My answer to that is this – I want my children to be able to take the skills learned through sports and be able to transfer those skills into non-sport situations and the skills of life.

Sure I want to win just as much as the next guy…but sometimes we have to re-focus on what’s important now and what’s important in the long term. Trust those coaches. Let them coach and cheer your butts off from the stands. Have a hot chocolate and if you’re lucky, maybe Mr. Berube will be in there with service and smile.

Forecheck, Backcheck, Paycheck

Coach Kirby – Bantam B1 and PeeWee B2

Michele’s Husband ; Emma and Logan’s Dad.

“Re-Defining Winning”

As coaches, as parents, and as sports administrators, we need to move away from tracking wins and losses against our opponents.  If a kid regularly loses, eventually they will lose motivation and quit. However, if we shift to wins and losses based on personal and team goals, we can still develop an intense, burning competitive spirit AND we develop a human that wants to continually improve.

We will always be competitive, and we will not do away with the desire to win. We just need to change the definition of win to better support the long-term development of these young human beings.

Author: Geoff Lenahan

Director, For the Love of the Game

"Big Boy Done"

He’s such a good kid. An old soul. Probably born a generation or even a century too late. He’s “from a different cut”, they say. The Bear to some…but not a big, stubborn, mangy old bear. More like a strong, steady, peaceful and observant bear.

Michele and I took the kids to a major pop concert this summer in Minneapolis. The hits played to an eclectic crowd of somewhere between thirty and forty-five thousand in the friendly confines of Target Field. We rode the Light Rail in and sat in the nose bleeds amongst the music lovers with lighter pocket books. Our family stood and sang along at all the appropriate times. The whole while we could sense that Logan was enjoying the ice cream and the music but was struggling with the proximity of drunkenness and debauchery in the masses.

Late in to the night, with the last note long gone and after another crowded train ride, we prodded our children for reactions. Emma loved it, but she’s a big city kind of girl and this wasn’t her first rodeo. Logan, on the other hand, offered that given alternatives he would have most likely chosen alternatively.

Michele pressed on. “What didn’t you like?”

It was the people. The sheer number of them. Crammed in to one place to spend excessive amounts of money on beer and to pretend that they knew the words to every song. Too many people that looked different then him. It was the people he watched being fake. Putting on a show inside the show. Mom reminded him that it’s good to get out of Pine City sometimes. It’s good to get a little culture.

“I can get culture in the Boundary Waters,” Logan retorted. He wasn’t being rude. He was being honest.

“It’s good to experience new things and see different kinds of people,” Mom reminded our tuckered out little Bear.

“I don’t need to see different people. I can see animals in the Boundary Waters.”

Seems our boy is a little more country and a lot less city than we knew.

Born to fish. One of my college friends even referred to him as a “fishing savant”. He has Championship Bass League experience under his belt at the age of 12. With the patience of a Saint and the determination of a bull, Logan will outlast and ultimately out fish anyone lucky enough to fish alongside of him.

He can shoot too. Logie, recently outperformed a fellow outdoorsman, two years his senior, on a round of sporting clays. Grandpas, as well as peace officers, have watched and scrutinized video of Logan knocking over targets on the pistol range as if he were classically trained. When “citiot” friends visit, Logan doesn’t just tag along, he’s an instructional part of their Redneck stay.

So on Saturday, November 3^rd at 7:47 am, just 9 minutes in to the legal shooting hours of Opening Day, when I got the text “Big boy done”, it came as little surprise. Oh, don’t get me wrong. The shot startled me. I just didn’t expect the snap of the 30-30 that early in the hunt. Uncle Todd later reported that when the shot pierced the morning air, he threw out half a cup of perfectly good coffee. Without knowing much more, the immediate realization that Logan had capitalized washed over me in a blanket of pride.

But it came as little surprise. He was born to hunt.

At first, I questioned my son’s word choice….done? Who? You, the Big boy? Or the deer is a Big Boy and he’s done? Did he mean “Big Boy Down”? Or did he mean that he was done?

We know that spelling is an emergent skill of Logan’s. To hold him grammatically accountable in such a big moment of his young life wouldn’t be realistic. I replied with a text.

“Seriously??”

Ya

“You? How Big?”

               Drop him (Again, in the aftermath of such a monumental moment and I’m expecting conjugated verbs and punctuation)

For the next ten minutes, my son fired off text messages in one-word retorts to his uncle, his grandfather and me. Having medicated and hobbled my lame leg in to the stand closest to the road, I wanted to get out and run to my boy’s side. Knowing that wasn’t reasonable, I tried to settle my beating heart and salvage the potential for my own hunt in the prime time of early morning.

10 minutes later Logan wrote…

Uncle Todd is coming

I’m shaking.

The excitement was too much for me to handle. I sent my brother a message seeking confirmation. And moments later when my brother replied – “He will be hard to beat!”, I almost fell out of the Taj Mahal. Logan shot at 7:46 and by 8:25 I was inbound. I’m actually a little surprised that I was able to hold off that long.

A crippled leg caused by a herniated disc topped off with a corneal abrasion has left me a shadow of my former self. My list of ailments this Fall reads like an application for the Lakeside Manor for the Elderly. But by this point, the jolt of natural adrenaline was more than compensating for the diminishing effects of the early morning oxycodone. I picked my way through the trail that connects us. The narrowing tag alders and tussocks of swamp grass would have made foot travel difficult for any able-bodied hunter. Undeterred by the shockwaves of pain misfiring in my sciatic nerve, I pressed on like a leopard meticulously picking his way through the jungle.

Stumbling with my smartphone, I tried to film short snippets hopeful to catch the emotion of the moment. When I came upon my brother and my son, I anticipated hugs and high fives but the two of them were elbow deep in the necessary biology lesson that follows the shot. The buck to which they were attending would be impossible to beat.

9 minutes in to his first solo hunt, my Big Boy put Big Boy down. He had prepared since an early age. Lessons in marksmanship and teaching him how to be a steward of the land were not ignored. When preparation met opportunity, Logan capitalized with a disciplined and well-placed shot. As he searched the gut pile for the heart of his quarry, my son began to recount every minor detail of a moment we’ll want to remember for ages.

********

First light brought first movement. To his east, Logan caught sight of a deer pushing the extent of his visibility. Bear said that he figured the deer would walk in to my shooting lane but was surprised when it turned left and walked straight west, towards him. For the next few minutes, as a right-handed shooter, Logan tried to spin quietly to his right. He said that his feet hung up on the small bag that was on the floor but he was able to get around far enough, pointing the barrel down the lane and mounting the gun. In the grey of the morning swamp, still unaware of the size or even the gender of the deer, Logan looked through the iron sites.

What took less than 10 minutes probably seemed like an eternity to our young hunter. However, when fishing and hunting, there are two things you can count on with Logan - patience and determination. As taught, he tried to regulate his breathing and calm his beating chest. Logan told me that he had practiced a shot long before he ever recognized it as a buck. With the deer advancing with its nose to the ground, I’m sure it was difficult to decipher the puzzle presented. My son said that when it approached the 50 yard mark, he saw main beams and brow tines. At that point, it could have been just a fork horn for all he knew. No matter, he eased the hammer back and readied for the shot. 

He anxiously waited for the deer to turn broadside but it never did. Logan later admitted that he fully expected a turn and bounce in to the brush. That didn’t happen. Before he knew it, the buck was inside twenty-five yards and sniffing the air in an attempt to pick up the scent of a stranger in the woods.

That was his fatal mistake.

When he faced my son and stuck his nose to the wind, a single 120 grain 30-30 round entered his body just below the white patch on his neck. That shot cost my brother a cup of coffee. That shot was the one I knew could be no one else besides the Bear. That shot was the one that he had prepared himself for and patiently waited so long for.

On public land, Minnesota has placed restrictions on the use of ATV’s during prime hunting hours. I’m not sure that it was quite yet 8:30 am by the time we rehashed the excitement of morning. Prayers of thankfulness spoken. Pictures taken. Any deer within a country mile had listened to our early morning rendezvous and by now, would have crossed in to Manitoba.  Yet, we all agreed to climb back in to our respective stands and wait it out before calling in Poppa Tom and the Honda.

Mid-morning we met grandpa at the truck with handshakes and hugs. The high sun helped paint a proud picture for the Kirby boys. The four of us wore smiles from ear to ear as we headed back in for the 8 point buck. Although my right leg was starting to scream for relief, I insisted that my old man ride in on the four-wheeler with Logan. I couldn’t make out the content of their conversation but I could sense their shared excitement over the puttering engine. I skipped behind them as best as I could, hopeful to be in range when the downed buck came within sight.

Big Boy Down.

Grandpa was all smiles. The Bear was as proud as a peacock. I became the paparazzi, again trying to document as much of the moment as I possibly could. To be honest, I didn’t want that moment to end. End, it did – we loaded the buck and the wheeler in to the back of the truck in a package deal. A couple of pickup loads of jealous onlookers passed by before we turned the wheels toward Warroad. Uncle Todd and Poppa Tom headed south towards the airport road while my boy and I finally had a moment alone. Logan’s best day ever just kept getting better when we decided to take the long way around the block only to come up on a ruffed grouse insistent on testing himself against the Bear. Back at the homestead, the beautiful colors of the grouse added to the next line of photos before we strung the buck up in the garage to be skun. A phone call to mom, some lunch and a well-earned nap followed.

******

Going back out for the evening post, three generations of Kirby boys each had a definite spring in their step. It's always easier to hunt when you’ve got fresh venison hanging in the garage.  Admittedly, the spring in my step required another dose of over the counter drugs. It was a mostly uneventful evening. On the Demars’ trail of old, it’s possible that the same doe visited all three of the youngest of our hunting party. None of us fired. By the time that the doe stood broadside at 60 yards in my north lane, the sun was quickly setting. As darkness fell, she snorted and wheezed her way in a full circle, lucky to live another day. Back at the truck, we waited for Poppa Tom.

In complete darkness, I began to wonder why my Dadd had not made it in from the minimum maintenance road. I left my brother and son at the trailhead and swung the truck down to the intersection to look for headlights. With none in sight, I checked my cell phone to see the message that my dad was on a faint blood trail. I hurried down to grab Logan and Todd. As they piled in to the truck, Logan confessed that he swore he heard grandpa shoot at last light. We made our way for the thickest part of the swamp, scurrying for headlamps and flashlights.

By the time we reached Dadd’s Jeep, the adrenaline was flowing again. Hurriedly, we shed layers and started packing knives. Just as we crossed the ditch into the edge of the swamp, Tom sent out a text and called off the search team. I chose to ignore the order and sent in the hounds. For us, even navigating the marked trail in the dark proved difficult. We met grandpa at the first intersection near his stand. There he shared, as excited as we might be to track another buck, none of us wanted to spend a starry night turned around in the tag alders. I have hunted many seasons in that tax-forfeited property. I’m generally comfortable throughout the extent of our claim. The sincerity in my father’s voice confirmed what we learned on the way in. It was dark. It was easy to get turned around. My dad was confident in his shot. It would be a cold night. We agreed to pick up the trail in the morning.

Back at the ranch, the elder Kirby rehashed his lowlight standoff with the deer. Despite being unable to tell just how many points the buck was sprouting, my father was sure that he fatally struck him in the boiler room. While grandma fired up some supper, we passed the time checking the SD card from the trail camera. There were a few pictures of some decent bucks roaming by in the past week. We were elated to find pictures of Logan’s deer on the hoof from the prior Thursday. In the meantime, Logan ate half a loaf of buttered bread, dunked in Grandma’s canned venison stew and before long; we were ready to hit the sack. We would finalize the attack plan in the morning.

Day 2 we hit the woods knowing we already had one deer in hand and potentially another in the bush. Poppa Tom figured he would post for a bit and maybe by mid-morning, around 9:00, pick up the trail of the deer he shot at the evening before. What he could not know was how quickly things would turn from a good morning to a great morning.

Gone are the days of hearing a shot in the distance and playing the guessing game of direction and caliber. Gone, too, are the days of handheld radios turned on and tuned in only when shots are fired. No more waiting game to find out who shot what. Nowadays, a cell phone is just as much part of the gear list as toilet paper. Another buck came to play and 7:50 am I got a text from my old man –

“Different buck. Hit him hard! Should be close by - going to give it a minute.”

Could it possibly be that we had another deer in the hand? In just over twelve hours, Tom had confidently fired at two bucks. By way of text message, Logan was practically begging to go help grandpa. My dad held off the 6^th grade recovery team, stating that he didn’t want us to give up our hunt too early. By 8:12, barely 20 minutes after he shot, doubt was starting to creep in. The thick swamp compounded the fact that, like me, my dad is colorblind. He asked for more trackers. Via text I rallied the troops. We pulled out from the Demars Trail at 8:30 and were on our way to help when 8 minutes later, Dadd fired off a celebratory text. He found the buck from that morning and knew that he was looking at his biggest to date, maybe even bigger than Logan’s.

Yep, Big Boy Done.

The news made our walk in from the north seem like a stroll in the park. Logan, Todd and I openly visited, excited to see another mature deer down. We spotted my dad about 60 yards to the northwest of his stand, picking his way through waist high swamp grass. He told us that he had already found the buck from this morning and was now trying to relocate the faint traces of blood from the night before.  As soon as he pointed out a speck of blood on a single blade of grass, it was as if Todd and Logan were shot out of a cannon. The bloodhounds were on the trail. My dad and I became spectators as the boys picked apart the puzzle of a twelve-hour-old blood trail. If they were leashed, I couldn’t have held them back. The two colorblind fools stood by in awe as the trackers’ pace quickened. When I knew that contact was imminent, the Marine in me dispersed to the right to provide covering fire if needed. Todd and Logan continued nose to the ground. My father trailed, beaming with pride, watching his boys do the dirty work. I scanned the woods and was the first one to spot the distinct white belly of our third deer.

Big Boy Done.

This fork horn had traveled no more than fifty yards from the time the .270 flashed in his direction. He took his last Earthly breath just footsteps past where my dad decided to pull out and play it safe the night before. No matter, this was another big-bodied deer and marked one of the most successful opening weekends we’ve had in the Lost River. Hugs and high fives followed. Not to downplay our appreciation for the fallen deer, but we took no pictures. Choosing instead to get on to the business of bigger buck.

Poppa Tom directed us to the small tamarack tree that the buck was getting to know better when he met the business end of the left handed rifle. There was no blood in the immediate vicinity but having watched it smash through the underbrush, my dad had a general idea of its direction of travel. Again, the colorblind hunter was only able to spot a little blood and he took us to that spot. From there I paused the group. Knowing that my dad had already found the deer, I thought it was a great opportunity for Logan and Todd to practice. Again, the bloodhounds were on the trail. It seemed as if they had been working crime scenes like this together for years. In no time, they were high stepping it through the thickest part of the Lost River. My Dadd reached over and held me back. Within 10 yards of the downed deer, it was so thick that no one could see it. Confident that the sign pointed in the direction of tangled mess of low hanging branches, Todd and Logan ducked and entered.

What they found was a beautiful, mature, thick, 8-point buck. Logan rushed to hold it in his hands. Todd circled around to get a better view. My dad came along side, smiling from ear to ear. I took his weapon, leaned it against a clump of brush together with mine and then tackled him in to the tall grass and spongy peat moss. Todd joined in the dog pile. Logan wouldn’t pull himself from the antlers. For a long time, we all just sat there admiring the buck and enjoying this cozy little hidden opening in the bush. The final resting spot for my father’s biggest deer was barely big enough for the four of us to stand next to each other. For Happy Snappys, we took turns kneeling with my dad and his trophy.

Eventually, the extraction process would have to begin.

Logan helped his uncle and grandfather gut the big buck. Tom and Todd marched off to start on the day-old-deer while the Bear and I retrieved more machinery. Even with the Honda, it would be no small task. The roots and stumps, along with the tussocks, told a logging story of long ago. What was once Tamarack and Popple trees is now a quagmire of tangled tag alders and willow clumps. The flagged trail my father tried to maintain was barely wide enough for the four-wheeler. Logan steered the machine as best as he could while I peeled back and tipped over any nagging branches.

The pride in hard work helped ease the shooting pains in my leg. The pride in knowing we’d experienced a special harvest convinced us to keep working, one deer at a time. The forkhorn was loaded on to the rear rack and tied down as best as the rigor mortis would allow. Bit by bit, we took what the swamp would give us. The lashing held and eventually Logan, the deer and I were to the road where we dropped of the deer at the pickups and grabbed a Powerade, mindful to leave some to share with the Kirby men still in the woods. My brother and dad did their best to pull the big buck out in to a more manageable area, a place where the wheeler could get to it. Even with that little drag, they were worn out. The Powerade was a welcomed treat. At the start of our second extraction, Poppa Tom was already contemplating purchasing his own ATV. With a deer of this caliber, this was not something he imagined doing again without machinery of his own.

After nearly two hours of work on two separate deer, the venison caravan finally hit the gravel road facing a new problem. There wasn’t enough room in the pickup for the harvested deer and the 4 wheeler. Logan came up with a great solution and in minutes, he and I were gearing back up for a triumphant victory lap in to town on the ATV. After Logan put on his helmet, I enjoyed the ride on back while he jockeyed us all the way home. Todd drove my truck, loaded with our dad’s best 12 hours afield. And dad? I’m not sure how he got home… he may have just floated.

Back at civilization, we paused for more trophy shots. Logan’s deer was already skun out and hanging but we were able to take its skull and compare antlers with Poppa Tom’s side by side. With three shots, Logan and Dadd had put down three magnificent deer. Weeks later, it all still seems like the dream of a perfect hunt.

Big Boy Done.

"A few bricks shy of a load."

I haven't checked the moon phase lately but I'm most certain that we're still a ways off before the next full moon. Clearly something seismic or celestial has to be at play. Our students here at Jacobson Elementary are the barometer for their environment. When things are out of whack it resonates throughout the student body. With no full moon in sight, I can only write this off as another Freaky Friday.

Due to some data privacy issues and fear of litigation, let me just say that two separate incidents prior to 10 o'clock this morning involved a police officer and then an ambulance. Unrelated, the officer was here to assist the principal on a weapons possession issue, while the ambulance was responding to a medical emergency. I'm happy to report the young man with medical concerns was on his way to see the family doctor but not before he gave me a hug and walked out under his own power. The other fella won't be with us for a few days, as he can sit at home and think about the seriousness of what he did.

Even in all this excitement, these out of the ordinary instances aren't the best story of the day.

Our morning hallway routines prior to the first bell have recently been a focus point of the administration. Some kids have been reluctant to brave the cooling temperatures outside and have been opting to wander the hallways. The problem lies in that our supervision is outdoors. The causeways go relatively unsupervised. Kids are expected to drop off their backpacks and either head to the cafeteria or back outside to release their wiggles before starting the school day. Loitering isn't allowed.

So this morning as I weaved in and out of the knee-highs swimming through the hallway, I noticed a group of boys gathered around a backpack outside of my 4th grade colleague's door. Not paying much attention, I fired off a broad comment. Something of the likes of, "Hey Dudes, where are we supposed to be in the morning?" My presence and my question startled a few of them and their reactions peaked my interest in the contents of said backpack.

As the events of the morning unfolded, I honestly forgot about the harmless boy and his friends huddled around the hallway contraband. When I say "harmless boy", I would like to emphasize that the owner of this backpack is a simpleton at best. To say he is a few bricks shy of a load would give him some credit of actually owning a few bricks. This new boy is struggling daily to fit in. He's a crier, awkward and an interesting fella to just sit and watch sometimes.

Well, when the dust settled a bit from my weapons possession dilemma I remembered that I wanted to grab my co-worker and explore the contents of Simpleton's backpack. Leery to unzip and reach in to the world of a scatter-brained 9 year old, my partner and I pressed on. What we discovered, neither of us had anticipated.

A full sized bottle of Nexxus Conditioner. Like he took it right from the shelf in the shower or from Mom's beauty cabinet.

I was puzzled.

My co-worker connected the dots immediately and began to point and laugh.

"Kirby! Every since you and that wild hair cut of yours....all of the boys in my class want to be just like you. All they talk about is who puts what in their hair! Awwww, how sweet - he was lathering conditioner on his head because he wants to be like you!"

I'm flattered but I'd like to go on record as saying that this New Do is not achieved with a dollop of conditioner. I am a pomade man.