A deer hunter’s stand should be a sacred place — a peaceful fortress of solitude where a man, woman or child can go to sit peacefully surrounded by the sights and sounds of nature on a glorious fall afternoon. It should be a place free of all care, worry and disturbance.
But not my deer stand.
For beneath my stand, despite my best efforts to elude him and a few salty words my momma told me never to say, the family dog, who always follows me, sits barking and baying and alerting every whitetail deer in North America that Michael M. DeWitt, Jr. is hunting in this particular stand at this particular moment. I line him up in my cross hairs, but he is the wife’s favorite dog and the fear of the Mrs. is a powerful thing in my household.
Is that you up there, Mike?
I soon forget about Barkley (yes, that’s his name), for about a pinecone’s throw through the woods lives my neighbor’s donkey, Doc, who is worse than any watchdog. Doc waits until that perfect time of day when a deer is likely to step from the woods and into my little shooting zone and then commences to bellowing and hee-hawing and scaring off all signs of wildlife. Doc is full of sound and fury, but signifying nothing, really, except another evening of no deer for me. I begin Googling donkey-sausage recipes.
Is that you over there, Mike?
And then there are the neighbors: Cousin Wilson’s family. They’re my family as well and I love them, of course. They are also University of South Carolina Gamecocks fans.
To say that they are diehard-loyal, bleed-garnet-and-black fans would be an understatement. Every year, just prior to that little scrimmage with Clemson University, they burn a tiger in effigy in the backyard. Stray cats, especially ones of the orange persuasion, say that it’s not safe to travel down their dirt road at any time during November.
They have a pet rooster, Squeaky, that plays with the kids and by all reports is “spoiled rotten” like a favored child. He doesn’t live in the house, I hear, but comes inside on fall Saturday afternoons to cheer for the Gamecocks.
Even Doc the donkey is a Gamecocks fan.
My eight-year-old son and I were sitting in our stand again recently, sharing a quiet father-son afternoon, each reading a book while waiting on the deer that would never arrive. Barkley was safely incarcerated at home. It was roughly 30 minutes before kickoff of the USC vs. Georgia game when we started hearing loud, disturbing noises. At first, it sounded like adult voices crowing like chickens, getting louder and louder, echoing across the pines and the donkey pasture.
Gamecocks rule, Mike! Gamecocks rule!
“Daddy, what’s that noise?” the boy asked fearfully.
“That’s the Gamecocks fans next door. But don’t worry, I don’t think they’ll hurt us. We’re family.”
Nevertheless, the kid took his Clemson hat off and hid it. Then it sounded like the kids were crowing. Then a real, live rooster began crowing and Doc started bellowing.
“Daddy, what are they doing?”
“Son, I think I’ve heard of this before. It’s a pre-game ritual. That’s how the Gamecocks have been winning so much the past few years. Every Saturday around the state, USC fans go outside and start crowing for good luck. I’ll bet if you could see through the woods with your binoculars, they’re probably scratching and pecking at the ground, too.”
“Daddy, why don’t we Clemson fans do something like that? We could start roaring like tigers and get us some good luck before every game.”
“Because we’re too busy tailgating and bragging,” I confess.
Then, as kick-off time drew closer, it grew strangely quiet next door. But moments later the place erupted — the Gamecocks must have scored. I could hear excited adults yelling, kids screaming and feet stomping – I’ll bet even Squeaky was stomping his little yellow feet and doing “The Sandstorm.”
The sun slowly sank behind the trees and, with all the deer scared away (they must have been Clemson fans, too) the kid and I trudged back home in near darkness. He was nervous, looking over his shoulder.
“Daddy, are they burning another tiger over there?”
I looked. It was just a glowing Halloween Jack-o-lantern.
The Gamecocks must have scored again up in Columbia, because the roaring began anew.
“Daddy, it sounds like they’re having fun. Hey, is it okay if I become a Carolina fan?”
There must have been something contagious in the air, drifting over the pines toward our unprotected deer stand and infecting my son. I looked at my child sadly.
“You can be whatever you want to be son, just don’t tell your mother. It’ll break her heart.”
Squeaky and family roared again, and my kid started chanting, “USC! USC!”
I put my arm around him, slung my rifle over my shoulder and we walked on toward the fading sunset. I still loved him.
“It was a good hunt, son. But I’m sure going to miss having you on our team.”
Michael M. DeWitt, Jr. is an award-winning journalist, humorist and outdoor writer living in the South Carolina Lowcountry. DeWitt is the editor of The Hampton County Guardian and the author of two books, including Saying Grace Over Edible Underwear.
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