Growing Up Hurt and Humiliated. Part 2

This is my ongoing quest to relive some embarrassing stories, in the hopes that somehow, somewhere, someone will get a laugh or two out of them. A long time ago, when I was much younger, my family didn't have a lot of money. By some standards, you may say that we were kind of poor. Or just poor. I don't know if you can be kind of any rate, we didn't have money. We lived on a cattle farm in Greenwood, Mississippi. We shucked our own corn, and peeled our own peas...that sort of thing. We didn't slaughter our own cows, pigs or chickens, as those were all bought at the store. The one thing that was killed and eaten by us was deer.

OK, so here's the thing. I don't hunt. I'm fine with folks that do hunt. I don't necessarily agree with some of the measures, but if they're eating what they kill, I've got no beef with that (pun intended). Dad would go hunting, kill some deer, and we would eat some and freeze the rest. I knew this. I had never seen this happen, but I had a pretty good idea what went on. Dad would leave at four in the morning, and return in the afternoon, if he was with Buddy Fancher, then beers were most likely involved. What I didn't know was how you got from deer that's alive to deer that's for dinner. This was an early stage in my life, so the not knowing is rather excusable, as I concerned my life more with Scooby-Doo and coloring books.

One day after hunting, Dad called for me. I came out to see what he wanted. He said "I got a deer, I want you to see how I clean it." To a child that's four years old, what would that sound like to you? Does it sound like "I shot a deer, its dead in the bed of my truck, and we're about to string it up." Or does it sound more like "Believe it or not, we caught a deer, and it was dirty, so now we're giving it a bath." If you picked the second one, good. You and me at four years old are on the same page. I had some candy that I was munching on, and brought along a Cadbury Bunny Egg. You know those gross ass candies that look like yolk is in the middle...yeah those. Which now that I think about it, this story may explain my dislike of eggs.

I get in his truck, excited to see this deer, that mise well be my new pet. We drove right down the street, where dad's hunting pals were all standing around. I asked "Where's the deer?" Dad motioned his thumb towards the back of the truck "In the back" I jumped up on the seat so I could see. There was no deer that was anxious to see his new owner, much like a puppy would. No, it was more eyes rolled back in its head, with his tongue hanging out, and lots and lots of blood. I immediately regretted the decision to come but not wanting to be a little girl in front of dad's friends, opted to get out of the truck. Maybe they were going to still just clean the blood off the deer, and take pictures or something. Dad wrapped a rope around the hind legs, and they hoisted the deer up in the air. I unwrapped my Cadbury Bunny Egg, and took a bite. Dad took out his knife, and buried it into the deer's belly, and drug downwards. Guts came out. I threw up my Cadbury Bunny Egg. A lot. Like in Reagan The Exorcist movie a lot. Dad hung his head, and pointed towards the truck "Go get in the truck, son." I wiped the puke from my eyes, and then hit them in my hands. If that was the beginning of what cleaning a deer meant, I sure as shit didn't want to see the end.

We drove back to the house, and mom could see that I had gotten sick, asked what was wrong. Dad replied "Damned chocolate eggs."

Next time, I'll tell another story of quail hunting with my dad, and how I ended up nude in the freezing cold.


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