(Following is a chapter in my new book, “Fathers, Sons and Old Guns”. The book, containing
50 of the columns I have written over the years, is available from Amazon.com.)

I met the old fellow once way back in the woods as he ground his pick-up to a rattling halt and
stopped to chat when he noticed me walking along the woods road, shotgun over my shoulder on
my way home from hunting squirrels.

He told me he lived in Texas but that he owned a little piece of land back there in the woods and
that he had planned to dam up the little creek on his place and build a pond.

“I’ve got an old camping trailer I’m going to bring over here so I can have a quiet little place to
come on weekends,” the old man said.

The next year as I hunted these woods, I came across the little camper and an old dozer and it
was evident that the old guy was true to his word. Dirt had been pushed up along the creek and
the dam was indeed taking shape. Having found the site, I’d occasionally swing by the place at
the end of my hunting trips to check on the old gentleman’s progress.

Better hunting territory beckoned me elsewhere and I soon forgot the old man and his special
little spot back in the woods. It was not until some five years later that I recognized his name in
the obituary column. Even though I only saw him that one time, I was saddened by the news of
his death, regretting that I hadn’t gotten to know him better.

Awhile back, I returned to the old man’s woods to hunt when I remembered the camper and the
pond. Picking my way along the road, now choked with briars and brush, I stepped into a little
clearing at the base of the dam. Relieved that the earthen levee had withstood recent floods, I
threaded my way through the thicket that had grown up on the dam. My vision was obscured ty
the brush and I didn’t see the little trailer until I was almost on it.

I stopped and remembered – it had been at least five years ago that the old man had parked the
camper under the big beech across the dam. It was still there just has he had left it when he
returned to Texas for the last time, not knowing he’d never again sit under the beech in the cool
of the evening to drink in the wild sounds of an uncluttered forest a mile from civilization.

Peering through the window of the trailer, the scene I saw told a story in itself. Although spider
webs and dust had created a lacy veil over everything, I had the eerie feeling that the old man
had just stepped out back for a moment and would be coming down the trail at any minute. I
resisted the strange urge to knock and call out to him.

There was an open jar of mustard on the cabinet, spider webs clinging to a skillet on the stove, a
plate on the dining table. To the rear was a bed with a crumpled quilt let in disarray when he
crawled out for the last time one morning five years ago.

I walked away with the feeling of reverence; a sense of peace. The old man’s hideaway had
become as much a part of the wild woodlands as the silvery beech beneath which it sits in decay.

Sir, may you rest in peace….

Contact Glynn at glynnharris37@gmail.com.

---