I grew up in rural Alabama in the small town of Northport.

I say town, but that may be stretching it.

It was 14 miles from my childhood home to the closest red light.

Tuscaloosa was a major city, and Northport was a stepchild.

In 1978, there was not a lot to do on rural Highway 69 North. The summers were hot,

but the fall brought on every young man's dream of hunting the big buck that ate all the peas during the last

growing season. My job at 12 was the defender of my grandmother's garden. I had a cart blanche on any

night to eliminate any deer we caught raiding the pea patch, regardless of what hunting season it was.

God helped the game warden who dared question my Pentecost to grandmother on her war, on deer, or any other four-legged creature who ate

which she sweated to grow. I became exceptional with a firearm, having spent a lot of time practicing at

200 and 300 yards.

With my rifle, my grandfather bought me for Christmas when I was eight.

I preferred a shotgun, though, due to the mass of undergrowth in the woods surrounding our land.

So in 1978, when the deer have ravaged my grandmother's peas so badly, she made it clear to me to put my skills to good use or face dire consequences.

Back then, I had none of the fancy stuff that you see now. I had no camo, no tree stand, no deer urine to bait them in.

It was just me and a pair of quiet sneakers, my rifle, and my best friend to help me. Together we weighed our options for where best

to funnel the deer in. We decided on a place about three miles from my grandparents' farm,

where we'd have the best chance to see them along a well-worn trail

that extended into the woods for at least eight miles it passed by a small pond that no one ever visited but us the woods were all pines along the roadside

but deeper in they transitioned back to oak and black gum.

My pine was cut periodically, but the hardwood has stood for 120 years or more.

Some of those trees are five feet at the base and well over a hundred feet tall.

...