All We've Got are Stories- Reportage Essay

All We’ve Got are Stories

            Fall is my favorite time of the year. The leaves are changing, the air is cooler and there is so much to look forward to! Everyone’s favorite holidays, Thanksgiving and Christmas, are upon us, and then finally the New Year is steadily approaching. But the season of fall is that time of year that I hold near and dear to my heart. Putting aside the beautiful colors, the inviting smell of butternut squash, and the coziness of a warm home there is, above all those things, whitetail deer hunting season.

            My dad and I always anxiously await the first of October, the first weekend that we can get out in the woods with our bows and anticipate that moment when the perfect deer will come close enough and present that perfect shot. This has been the one thing we always love to do together from the time I was six years old. At that age I was old enough to tag along with him while he set the tree stands in the best possible locations. Even then I admired his passion for then sport.

            Now that I’m in college and beginning to start my own life, two hours away from home, we both miss those days when we both could hang out in the woods together, scouting and hunting every weekend in October through December. Nowadays, when I can only come home a few weekends a month he puts special care in deciding what spots would be best for me to sit in so that I can see the most deer and hopefully have more chances to take one with my bow.

            On this particular weekend, November 8, I was able to take some time off from my job and school to come home and spend some time in the woods. If you’re a deer hunter you know that the second week in November is the best week to be in the woods. The rut is in full swing. Meaning the bucks are up and literally chasing the does in hot pursuit of what they all live for.

            There are three kinds of hunters in this world: tag fillers, meat hunters, and trophy hunters. My dad and I primarily fall under the trophy hunter category, although Dad started out as a meat hunter for sure. We don’t just go out there and shoot at anything with legs, but rather go after the mature deer in the herd that are four years old or older. You can immediately tell when you see a buck or a doe that is fully mature. The clearest way to tell is when a buck just has a massive set of antlers, but both mature bucks and does have defining characteristics that make them mature. They have sagging backs and larger bodies then the immature deer. They also have a sort of authoritative presence in the woods that makes your heart start to pound out of your chest and your legs shake like crazy. These are not always the animals with the best quality meat but they are the best to remove from the herd so that the younger animals can thrive and not fight till the death for territory.

            I am pretty excited about this hunt in particular. It’s a Sunday morning hunt in my favorite spot. This is my last hunt for the weekend because I have to go back to Indianapolis this afternoon. Getting up at 4:00 AM is a lot easier to do when you’re heading to the woods.

            The stand sits near the edge of a field with the rest of the wooded lot to the back. Behind the woods is a commercial hog farm. Dad works for a milling company and they provide feed to all the local hog and dairy farms. Dad has worked there for a number of years so he has gotten to know many of the farm owners. His company actually owns this particular pig farm and they gave us permission to hunt the section of woods they own.  Dad pulls up and parks in the lot associated with the pig farm and we get out and get our gear on as we have done a thousand and one times. “I’m feeling good about today,” I say with a grin.

“Yeah the wind is in our favor, right in our face, and it’s not nearly as cold as yesterday so we’ll be able to sit longer,” Dad replies. Having the wind in our favor is important so that the deer don’t smell us. Naturally, the deer come in from the field this time of year because the field isn’t chisel plowed and the leftover corn is still on the ground, free for the eating. With the wind in our face, it is blowing our scent back into the woods where the deer are less likely to venture.

 I go around to the back of Dad’s dusty suburban and take my bow out of its case. It’s a Mission Craze by Mathew’s decked out in Lost Camo AT, lightweight at only 3.6 pounds, and is only 28 inches axel to axel. It’s a perfect bow for women because it’s versatile, easily adjustable and even when shooting low poundage, it is fast and packs a punch. I take my release and put it in my front chest pocket for safe keeping. “Let me get the Chippewa and then we’ll head out,” Dad whispers. A Chippewa is a brand name for an extremely lightweight and portable tree stand. It has two forks that rest in a chain that is attached around the tree and then just simply folds out for you to sit in. That is the stand that Dad will be setting for me to sit in. We will be sitting together in the same tree but there is already a stand set for him. We start walking down the gravel road in silence both anticipating the fact that we will see deer tonight. We almost always see deer out of this stand.

            Finally, with the farm to our backs we enter the field. I look down as I’m walking because the freshly cut corn stalks lay crisscrossed making the dips and valleys of the plowed rows hard to see and feel. I can’t tell you how many times I thought I turned an ankle trying to walk across this stuff. When we reach the base of the tree Dad climbs up first. The ladder sticks reach about twenty feet up in the white oak tree. They are nothing more than squared metal poles, one running up and several shorter ones across for the steps. Ratchet straps hook on each five foot section or so and secure it to the tree. Dad starts up the tree first but disappears about halfway up because it is still super dark outside at 5:00 in the morning. Once he reaches the top, he sets my stand on the opposite side of his so I will face the field and he will face the woods that butt up against the farm. He starts to pull up his own bow and that’s my signal to head up. I attach my retractable bow string to one of the axels on my bow and make my way up. Once I get to the top I very carefully climb into my own stand.  Dad still grabs the back of my jacket like he did when I was six. If I actually did fall I really doubt that that would really be able to save me; it would probably only cause him to go down with me, but it adds a little extra security. It’s been said time and time again that the most hunting accidents happen while getting in and out of the tree stand. It’s dangerous I’ll admit, and you have to be cautious.

Despite the danger, there is a reason that people, like us, deer hunt. Hunters, like my dad (who loves the adrenaline rush of seeing that monster whitetail and getting that “television worthy” shot at a giant) consider hunting his living passion. Then there are hunters like me, who do it because it means something even more than that. Its memories. Like I always say to Dad after a disappointing day in the field “at least we’ve got a good story.” Of course these are by far not the only reasons we love this hobby and Dad treasures the memories we make just as much, if not more, than I do. It’s our thing that is never as much fun with anyone else. Hunting together is something that we’ve always done. We have our best conversations whispering in the tree. Our best memories are the classic “the ones that got away,” or the even more awesome stories of when we are successful.

            Once in my stand, I attach my safety harness to the tree so I know that I can’t fall out. I pull up my bow just like Dad did and hang it on a bow hanger that Dad has already screwed into a steady branch for me.

            I sit there just waiting for the sun to rise and poke through the branches. At 6:30 I can see all the way to a cow pasture where a ton of brown beef cows are grazing. We’ve got good shooting light now. I can see the gravel road and the edge of another patch of woods. I crane my neck to see even more of the road, thinking that the deer are going to cross it and come into the field. I keep my eyes peeled for any movements and my ears sharp for any cracking twigs.

            “Linz,” Dad nudges my side just slightly and I jump a little in surprise because it has been so quiet, “I see something there to your left.”

            “Ok” I whisper. I stare off to the left at the edge where the woods meets the field. My eyes start to dry out a little, so I blink a couple times. Then I see them. Two does’ heads appear into the field. The first one, clearly a nice one to take, starts walking down the line straight to our tree. Dad holds the range finder to his eye and whispers, “She’s about 35 yards… 33…32…”

            “OK,” I mumble. I have my bow in hand and release on the string. The doe stops and looks up right at me. She starts to get a little nervous but takes a few steps closer and turns broadside. Perfect.

            “30 yards.”

            “OK, I can do this.” My heart is racing as I draw my bow back as smoothly as I can but my knees buckle slightly from my nerves. I close my left eye and set the tip of the release in my anchor spot in corner of my mouth. I put my second sight that is ranged for 25 yards right behind the does’ shoulder and hold a little high to compensate. And then I let it fly. Thump. I hear the arrow hit, but I let my bow follow though just like you would do when shooting a basketball. I see the two deer bounding away with tails held high.

            “Nice shot Lindsey! I saw the arrow. It looked good.”

            “Sweet!” We do a victory fist bump and a little air punch. “Man that felt good. I hope it’s not too far forward.” That is my one weakness. I tend to put my arrows a little far forward and because I have to shoot a low poundage, I can’t always take shots that are too far away. Thirty yard shots are my limit. The after effects of the adenine rush kick in a little bit and my once stable body temperature feels like its dropping and I start to shiver.

            “We’ll sit here a while longer, it’s only 7:20, then we’ll get down and look for blood.”

            “Ok, good idea.” We sat there for another two hours and saw several other groups of does come across the road I had been so intently watching. None of the other does we saw came close enough for any kind of shot but that was fine because I had already filled my tag.

Off and on Dad and I would carry on a whispered conversation about how Mom could make lasagna with the meat from my deer and how I couldn’t wait to show off my mad bow skills to my roommates back at school. I also made the comment, “You know, I’ve never lost one before.”

            At around 9:30 we pack up our gear and get down from the tree. Almost immediately, we pick up the blood trail of my doe. We follow it back into the woods through the heart of the property, all the way to the fence border, where my bloodied arrow is laying helplessly on the brown and yellow leaves. Almost half of my arrow is smeared with the unmistakable evidence of a good shot.

            Hunting to me has never been about the kill or the trophy, but about the time I get to spend making memories with my dad that no one else can make. There has never been, and will never be, a dull moment in the woods. To me it makes no difference if I shoot a giant or not see even a single deer, and I remind myself of that every time we go out. I am looking forward to sharing this same kind of excitement and knowledge with my own children and keeping the traditions and values my dad has taught me alive. We will always have our stories.       

Burning Down- Memoir essay

Burning Down

            “Just one more lap and you can stop.” I think that was probably the fourth time I repeated that in my head during this set:  ten 100 yard free style laps on a one minute and thirty second interval.  This workout in particular was a challenging one, but I was in the zone.   That early November, it was the start of my second season on the swim team.   I was a sophomore in high school.   I was one of the top swimmers on the team and my race was the 100 yard butterfly.   I could swim it in one minute and eleven seconds.   I remember leaving that practice feeling like I had conquered the impossible. My biceps and upper back muscles were burning red from being pushed so hard, and I remember thinking “so this is what it feels like to be bullet proof.”   I felt invincible in that moment.   An incredible high was pumping through my veins.

            That night after practice my mom had made an awesome fall time dinner:  bowtie pasta topped with a thick red sauce and chunky sausages.  This meal contained the perfect amount of carbs to replenish what I had lost during practice.   Always during that time of year, it seemed, my hair and skin oozed that thick public pool chlorine smell. “Lindsey!” Mom said with a wrinkled nose and squinted blue eyes, “You smell…overly clean.”   “I took a shower.   I think most of it is just stuck in my hair,” I replied.   “I’ll pick up some of that special swimmers shampoo tomorrow, which will help,” Mom said sounding hopeful. 

            I remember, very specifically, that night working on my math homework that was due the following morning.   I found that particular lesson to be difficult and I sat at the counter top for a long while, trying to figure it out on my own.   My younger sister, Maribeth, jumped in to me to help a few times in between her own assignments.   Kara, my other younger sister, was sitting on our couch all cuddled up in fuzzy purple blanket, playing a video game on her pretty pink Game Boy DS.   At the time, she was only nine years old.   That night she was completely invested in the game she was playing.   My dad was sitting on the couch with her watching one of his favorite deer hunting shows talking about the new Matthew’s bow and arrow which had just been released for the year and how much lighter they were making them these days.   I’m sure my mom was cleaning up after dinner and doing laundry in the basement.    She later joined my dad on the couch.

            None of us were concerned about anything other than what we were doing at that current moment.   To me, finishing my homework was top priority and I couldn’t stop thinking about my time goals for the swim meet later on in the week.   My family and I said good night, Kara gave out her good night kisses, and we went our separate ways. My bedroom was in the basement, while everyone else was on the main floor, which was kind of nice except for the fact that I could hear them walking above me.

***

            My whole body jumped and my eyes jerked open. I had heard a loud crack, like a bullet had just been fired.   I lay still for a second, listening closely, trying to make sense of what had awaked me.   I heard footsteps stomping back and forth above my head, causing the light fixtures to rattle violently.   Faintly, I heard my mom, but I couldn’t make out her words.  She sounded panicked.   I rolled over towards the small window in my room. Everything was glowing orange. More loud, booming, cracks sent shutters down my spine.

            My first thought was, “someone is shooting at my family… what should I do?”   I grabbed my cell phone and dialed 911 without pressing send.   In a daze of having just woken up,   I wasn’t sure if I was just delusional or if this was really just a dream.   I got up and walked to the base of the stairs and crept up them as quietly as I could.   The whole time my mother was muttering something with straight fear in her voice.   The shots were still going off.   As I got closer to the top of the stair well, I could hear my sisters crying and the familiar beep of the home phone being dialed.   I reached the top of the stairs and peaked around the half open door.   I took a good look around as best I could, considering how dark it was, and decided it was safe to come out and find everyone.   I walked into the kitchen when Mom saw me. “Lindsey! The Veldman’s house is on fire!”   I had never heard this sort of tone in my mom’s voice before now. The way she sounded is one of the most vivid sounds I remember from that night.   It was pure terror.  Shaky.  Sort of like a vibrato in her voice.   Without hesitation, I followed her to the front porch.

            I couldn’t believe what I saw. Two doors down to the right of my house, in the middle of the cul-de-sac, was our neighbor’s two story home, engulfed in bright orange and red flames.

            I fell to my knees in awe while my sisters huddled together on the porch steps crying and praying for the family inside. My dad came running out of our house at that moment. “I called  9-1-1,   I’m going to make sure they got out!”   

“Dad!   No!   Don’t go over there!   Please don’t go inside!” I screamed.   My mom was behind him, but I stopped her short of our driveway.   She was crying and breathing heavy. “Mark! Don’t go!” she wailed. “Mom! Sit on the porch, it will be ok,” I said as calmly as I could.   Everyone was in a panic.   I just know that I wanted my family to stay in the comfort of our front yard.

            The fact of the matter was, we didn’t know if our neighbors had gotten out of their now collapsing home, which gave source to the gun shot noises I had been hearing.   They had four adopted children and Mrs. Veldman’s elderly mother living inside at the time.   My mom kept repeating “Those kids, Lord, please.  Those kids!”

            My feet were completely numb from the cold, dead grass in our front yard.   I was standing guard with my family behind me, just staring at the nearly vanquished building.   As the flames roared up towards the night sky, I looked up at the stars and saw none, probably because the flames were was so bright.

            There was a slight breeze from the east and long sheets of ash were falling from the sky like ripped tissue paper being thrown around.   The flames were growing and by now the entire house was engulfed.   The roof started to cave in.   I remember staring at the car in the drive way that was also ablaze.   I instantly erased my morbid thought that the empty seats resembled bodies sitting there enduring their irreversible fate.   My face and the top of my arms were turning red from the heat that was now so strong that it was even drying out my eyes. Our blacktop driveway felt hotter than it ever had, even in the dead of July at three in the afternoon. The house in between ours and the inferno was obviously closer and later we found out that the extreme heat melted the right side of their blue siding into a sagging piece of plastic.  

            I debated if I should go look for my dad.   It felt like he had been gone for a long time and I had lost sight of him a while ago.   I remember thinking, “Where is the fire department?  Why haven’t they gotten here yet?”   In our small town, firefighters are volunteers and our subdivision was way out there in between two corn fields, a good 10 minutes from town.

            I turned back towards my mom and sisters who were holding each other.   I joined the circle and we all prayed together for the Veldman’s safety.

            Finally, I heard sirens off in the distance.   I remember looking at my phone that I had tucked in the waist band of my pajama pants.   It was 1:26 a.m. when the first responder SUV showed up and then the fire trucks seconds after.   Only 30 minutes from when the fire first started, the whole house was too far gone to even try to put out.   The firefighters were getting out their hoses and trying their best to just contain the fire and not let it spread anymore.   You could see the look of defeat on their faces before they even had a chance to perform their brave work. 

            My dad came jogging towards our house.   With his back to the flames, his normal strong and heroic figure looked small and completely helpless. He stopped and talked to a fireman. He pointed toward the house to the left of the Veldman’s home and one of the men started jogging that way. “They all made it out safe!” he exclaimed.   “Oh, thank goodness,” my mom breathed a heavy sob-like sigh of relief.   As a family, we went inside our own home, so relieved that the family escaped, completely safe.   We all sat on the couch, in complete silence for a while, catching our breath.   Dad suddenly spoke and choked back a tear, “Eric didn’t even have his wallet.”   Eric, the father of the four adopted kids all under the age of 10, didn’t even have his wallet.   I thought about that for a minute.   Could you imagine losing all that you have, even something as simple and important as your wallet?   My eyes were definitely opened after observing such a horrific event. 

            In the days that followed the fire, of course, our tiny town was buzzing with gossip, but more importantly the entire community, it seemed, came together.   There were benefit dinners, clothing and toy drives, and hundreds of community members rallying around this family of 7 who didn’t have a single thing other than the pajamas they were wearing when they ran out of their house barefoot.   The kid’s schoolwork and back packs were all gone, along with all their pictures and even some important adoption documents went up with the house.   They were grateful, though, that they all were able to get to safety, except for their family dog, a golden retriever who was in the garage.   It was later discovered that the fire broke out in the garage and was possibly started by Eric’s work truck.

            The months that followed the fire were hard.  The wreckage (which was basically a huge hole in the ground that used to be a basement and some blacked two by fours that were more useless than a tooth pick) lay smothering and a constant heart breaking reminder of that night.  They eventually rebuilt on that same lot.  It was a refreshing sight to see.  Regardless, every time I think about the traumatic experience the Veldman family went though, it reminds me that those day-to-day issues that seem like a big deal in the moment don’t necessarily matter in the grand scheme of things.  What does matter is your family and that understanding that you are not invincible.  Life can change at any given moment.

           

           

            

Always Together, Forever Different- Portrait essay about my sister

Always Together, Forever Different   

            My sister and I are only 16 months apart in age. I was born in May of 1993. It was hardly a year later when Maribeth was born in September of 1994.  I honestly don’t see how my mom managed to watch the two of us all day by herself while my dad was at work. Imagine having two little blond haired blue eyed girls, both in dippers, one just barely walking, and the other still a brand new little baby.

            When we would go out to the grocery store or anywhere in public, my mom would dress us alike. Matching whiny the poo denim jumpers, Maribeth with the blue undershirt and me with the green. She must have thought it was adorable putting us in matching outfits, but complete strangers would always come up to us and say “Oh! How cute! Are you twins?” That always bugged me. After all, I am the oldest.

            When we were around the ages of three and four my dad was teaching me how to ride a bike. He loosed the bolts of my little blue and pink bike’s training wheels making it tilt one way or the other. The point was so that I could still ride bikes with my friends next door and learn how to balance it on two wheels all at the same time. Genius right? Well, after a while of that I was kind of getting the hang of this whole balancing on two wheels thing.

            On a sunny day that summer Dad took off the training wheels and I was going to learn how to ride that bike. He stood right behind me, holding the bottom of my seat, and then I started peddling with him holding on and jogging right beside me. I felt safe with him there so close, smelling like freshly cut grass and sweat. “Tell me when you’re ready for me to let go Linz,” He would say. My panicked, high pitched three year old voice, would say, “No! I’m not ready! I’m not ready!”

            Well, after a few times of him letting go when I wasn’t ready and falling on the concrete, we moved the lesson to the grass. It was harder to pedal through, but much softer to land in. I kept trying and kept trying.  It always took me a while to learn things. I would practice and practice for hours on end, no matter what the task was I wanted to accomplish. Maribeth on the other hand can pick up just about anything and be the best at it. It was no different when it came to riding a two wheel bike.

             Maribeth came running down the driveway, her face perfectly round, a thousand little freckles on her nose, towards my dad screaming “Lemme try! Lemme try!”  My bike was two sizes too big for her and her stubby little legs hardly reached the pedals but she started going with Dad holding on to the seat. She may not have been able to ride perfectly but she certainly got farther than I did. She had perfect balance. She could walk across a two by four piece of lumber without wavering a bit. I found myself asking the question, why does she have to do everything I do?  Even at a young age the competitive nature between the two of us was there.

            Middle school is an awkward stage in life for pretty much everybody. For me that was, without a doubt, true. It’s that time when you’re trying to make friends and figure out where you fit in. I was never a very outgoing person and rarely had more than two friends at a time. Maribeth was friends with everybody. She knew everybody and everybody knew her. She was a straight A plus student and all of the teachers adored her. I was terrible at math and would get beyond frustrated with my homework. After school Mom would have to sit down with me and check all my homework to make sure that it was done right. Not so with Maribeth. There were times when my mom would ask Maribeth questions about my homework! And she was never wrong. I would get so mad at her for being smarter than me. “I can’t believe you need help with that Lindsey. It’s so easy! Don’t you pay attention in class?”

“Yeah, I pay attention…”  I would reply.

            I resented her and her smarts. I was embarrassed by how good she was at everything and jealous of her good grades. She didn’t even have to try.

            Once I became a freshman in high school I had finally started to get out of my shell and I was getting better at school. I remember feeling so excited to start high school because none of the teachers or other students knew who my sister was. It would be a fresh start!

            One week of high school had passed and Maribeth came home with a note from her math teacher. It said something along the lines of Maribeth is way too smart to only be in Algebra 1 and I think it would be a good idea for her to skip a level a year early and enroll in geometry at the high school.  My translation… Maribeth is going to walk over to my school and take a higher level math class than I am taking and everyone will know that she is smarter than me and my life will be ruined. After all, I am older than her. I should be smarter right?  Of course know I realize I was being dramatic and irrational but that embarrassment and jealousy was back again.

            All throughout high school people, I didn’t even recognize, would wave at me in the hall way and people would stop by my locker and say “Hi Maribeth! How’s your day going?” I would reply in an annoyed tone, “Yeah…my name is Lindsey. I’m pretty sure you want to talk to my YOUNGER sister Maribeth.” I was tired of being mistaken for her. Sure, we looked kind of similar, but Maribeth was only 5’4 and I was 5’8. It’s true that our hair was almost always the same length and color, but her’s was much more curly, whereas mine laid flat.

             My high school wasn’t incredibility large. My graduating class was just under 200, so it wasn’t long before everyone at least recognized everyone else. But no one knew who I was, I was just Maribeth’s sister mistaken for Maribeth at least once a week.

            I got a part time job in town at Dairy Queen. It was my first job I obtained all on my own. Previously, I had worked at a pig farm that was owned by the company that my dad works for so he basically got the job for me. I loved working at Dairy Queen and I was good at it. Working there while going to school and being in the band and on the swim team kept me busy. It was a good break from all of that though and it paid for gas. I was there for a year and as soon as she could, Maribeth applied to work there too. So we worked there together. No big deal right? I kept telling myself that it wasn’t. But that competitive side crept back up and it was frustrating at times because she was just as good as I was, if not better. I was beginning to think that I was just going to be my younger sisiter’s shadow for the rest of my life.

            Maribeth was and still is involved in everything. In high school she played basketball for two years, softball all four, and she swam on the swim team with me my senior year. She was in a ton of clubs and even president of a few of them. She also played travel softball all year around. Now she goes to Grace College in Warsaw, Indiana where she plays college softball. It wasn’t that she was involved in all of these things; she was and still is good at them. She graduated third in her class, which doesn’t compare to my place at 78. My way of dealing with all of her success was to basically ignore her. When we did talk, all we did was argue about who was driving to school (even though it was my car) and every other petty argument that came up. “Lindsey! Lets’ go! I’m going to be late to first hour!”

“It’s too early Maribeth, We’ve got like ten minutes until we need to leave.”

“Fine, then I’m going to drive.”

“Oh no you’re not. It’s my car…” This was a typical weekday morning.

            It wasn’t until I went away to college that I finally got that fresh start and a better attitude towards my sister. I moved two hours away from my little home town in northern Indiana to the big city of Indianapolis. 

            Maribeth sent me a letter while I was away and it changed everything. Not once did I ever tell her directly that I was jealous of her or that I resented her for being better than me. I just kind of left well enough alone and we went our separate ways. In the letter she talked about how all that time she had looked up to me. Which was why she was always doing the same things I was. She said how much she misses me now that I’m not driving her to school and working at Dairy Queen. In a lot of ways being away has made us closer.