Note: This is the first post in an ongoing fictional series about the holidays and The Cavanaugh Family.
This happened back in 1894, although I remember it like it was yesterday. I was 6 years old and my family lived in a cabin in the north of Michigan. A few days before Thanksgiving, Pa set-out to hunt a turkey for our special dinner. He took his double-barreled Winchester down from it's place over the hearth, and I held the rifle as Pa bundled himself up with layers of flannel and fur. Ma wrapped a scarf around his face, all the way up to his eyeballs.
"Can I go with you Pa? I begged, "Please?"
"Next year boy. You're too young and it's too cold outside—you'll turn to ice."
I'm not sure if Pa knew it or not, but it was the same answer he gave me the year before.
The door to the cabin opened and Pa stepped outside, the howling wind and chill greeted him. I watched as he disappeared into the woods, surely to return with a huge tom that Ma would cook. The leftovers would feed us for a week.
A good thirty-minutes later we heard the echo of gunshots. First there was one, followed quickly by another. After a pause, two more shots rang out... and then another two. Ma had a concerned look on her face. Pa was a good shot, and no turkey needed to be fired on six times with him behind the stock.
Twenty minutes later Pa came out of the woods—empty handed. He opened the cabin door.
"Boy, come with me, and hitch up the horse with the flat-sled."
I knew it best not to ask why and really, I was just excited to finally be a part of something, whatever it was.
Ma's concerned look caught Pa in the doorway. He gave her a wink as he turned around, closing the door behind him.
I sat on the horse and hung onto Pa tightly, as the sled dragged behind us. We made our way through the woods and down the hill of the gorge into the clearing.
Then, there it was, laying motionless with buzzards already circling overhead.
"That's one huge turkey Pa."
"Ain't no turkey. That there is the biggest, meanest black bear this side of Mackinaw."
"Why'd ya kill it Pa?"
"Had to. He charged me. Son-of-bitch was rabid—he should've been hibernating."
"Are rabid bears good eatin' Pa?"
"Don't reckon so, lest you want to go mad."
We tied ropes around the bear and had the horse pull it onto the flat-sled. Pa and I rode back to the cabin in silence, our rabid, dead bear in tow.
Later that day, Pa went back into the woods and got himself a nice tom with one shot.
Thanksgiving came and we had a feast that couldn't be beat—turkey with fresh maple syrup is heaven sent. The evening was spent sitting around the fire, Pa cleaning his rifle, Ma knitting baby boots.
I sat on the floor, drawing on paper with charcoal. Underneath me was a huge bear rug... a bear rug that had a scowl on it's face that proved it was the biggest, meanest black bear this side of Mackinaw.
FiN.
