Confession: I wasn't always proud of my family's hunting heritage. Growing up in the age of Bambi made it seem a little weird. I did try it once, at the age of ten. My dad gave me a bow and an arrow and put me up in a tree by the pond. "When you get so hungry you can't stand it, go back to the house," he said. I think I lasted about an hour. I had visions of myself yoking a deer over my shoulders and hauling it back to the house, but I didn't see a thing.
I didn't appreciate the whole camoflauge look at first. I sinned against my brother by hiding all of his hunting clothes when I was in charge of the laundry. He has forgiven me.
But I've come very far. The other day at work when questioned about what I was eating for lunch, I proudly said, as loud as I could: "This is a deer that my brother killed and my mom packed onto a plane from Michigan!"
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