Our son John is a woodsman.
There is nothing he likes better than tromping around in the deep woods,
whether looking for antler sheds in the spring,
scoping out the big game
or foraging mushrooms in the summer,
hunting in the fall, or trapping in the winter.
He started bow hunting critters like ground squirrels and rabbits
when he was 10, and trapping when he was 12.
In our neck of the woods, there is plentiful game.
Beavers are a nuisance, chopping down apple trees in folks' yards.
Bobcats, like this nice one he got on the trap line today, are prolific,
and the hide will fetch a very nice price at the fur traders.
Last week, John discovered Pine Marten tracks
near a creek behind the home of some of our friends.
So, he made a set and sure enough,
caught this cute little weasel-like critter who very well may have been
the varmint feasting on our friend's chickens last fall.
As our culture progesses rampantly toward the Romanesque,
I am glad there are still a few places tucked away here and there
where life can still exist in a pure, old fashioned,
home grown (albeit redneck) manner.
This makes me ever so grateful that the Lord has seen fit to plant us
in just such a place,
where our boys can grow into men
much the same way their grandfathers and great grandfathers did.