How many times had she rescued it? She'd lost count. It seemed that every year since she'd gotten it, it had dwindled down to nothing and she'd had to give it a serious haircut to get it going again. It would, almost overnight, grow lush and full only to start dwindling and drooping again with no warning. How often she had looked at it, remembering, or drawing comfort from its upright eager vines that never seemed to quit. Poor Charlie, she thought. How many more times can I hack away at you like this and expect you to live? He seemed to bring back his memories in full color HD detail in my mind. A lot of those stories are fleeting at best, I am sure he added in his own little exaggerated touches but back then it didn't matter. That is what Deer Camp stories did for me in D&DH magazine in the off season too. My Dad used to call my grandfather a bullshitter and never fully understood that till after growing up and experiencing life for myself. I think this life needs bullshitters to carry on that tradition of deer hunting we have all come to love.

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