Deer in rut - memory of my father

I basically like all seasons. Under certain conditions. Autumn, for example, is beautifully colorful. It smells of fallen fruit, mown fields, and freshly tilled earth. The air just smells different at that time. Especially when the morning mists begin, the harbinger of ground frosts.

That's what I love most. The mist-shrouded sunrise. With warm tea in hand, wrapped in a warm sweater, I watch this magical moment from the kitchen window. I can totally feel the dampness as the sun tries to break through the misty haze that lazily rolls across the field in long, drawn-out veils. It's so beautifully soft and raw at the same time that it makes me not want to drag my heels out of the house.

But I have to. The chickens and ducks are clamoring for their rations by about seven o'clock. And so I'm eyeing the splendor, breaking the rolls and mixing them with the crushed bones and leftovers from dinner. Meanwhile, I sip the hot tea, hoping it will warm me up when the time comes when I really have to go there.

I've got my "fur coat is good as new", which is a techno-speak for my work and hoodie outfit, ready in case it gets cold. I can walk barefoot in wet grass in it. A morning ritual, that not only tries to wake up the last cell in my body but also reboots the "software" of my brain, which otherwise wakes up only around 10 o'clock. I'll probably never be a lark, even though I physically wake up around five.

By September, most of the vegetables and fruits I grow are already canned, frozen, or eaten. The mushroom harvest begins and I mentally prepare myself for crates full of nuts, drying crucifers, grating apples for strudels, cleaning the garden, and other pious activities that will please many a sweet tooth.

This year, however, everything is different. What it could, it froze in the spring, so this year I'm just going to pull the tarps off the beds, burn what needs to be burned, and let our little critters in to take care of the rest of the seeds and weeds.

Autumn is a time for me to remember my dad. I don't even know why. Maybe with all the grating, shelling, and drying, it's simply nice to reminisce. The stove crackles pleasantly, the cats snuggle around me, and purr monotonously, and thoughts flow spontaneously.

Dad was a Boy Scout, as they say, in body and soul. He came from a small village in the middle of the fields and forests of Brda. We used to go on various "adventurous" expeditions together, even if it was only a few meters from the cottage. As a child, I used to eat him up with a winch. A few turns and I felt we were miles away.

One time, he took my cousin and me on a nighttime adventure. Deer in rut. It wasn't the best idea. I was about fourteen years old, and poor Dad had no idea that he'd hit on his idea just as my body was making sure I was actually a woman. Well. And I didn't know that fact was pretty crucial to a deer in heat.

We set out just after dark. It was quiet everywhere, just the rustling of spears in the leaves in the distance. We ducked into the brush, stacked side by side like caterpillars, and waited. It wasn't long before he came. He looked monumental like that from below. He stopped about five meters in front of us and gave a long honk. All three of us instinctively squeezed into the safety of the branches. He wouldn't have cut the blood in us. I don't know about the others, but my heart was in my throat.

He stood there majestically. Motionless. Just sucking in the cool air through his nostrils. Exhaling, a cloud of steam reflected in the moonlight. It lasted for several endless seconds. Then he turned and walked with slow, dignified steps into the shadows of the forest. He was in no hurry. And it was wonderful.

We lay there fascinated for a while longer. And the sheer enormity of the experience made me want to pee, in a totally mundane way. I whispered it to my dad. His reaction was logical. There are lots of trees and bushes everywhere.
"Well, go over there. We won't look."

I quietly hinted to him that I needed certain props that I had somehow forgotten at home. At that moment, Dad almost tried to have a heart attack. He hadn't counted on this option at all when planning the trip. It was only now that it dawned on him what could have happened if the wind had gone the other way. Many critical and even more critical scenarios were popping into his head. Probably including what his mother would say to him if something happened.

We never went out to see the deer in a rut again, but the memory is still as vivid in my mind. Including that wonderful smell of pine needles and melting leaves that just belongs with autumn. And the chill I felt on the dewy ground. And the root that was pushing my knee the whole time. Only today it is complemented by the love I felt and still feel for my dad.

I miss you, Dad.