By Jeff Moyer
I was standing in blackberry briers higher than my head, picking the berries and dropping them into my berry picking can when I started thinking about that old can. It’s nothing special, an old metal “Donald Duck Orange Juice” quart can from back when juice and such still came in a metal can and someone drilled a hole in it and added a belt hook. It belonged to my uncle Aubrey apparently and when he passed my dad picked it up. When he passed, Mom gave it to me. It’s just an old tin can with a hook to hang from my belt, but I’ve spent many pleasant hours filling that old can with wild raspberries and blackberries, sometimes while talking things over with my Creator and solving a lot of the world’s problems, or at least some of my own, and that old can means a lot to me. That started me to thinking about how we all seem to want to acquire “stuff”. I once read a quote that whoever dies with the most “stuff” wins. Not sure who wrote that or how it worked out for them but I doubt they were happy. Then I started thinking about my own “stuff” and the things that mean a lot to me.
I’ve got a few knives laying around. I have my dad’s old Kabar and still remember the day it introduced itself to me by cutting my thumb. It was a small cut but I was a kid and thought I was going to bleed to death. Today it rests quietly retired in my knife box. Another one that means a great deal was gifted to me by a dear old childhood friend when my mother was falling deeper into dimentia. He said he knew I had a lot on me and wanted to do something for me. I hope he knows just how much he did do for me with that kind act.
I’ve got several guns that mean a lot to me. Some belonged to my dad, some belonged to dear friends and loved ones who, while they either no longer have need of them or are no longer with us, are of the same cut, men that I respected, looked up to, and in some cases, loved. While none of these old guns are highly collectable or sought after or carry a large dollar value, they mean a great deal to me. When I carry one of those old guns into the woods or fields or it rides on the truck seat beside of me, while the previous owner might not actually be there in the flesh, sometimes I think if I glance around quickly enough, I might catch a faint glimpse of the previous owner nearby and hopefully he has a smile of approval of how I am using and taking care of “our” gun.
Recently I was given some fishing rods. The owner, a man who treated me like his own son and taught me so much about the outdoors and life in general, no longer had use for them as time and age have taken their toll so his son gave them to me. I’ve spent many a pleasant hour wading the river with that father and son duo and another fishing buddy or two on a hot summer day, wearing shorts, sneakers, and an old fishing vest, baiting up with live bait gathered from a nearby smaller stream and prospecting for smallmouth and rock bass. A little while back I took one of those rods to the river and while I wasn’t nearly as effective with it as the previous owner was, whenever a bass took my bait, I could almost feel him standing upstream beside of me, watching and smiling. What I wouldn’t give to spend another day on the river with that man.
As I write this prose, I look up and there is a picture I took many years ago of a beloved uncle no longer with us, standing in the fall woods, blaze orange vest and hat, with a favorite rifle in the crook of his arm, and a look of “hurry up and take it, we’ve got a deer drive to make”! To the right of that picture is a mounted set of deer antlers, a very nice 6 point, that uncle took in 1968. They hung in an outbuilding for years and when he passed, I had them professionally mounted. They would probably mean nothing to anyone outside of the family or who didn’t know the story behind them, but to me they’re priceless. Above that picture hangs Dad’s old flyrod, reminding me of the tales he used to tell. Nearby is his old box turkey call, also reminding me of him, days gone by, and the adventures I imagined him having in the woods when I was too young to tag along. On another wall is another set of antlers, huge, gnarled, and heavy. Another much loved uncle had them laying around in his grainery and one day gave them to me. Today, they hang in my house and hold great worth to me. Then there’s the picture of a hunting buddy and me on a rabbit hunt a few years back. I had two prints made, gave him one, and framed the other for myself. I hope his copy means as much to him as mine does to me.
Gold and silver have I little, but in simple treasures I am truly rich.
