on the day that Dennis Brown's lung collapsed.

During the winter of 1906, at the tender age of 10, I had my first encounter with death. It was early in the month February when my father, Elias Brown, decided to take his youngest son, Alexander Brown (me), hunting in the dense brush that surrounded our humble acreage. During the summers, this forest wonderland was my refuge from the monotony of chores, but during winter this forest was the kind of place that only adults trekked into. It was a invisible foe, with red eyes hiding behind every tree. It would whisper nonsensical words that would send cold wind through the branches of the high pine trees. It was a fortress that I was far too young to conquer, so I tended to steer clear of it. But since my father seemed so keen on killing ourselves one of the large elk that had become inhabited in that frightening forest, I obeyed my father’s command, and I accepted the fact that I had to overcome my fear of this beast.

Since we lived outside of any sort of metropolis, Father and I loaded up our buggy, and took the horses into town, to get some hunting supplies from the general store. A bell dinged as my father pushed open the wooden door to the store, and it was met with a jovial, “hello!”, which came courtesy of Dennis Brown, the shopkeeper. While my father and Mr. Brown made small talk, I slowly examined the goods Mr. Brown had just received. I always hoped I could find some sort of toy that would keep me occupied during the cold winter months, and since the family rarely made trips into town, I wanted to make sure I examined each item with a very critical eye. That’s when I saw it, the perfect item to kill my adolescent boredom: a wooden train. I slowly moved my hand across this miniature gift from God. I ran to my father with it, begging that he purchase it for me. “Now Alexander”, my father started (as he normally did), “you know that your mother and I are watching our purchases.” I never understood what that meant, but I always knew that nothing good ever came out of that phrase. “I also have to buy all these hunting supplies, which is going to load up to quite a pretty penny!” I slowly nodded my head and turned to put that glorious piece of wood back to its resting place. “But,” my father started, “I suppose we can make an exception, just this once.” I turned and ran into my father’s arms, the glee written all over my face. “So with that there train,” Mr. Brown started “yer total comes to two dollars and fifteen cents.” My father paid the man, shook his hand and bid him farewell. “Good luck with them elk!” He yelled as we exited his store.

Once the initial excitement of my new toy wore off, I began to remember the reason we went into town in the first place: the hunting trip. I began to conjure up more imaginations about the forest, and the different sorts of diabolical creatures that were waiting for me. Once my father and I got home we packed up our hunting supplies, a small lunch and laid out our warm clothes for the next morning. At dinner, my mother, Jayne Brown, nagged my father about his “unnecessary purchase”, and how they were “watching their purchases.” (That phrase again!). My father leaned back in his chair and smiled at me as if to say, “don’t mind her, son.” I could tell there, that he really loved me. My brothers, on the other hand, scolded me for being so lucky, and tried to scare me by telling me elaborate tales about how friends of theirs had disappeared in that forest, and how I was next. To their dismay, I stood tall and told them that I wasn’t scared of a thing! It was quite a performance; I was more scared than ever. That night I barely slept.

In the morning, after a breakfast of porridge and hot cider, my father and I ventured into that great abyss. I stayed close to him as we trudged through the wet snow, Father on the look out for elk, and I on the look out for monsters. We were a good team. All of the sudden, there was a great bustling in some of the trees to the north of us. Father quickly took a knee, and began to load his gun. I knelt closely behind him, and whispered, “what is it Pa? What’s out there?” He told me, “must be some elk. I’ll fire at the first one that comes out. Stand back, son.” I took a few steps back, then returned to one knee. After about a minute of silence, a large beast slowly moved out from the bushes. The next thing I remember is the loud “pop!” of my father’s gun. The beast fell to the ground with a large “thud”, and I ran up to my father in excitement. “You got it!” I cheered. My father dropped his gun, and picked me up in his arms, and told me “We got it, son!” We walked up to the large elk, and surveyed the damage: my father had pierced it right in the neck, and it would have died right as it hit the Earth. I had a lot of thoughts running through my mind as I watched the dead animal, in fact, more thoughts than a ten year old should be thinking. I realized that some day my father would die, and some day I would too. This had been the first time that death had become real to me. My father told me that even though this elk had died, that it would still serve a purpose in it’s death: its meat would keep our family, as well as our neighbors, fed for at least a few weeks. I wondered if after my death, I would still serve a purpose, just as this elk did.

The sun had already set as my father and I headed home, tired from a long day of walking in the cold. The lightless forest seemed de-mystified as we returned home. No longer did I see an impenetrable fortress; rather, I saw a dense forest, thick with life. The rest of the family was asleep as we returned, so my father and I quietly went to our beds, each of us going over our day. I fell asleep with a dream of my future dancing in my mind, of how someday I might take my son out to hunt for elk, and how it might change his perspective on some things in his life, even at a young age.