So, Tate has been going to Hunter Safety Class.
Yes, I come from a hunting family. You know, grazing at the top of the food chain, and all that. Where vegetarian is slang for village idiot who can't hunt or fish.
He's a little excited.
Okay, a lot excited. He's in heaven. It's chock full of things he loves. Grampa - his hunting partner. Fire-arms. Animals. Shooting. And stories. Because all hunters have stories.
And who knew the class would be so funny? (Okay, it's not all funny. Much of it is appropriately serious, so don't get your shorts in a knot.) Tate absolutely eats it up. He listens intently. He volunteers for anything they ask. And he can't wait to get home each night and tell his brothers what he heard.
About the runaway (dead) deer careening down a steep slope on a homemade cart and dropping off a bluff onto a road right in front of a truck.
Or the guy who got lost with a rhino. (Oops. Not a rhino, a Rino.)
Or the infamous victory breakfast at Three Fingered Jacks.
He's got a lot to look forward to this fall.
And he has a test to pass to get hs license, so feel free to pray that his eagerness doesn't get him too jittery to show what he knows. (In other words, that he'll slow down enough to think about what he's being asked.)