Sandy and I had wonderful opportunities in December and January to watch our grandchildren, Brady and Chelsea.
I know what you are thinking. Here goes Sawyers with his grandkids again. I thought this was supposed to be an outdoor column.
Hey, give me a chance here. I’ll make the connection.
Brady turns 4 today, having come into the world at Cumberland’s Memorial Hospital. Chelsea, who I call Hoover because she finds every little mouth-bound piece of this and that as she crawls around the carpet, first saw the light of day in Garden City, Kan. She’s almost 10 months old. Now the kidlings live in LaFayette, Ind.
We think we teach our kids and grandkids, but in reality they teach us as well. For example, our oldest son, Jake, is 36, but we still call oranges Jo-Jos as he did in his early toddler years.
So, Brady is helping me make deer jerky and I discover from him, as he explains the process to Grammie, that he and Pappy put the sliced and marinated meat in the “deerhydrator,” which is actually a more appropriate name than dehydrator, because only venison has touched its racks.
Two Saturdays ago, B.J. (Brady James) and I spent some time in our woods picking up trash. I spotted a tree that had been visited by a buck and explained to Brady how the bark had been removed.
Back in the house, Brady, in a very animated fashion (he IS his father’s son), explained to Grammie that we found a tree where the daddy buck deer had put his head down and scrubbed off the bark.
Yep.
We had found a buck scrub and from now on they will be buck scrubs to me.
Brady likes to play the “marnica.” Some people call the instrument a harmonica. He’s not quite ready to pull it out of a dirty, red bandana and blow side while Bobby sings the blues, but from a grandfather’s view, there seems to be a continuity and feel to the breath-borne cacophony. I think his little Bojangles dance that accompanies the song is a nice touch.
Brady is really good at counting his “mumbers.” I discovered from him that the mumber that follows 29 is 20-10.
A highlight of their stay with us was when we put in-shell peanuts on the deck and watched as gray squirrels, separated from Brady and Hoover by two feet and a glass door, sat and ate them.
I tried to get Brady to sit still, but realized that he just couldn’t and that the squirrels didn’t care anyway.
The jerky turned out great. Brady ate a heaping amount, but Chelsea stuck with the baby formula and strained pears. It is great to introduce another generation to wildlife, whether that wildlife is a fat squirrel eating a peanut or a slice of venison that melts in your mouth.
After the peanuts were gone and all the bushytails had returned to oaks and hickories, Brady walked out onto the deck and picked up a tuft of gray hair. “Look, Grammie,” he said, “a squirrel feather.”
Contact Michael A. Sawyers at msawyers@times-news.com.
Michael A Sawyers - Outdoors
Buck scrubs, squirrel feathers
- Michael A Sawyers - Outdoors
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I want to start this column by assuring you that I don’t begrudge anybody a buck that is taken by legal means.
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