Tomorrow morning is the first day of buck season. I don't hunt, but I have an important role to play. I whipped up a batch of cinnamon rolls, and they will be tucked into pockets of hunting jackets, along with baggies of cheese curds and salami and chocolate bars. I have the last of the turkey in the crockpot. I'm making a pot of turkey soup with wild rice for tomorrow, so that no matter when the weary and cold hunters return, they will have hot soup simmering, waiting to be ladled into a bowl, and served with homemade bread to dip.
Tim has never missed an opening day since he was 12, and I think that it is dear that forty years later, he will lay awake in the night, just as excited about all of this as he was when he was a kid. Dylan is staying home to hunt for the first time in 2 years, and Trevor is hunting for the first time in many years. The day has been spent getting the hunting clothing out and ready to go, spotting deer, and the retelling of hunting stories.
This is our family. These are our traditions. I think it's kind of cool.