Hunting memories with my dad started to be all I had the last couple of his years. He worked as miner his whole life, one of a gang who smoked like chimneys and drank like fish. Both those things took that giant man and crushed him to where he couldn't walk because of bad hips, couldn’t breathe because of no wind, and had no desire to leave the bottle. It frustrated both me and him. At times I got mad at him and would let him know it. He would get mad, too, and I understand more now, he was living with the memory of that giant man, also. Even though he didn't leave the porch of the farm for hunting season the last three years, he still helped me figure out the farm. After I’d been out hunting for a couple of hours, I would get a call on my phone to make sure I was still alive and to get a report about what I was seeing. Then he would tell me about which neighboring farmers were coming down for lunch or had just left. I would tell him to finish up with his gossip because I didn’t want to be on the phone while hunting. Boy, oh boy, do I miss those calls now that I can’t get them any longer.