November 14th can be loud

Loud with laughter, stories, exaggerations, boasts, shaggy dog stories, and bourbon philosophy. To about 750,000 Michigan citizens, November 14th brings more anticipation and excitement than December 24th. Perhaps an explanation is in order: opening day of the gun season for deer hunting in Michigan is November 15th.

On the 15th, schools see heightened absenteeism (among students and teachers!), auto companies, mills, small businesses – even churches if the date comes on a Sunday – see similar absenteeism. There used to be more than 1,000,000 licenses sold in the state annually, but the number has stemmed over the years as the popularity of hunting has declined due to a number of reasons. I offer no forum here to debate hunting – this post is about friends.

My neighbor (and lessee of 20 acres) tells me that the farm was active with dairy cows and pigs as late as the 1960s. The barn shown in the blog’s title photo was principally for the dairy operation with milking stations on the lowest level and hay storage above. Just to the left of the big barn in the photo is the old pig barn – resurrected as “the party barn.”

Called variably the Dawg House or the Honky-Tonk, the party barn is a collection of . . . of. . . well, it’s hard to describe without visuals (I promise a photo tour in subsequent posts). More importantly, the party barn is a gathering spot on November 14th for hunters and non-hunters to enjoy some of the previous year’s remaining game harvest, a libation or two, and the good fellowship of friends and laughter. The usual evening ends early (9ish) as most will arise before 5 am for the opening day’s hunt.

For years, one of the traditional stories told was from a tag-team effort by two bandits I’ve known for 25 years . . .and their friendship went decades longer. Jack and Gary were the definitive Mutt and Jeff for years . . . each had the other’s back and had both physical and emotional scars of many battles fought side-by-side.

The story that comes to mind (usually offered after one that involved a pool table, bar fight, or other geste) saw the two in a Northern Michigan bar during hunting season. As I recall, at the time of the story, the two were in their thirties and out for some drinks, laughs and, maybe, just maybe, a chance to meet a fetching lass.

And that fetching lass caught Jack’s eye early in the evening. She, whose name was never shared, was with a bevy of girlfriends enjoying the band at a dive some place north of M-68. While usually sufficiently cocky, Jack was unsure of his best approach – Gary sensed Jack’s unease.

“The best approach,” started Gary, Jack’s trusted wingman, “is to ask one of her less popular friends to dance first. Then she’ll see you as a good guy.”

Jack thought this was a good idea. So, he gallantly asked his angelic idée fixe’s friend to dance. She accepted and Jack escorted her to the dance floor.

Shortly into the second refrain, Jack looked to his left and saw Gary dancing with his angel.

While this may not evoke the same roar as its retelling annually caused in the party barn, hearing the story was one of the traditions that told us things were alright and that we’d continue to laugh together for years to come.

Tonight I learned of Gary’s passing.

While this loss is sad, this post is not. The laughter from Gary and other friends will echo for years across Blackdog Bog. . .