Years ago, my all time favorite teacher Agnes Brown read Marjorie Kinnan Rawling’s “The Yearling” a chapter each day to our sixth grade class. It took a while. (And, I suspect is was her way of getting us to calm down. Sixth grade kids are kinda restless.) When she got to the sad part, my memory says I put my head on the desk and silently cried. (I didn’t want the other kids to see my tears. Logger’s kids aren’t supposed to cry, you know.)
When I saw three yearlings curled up in the grass just outside the fence this morning (and to my mind looking a bit puzzled…and lost), thoughts of my embarrassing moment floated back. And I found it sad again, maybe because this is the time of year when aggressive bucks kick the yearlings out of the herd. Yesterday, the three youngsters were part of the small deer herd that browses the back of this small farm. I know because I counted the herd. Today they are on their own. Dang. Life is rough. Pure schmaltz, I know, but…
Rod
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