Duck hunting at the lodge on Thanksgiving was a tradition. From the time when they were old enough to hold a gun, the tree boys would join their father for this annual event.

They were no longer boys now, and the father was now old enough that they expected each year to be his last.

He was near blind and barely able to walk in this most recent hunt. They warmed themselves by the stove, sipped whiskey, and reminisced about how things once were.

The youngest was the best shot. He retired first. He fell asleep almost as soon as he got on the bunk.

255 685t