The Time Capsule | Roy Marshall
With the approach of Christmas, I called my brother to talk about a memorable holiday dinner from long ago. It featured roast haunch of venison. The guest of honor, though, was not actually venison and the event ended badly.
Dad had a disdain for sheep, as did many of our farming relatives. Cows were noble. Cows had names. Spot and Speck were twin Holsteins that lived in comfort even in their declining years. A red Shorthorn was named after Ruby, a favorite cousin. Sob (an acronym) was a Brown Swiss cross with a personality disorder and a wicked right hoof that put dents in the bucket and bruises on the boy. She was always forgiven. The fault was probably mine. Even grunting, mud-covered old sows generated sentiment. But dad’s flighty, look-at-me-and-I’ll-die ewes were in another category. They didn’t have printable names, were tolerated only because they ate weeds and helped pay the mortgage.
By December their spring lambs were gone, fattened and shipped east, there to be consumed by foreigners who ate strange things.
I was sixteen and trying to be the first in our family to bring home a deer. I could hunt but had to return well before darkness to help with chores, which meant leaving the stand too early. I hadn’t seen one and the season was all but over.
On a late afternoon in mid-December I found dad trying to corral a limping ewe. She’d broken a front leg. I assumed we’d shoot her and call a rendering truck. Dad, one of eight kids, had been a child during the Depression. Waste was sinful. I was the oldest of six and we ate a lot. Dad had a plan. Before year’s end we’d butcher a hog; a big one as mom wanted lard. We’d bone the ewe, add her to the sausage, no one would know. A sister came to tell us supper was ready, saw the skinned carcass hanging from a singletree, dashed to the house telling all that I’d gotten a deer.
Dad’s reaction was nimble. Next year’s sausage, he said, would be special as we’d include that tasty venison. This would have worked had it not been for Robin Hood. Little brother was reading the book to a younger sister. They were brimming with the merry men and hearty maids of Sherwood Forest, a jolly band that delighted in feasting on haunches of the King’s venison. In the young minds of my siblings the most savory dish in the world must be roasted leg of deer.
Word of my feat spread. I tried to be modest, but people wanted to know and I was the only one who could tell them. One-hundred-fifty yards. Dead run. Head shot.
Mom and her mother talked. Putting a choice leg of venison in the sausage was like grinding prime rib into hamburger. How many people could be served with the haunch of a fine deer? But wait; we have two.
Dad’s head was burrowed into the flank of a cow, steam rising from a foaming bucket, when he said we’d created a monster. The “we” part caught my attention. A few feet away hung the frozen carcass, a grim reminder that the day of reckoning approached.
Mom came to the barn and looked, slapped her palm against the rump, estimated each back leg would feed fifteen, easy. The area teemed with Marshalls, but not that many. No reason not to invite the Hulsebus clan as well. There were good neighbors and grandparents were always included.
One of those grandparents was Pete, a cynical old bird tempered by decades of horse trading and nasty brown wads of Union Standard.
He came dressed in his Sunday best, tie tucked into his shirt. Don’t smell right, he said. Dad asked that we join hands for prayer. The meal started well. Most took seconds. The entrée was better than I expected, although the gravy had an odd aftertaste. Pete noted that a deer shouldn’t have so much fat. He trimmed a glob, picked at it, held it up, said the taste reminded him of mutton. “I ate mutton once. Threw up for a week.” The room grew silent. Eyes turned to dad. Dad looked at me. Pete bolted for the door. I followed.
There’s nothing to compare with being 16 and owning a six-cylinder Chevy that hit on at least five. I took a long drive. One-hundred fifty yards is a helluva a shot and pop could handle the mutton thing any way he wanted.
Roy Marshall is a local historian and columnist for the Red Oak Express. He can be contacted at news@redoakexpress.com.