He was going hunting. He said it was to prove himself smarter, or at least more clever, than a wild animal in the forest. Why this comparison had to be made, and why the answer to the question of smarter was not instead who might be dumber, and why it could be dealt with only by killing I did not ask. I doubt, however, the challenge had been issued by the animals or that they felt their integrity was at stake in quite the same way. This year he did not tell me his hunting them was helpful to the animals, that they were better for being fewer, an argument less likely to prove his point about being so much smarter than a deer.
Well, he is back and like last year he did not see any of his rivals, only other potential outwitters of animals. I guess he will have to go to the supermarket and buy supper from someone who apparently outwitted a cow.
My father was a writer. He wrote all of his life, inflicting upon many of us his novels, plays, articles, essays, and self-help books. Some were marvelous; some merely well-intentioned. But of all the things he wrote, his journal is his legacy: by turns wise and bewildering, it neared 1,100 type-written pages when he died in 2010. Although perused many times, this is the first time it will be read - cover to cover, page after page.
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