The Tempering of a Man

During Deer season, the woods are a magical place for a ten year old. The quiet, peaceful world under the canopy of sleeping trees explodes with sensory input during the hunt. The untrained pedestrian misses so much as, they hurry through, thinking only of the destination. There are so many different sounds to sort. The rain gently pattering upon the dried brown leaves that refuse to depart the safety of the trees they have grown to become a part of, sets the foundation for the symphony of natural music that is the woods in the autumn. The sounds of leaves as the wind rips them from their tenacious grip make it difficult to distinguish between the soft footfall of our intended prey, and the leaves own soggy landing on the wooded floor.

More intoxicating than the sounds though are the smells. The sweet aroma of decaying flora mixing with the biting slightly acrid smell of the cold, create within me a repository of memories to be drawn upon for years to come. I believe the smell that affected me the most that morning was the smell of a distant fire burning in a fireplace. The aroma of the hardwood smoke as it wafted through the labyrinth of branches and twigs, telling to the trees the fate it’s cousin had come to. This smell brings to mind memories of the warmth that fireplace provided when we returned, empty-handed to the cottage like country store to renew our strength and resolve for the afternoon.

Jackson’s store holds many memories and lessons for me, though I was there only twice. The bustle of the women folk as the men came in cold and wet from our quest to provide fresh meat for the table, illustrated an age-old axiom of co-operation. The hunt was not just for sport to these people of the Ozark hills. The hunt put needed food in the freezer they would draw from for months to come. This was not just a man’s recreation, but also a family activity in which each party played a part. To some extent, my father and I were interlopers in this world, though we were welcomed as if we were family. We certainly could use the meat, and as dad, and his dad before him had been taught, we would not kill anything we did not intend to eat. Sustenance however, was not the primary goal for this pair of city dudes who depended upon the local Safeway and Kroger store for our food. Instead, dad and I were reliving the heritage passed down through many generations of Burnette men; through hardship, we were to provide.

I spend much time thinking of the things that made me the man I am today. Much of that time is spent on the strength gained from activities like hunting, and sports and the life lessons gained from them. They are an important part of making a man who he is. However, a far more important ingredient is necessary. Strength alone creates a brute. Strength mixed with great fear creates a tyrant. Strength without the tender influence of love is empty and without purpose. Strength tempered by love, optimism, and sensitivity produces a man.

My mother holds the key to who I am today. It was her love for us that caused her to look beyond her own hardships and see the adventure in all that we went though. Mom never dwelled on our failures and shortcomings, but instead extolled any piece of success. She has the innate ability to weave into the fabric of any failure the cloth of hope and success.

Some might look at the childhood we had and gasp at the hardships we faced. There was never much money around; many do not put a monetary value on what a pastor provides. We did without many of the luxuries other families had. Mom refused to let us dwell on that. In fact, I did not realize how poor we were until I was much older, and by then it did not seem that important. Mom more than made up for any temporal riches we did not posses. She could turn a breakfast picnic in the park into something far greater than a trip to Disneyland. Mom never sees the content of the glass, only the potential volume it will hold and then she pours herself into it until our lives would, and to this day still overflows.

The rites of passage were an important part of my childhood. They taught me how to become a man. I am forever grateful to dad for taking the time to build that strength in me. It is to my mom however that I owe the greatest debt of gratitude. She has tempered my strength with tenderness and optimism even during times when she herself had little to be optimistic about. I hope everyone has someone like my mom in their life, and like her is what I strive to be.

This is for you momma,

Enjoy your java

Jimmy