I guess it's just part of growing up

Last night, Friday Night, we didn't go to the farm. We're not squirrel hunting. We're not deer hunting. We're not painting the sheds. We're not driving to Mount Olivet for dead fried chicken.

Friday night Moose wanted to stay in town and go to his high school football game. He's got a new girlfriend in the color guard. I met her. She caught me scoping her out with the binos during halftime and smiled at me. Angus, 9, went along too. He and Moose spent most of the evening hanging down in the student section. I was back with the old farts, mid-way upin the stands at the 50 yard line actually watching the game. It was a great game. We won on back to back touchdowns and a safety in the 4th quarter.

We didn't go squirrel hunting this morning either. I got up early to get Angus' regimental pin on his cap. Thursday night, as band practice was ending, the pipe major said "See you on Saturday!" Just like that. That was what amounted to his official invite to play his first gig with the Cincinnati Caledonian Pipe and Drum as soon to be it's youngest member ever. He's still sleeping but in a wee bit we're off to Sawyer Point, downtown for him to play the Celtic Festival.

I should be happy for both of them. I am. The girlfriend is cute and bright and so much better than anything I was able to cull from the back of the herd in my day. Moose, has this chicky right where she wants him. Angus is fulfilling a dream he's had since age 3. It's just that I can see now why hunting with your sons is such a precious, fleeting thing. The girlfriend is fighting her urges, trying to become a vegetarian-- you can see where Moose and Dad's exploits with the meat grinder are going. Angus is already talking about which colleges have the best bagpipe scholarships.

This Friday was the sixth anniversary of setting up shop at the farm. We took possession the Friday night after 9/11. At the time, we didn't know if this was going to be the family hunting camp or the family bunker. I spent the evening chasing out the poachers, and went scouting for deer the next morning alone. The wee ones were too wee yet. Last year, we celebrated with a happy hour of potted meat and saltines and watched the deer with binos as the sun went down. Moose missed the same squirrel 3 times on that Saturday. When deer season finished two months later with two doe and a buck in the freezer, it seemed like the party would never end and the road really would go on forever.

Oh well.