117 ~ I skin a deer
We're nearing the end of a string of Wisconsin deer hunting seasons, culminating where I live (in Iowa County) with an archery season until January 31. The woods have been generous thus far, and I have venison in the freezer, gift of a 10-point buck I shot with my rifle on a late afternoon before Thanksgiving. The deer died quickly, and for that I am grateful. Less than thirty seconds after the bullet struck, an interval when the buck was in shock and probably in no pain from it didn't know what hit it, it was lying dead and unmoving on the coppered oak leaves.
After some offerings of gratitude, I field dressed the deer and dragged it down through the darkening woods to the farmhouse, and put it to hang from a thick pine branch for the night. The next day I moved it to the shed, and after a few days hanging there, curing in the cool air, on a quiet morning I settled into the task of skinning and butchering, the next step to put venison on the table (the hunt is only a start). It is in this work that the story of the multitudes the buck will feed begins to unfold. This is reflected in the collection buckets I arranged around the buck before I start skinning:
one for suet - the buck's bright, white fat, which lies in a dense layer beneath the skin (as a layer of insulation); the suet will feed woodpeckers, titmice and chickadees at the bird feeders near the house;
one bucket for larger chunks of venison, to be portioned later into steaks, roasts and jerky;
one bucket for trim for sausages, for myself and as gifts to my friends and family;
a bucket of scraps for wild eagles, and hangers-on at the eagles' feast, such as crows and possums; after the butchering is finished, I'll add these 'eagle scraps' to the buck's trimmed skeleton and put them out for the local eagles (both resident bald eagles and wintering goldens).
finally, one bucket for scraps that might contain bullet fragments (I use only copper ammunition, it being less toxic than lead; but copper can have its own, albeit lesser, toxicity if ingested, and I keep it on the safe side for the eagles); I will bury these scraps in the vegetable garden, where they can feed nitrogen to the living soil, and thence the plants the soil will feed next summer, and the people those plants will feed.
As I work in the chill air, pulling off the hide, trimming the fat, and dissembling the flesh of the buck, the hens and one of the cats have gathered outside the open door of the shed. I toss morsels to them as I work, like candy to children along a parade route. The hens will eventually return their snacks of venison as eggs, and from the cat I get some leg rubs and purrs as I work (and, sated by venison, it might ignore the wild birds a bit).
The supplicants at this antlered altar, the beneficiaries of the buck's fated largesse, are many. And once the skin is tanned, I’ll make gifts for loved ones from the deerskin, and maybe a new offerings pouch, to hold the cornmeal and flint-drilled shell beads I use to thank the world for gifts received (such as this very buck). In this small way the buck will continue to feed the world.
Perhaps the buck's munificence can be a good reminder for us all, as we move into a New Year - that the fundamental question is not (despite our culture's obsession with it) how long we will live. Rather, who and what will we nourish while here, and what might our legacy feed after we're gone?
