Bear Grease - Ep. 326: This Country Life - Letting Go

Episode Date: May 23, 2025

It's graduation time and Brent's talking about the struggles we all go through during this period of life. Students may have a different perspective on things than their parents, and some youngsters are more prepared for the world than others. Brent shares a profound coming of age tale from a listener and talks about his experiences both as a student, parent, and observer that gives him hope for us all. Subscribe to the MeatEater Podcast Network on YouTube Connect with Brent and MeatEater MeatEater on Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, Youtube, and Youtube Clips MeatEater Podcast Network on YouTube Shop This Country Life Merch Shop Bear Grease MerchSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

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Welcome to this country life. I'm your host, Brent Reeves. From coon hunting to trot lining and just general country living, I want you to stay a while as I share my experiences and life lessons. This country life is presented by Case Nives on Meat Eaters Podcast Network, bringing you the best outdoor podcasts the Airways have to offer. All right, friends, grab a chair or drop that tailgate. I've got some stories to share.

Let him go. Life lessons arrive in various vessels. During our natural maturation and understanding of the world around us, we advance in knowledge of the things in our environments incrementally, a little bit at a time, allowing us to see and experience the real world in advancing degrees of complexity. It's how we learn the good in the world and the harsh realities of the same space. This first story is a prime example of what can happen

when you least expect it. It's a discussion as mentors a responsibility to make our young ones. No parents can't prepare them for everything. And when they're out of our reach, they have to be prepared for anything. It's a little heavy, but I think it's important. And we'll finish up with a celebration. But before we do, I'm going to tell you this story. This one comes from Ken Nisley.

Ken's from New Holland, Pennsylvania. And he shared the following story. I think it says a lot on many different levels, but I'm going to let you decide for yourself what it all says without any bias from me to begin with. So in Ken's words in my voice, here we go. Sometimes in life it feels like the good Lord has a way of shining down on you. Or maybe it's just plain luck that comes your way when you least expected.

I was the oldest child in a family where my father didn't hunt, and that was a heavy burden to bear. Often thought it was one of the most unfair things life had dealt me. While my friends boasted about the fathers taking them hunting and flaunting their trophies with deer hanging proudly from the meat poles, I was left to stew and jealousy. Growing up on a chicken farm, my days were filled with gathering eggs and feeding the animals and from what seemed like from dawn till dusk. I longed for the thrill of the hunt, the chance to roam the woods and discover the wild.

Life didn't seem fair, not one little bit. And as a boy of 14 or 15, I felt that burning desire to learn the ways of hunting, to step into that world that seemed so tantalizingly out of reach. I had my father's old 22, was made in 1906 to keep the squirrels and the blue jays away from becon trees, but I yearned for something more. The answer came from my cousin Ernie,

a farm boy like me. A few years older were similar daily responsibilities. But Ernie had found a way to slip away from the farm into those magical woods, chasing after Whitetail. Before long, he gathered us cousins with fathers who didn't hunt and began teaching us the ropes. He showed us our first rubs

and how to spot the markings on saplings. Ernie taught us about scrapes and trails and tracks and how to decipher the dropings and how to watch the wind to figure out where that buck might cross our path. We put in the time scouting and rose early to drive to our hunting spots, but success didn't come as easily as I'd hope. For Ernie, it seemed very easy. He bagged a tent corner on opening day, and my heart burned with a fierce desire to follow in his footsteps.

I had to get my first deer. But it felt like such a distant dream. One day, Ernie shared the news that he got permission to hunt a farm, 45 minutes away, a place that held the promise of adventure. So early, one Saturday morning, Ernie, our cousin Butch, and I set off the air crisp with anticipation. Ernie guided me off the dirt lane, his flashlight dancing among the trees. He told me to find a tree and climb up.

I felt the thrill of excitement as I hoisted that Baker-style tree stand up the trunk, hugging that tree tightly as I climbed higher and higher until I found my perch. Sounds effortless, but it wasn't. You had to shut your brain off what was happening to your chest as you did your aerobics in that tree, climbing up higher and higher, and it was normal back then for me to have a bruised and scraped up chest during hunting season. Once I got settled, I pulled my Remington 870 up with me. I loaded it, and I sat and silenced, watching the world awaken around me. Time seemed to stretch as I watched squirrels, and then a doe stepped into view.

My heart raised as I raised my shotgun. I squeezed the trigger, and I watched her bolt a mere 10 yards before falling over. And at that moment, I transformed from a boy waiting for his chance to become a trial. and hunter to finally claiming my first deer. Now, after the season closed, Ernie and I began planning for next year. We returned to the public land we had hunted the year before, but luck, it eluded me. Weekend, after weekend, we hunted, but deer number two was nowhere to be found. And then Ernie mentioned that farm, the same place that had brought me good fortune the

year before, and with a flicker of hope, I agreed. So once more we set off for that familiar place, and I found myself climbing the same tree one year later. Little did I know that that day would test my very being and make me question whether I ever wanted to hunt again. A day break several doves wandered into the clearing. I raised my 870. I aimed carefully, and I shot and the deer took off. And I shot again, and to my surprise, one of them fell. Now, Ernie had taught me that you need to wait a while before you get down from your tree to give the animal time to expire, but I could see from my perch that that dough I shot was trying, but unable to get up and needed to be finished off. I had two shells left, and I made the choice to use my next to last shell, and I needed to do it

quickly, and I climbed down, and I walked up, and I did what had to be done. But a heavy weight replaced the joy in my heart as I did not want that animal to suffer. We dragged that deer back to the truck, and as we drove toward the store that was also a check station, I continued to fight with queasiness. I didn't feel good, and the unease settled deep within me. My cousins debated whether to grab hot dogs and drinks, and it was all I could do to shake the queasiness that crept into my stomach. The image of that deer struggling as I approached it, it haunted me.

And I knew what I had done was necessary, but it bothered me. The thrill of the hunt had soured. And I wondered if I was cut out for this life. As we pulled into the parking lot, another truck roared in beside his tire screeching on the pavement. The driver swung open his door and as I stepped out on the passenger side. To my shock and horror, I saw his window explode in a shower of glass. It rang like confetti all around our feet, and my heart raced as I went on high alert. What I saw next ratcheted up the turmoil in my stomach considerably.

Blood ran down the man's face, and this wasn't a sight encountered where I lived, but what happened next was even more serene. He locked eyes with me, and before I knew it, he grabbed me, wrapping his arms around me and shaking me fiercely. His breath came in ragged gasp as he uttered the words that would forever be etched in my memory. Take me to Greenwood, take me to the hospital, that boy of mine done shot me and my wife. In that instant, my 16-year-old mind went into overdrive, spinning wildly on the gravel in my brain, and I stood frozen and grappling with the reality of what I was seeing and experiencing physically.

Then a bystander came rushing up, claiming he, He knew the injured man, and he would take him for help. Relief washed over me as he let go and climbed into the other man's vehicle. The grim reality of that morning weighed heavily on me. As we pieced together the story, we learned that the man's son had shot at his truck. A tiny hole in the passenger side window told the tail in the bullet it grazed his face. He was one lucky man, but it seemed like I was. was one unlucky boy.

The beauty of that morning with its crisp bear and the promise of adventure had been shattered in an instant. I returned home that day with more than just a deer in the back of the truck. I carried the weight of a harsh lesson learned. The thrill of the hunt had been tainted by the harsh realities of life and death and I questioned whether I could ever enjoy it again. And yet as time passed, I came to understand that hunting is a part of life

and a life that is often unpredictable and filled with both joy, sorrow, and unpredictability. It's been 44 years since that day, and every fall I still find myself wandering the woods, feeling the pool of nature and the thrill of the hunt. Every now and then, my mind drifts back to that fateful day when a young boy faced the harsh realities of the world and it was a hard lesson,

but it helped to shake being to the hunter and the man I am today. I've learned to embrace the experience and the camaraderie with family and friends and respect for the life that sustains us all. And according to Ken Nisley, that's just how that happened. Now, in this episode,

I'm talking about our young ones maturing and moving about out of our direct control, and there's so many things within Ken's story that spoke to me. His passion for the outdoors, his respect for wildlife, his duty and responsibility as an ethical hunter, and as a young man caught in a situation beyond his control, all things that we can influence as parents. If something like that can happen in the middle of rural Pennsylvania,

it can happen anywhere, and while we can't and shouldn't live in fear, We have to remain ever vigilant. That's a lesson for any age. Thanks for sharing again. On Blood Trails, the stories don't end when the hunt is over. They just get darker. I've seen something in the road. I instantly thought it was a sleeping bag.

And there was a full of blood. Oh my God, he doesn't have a hit. Blood Trails is a true crime podcast born in the outdoors, where the terrain is unforgiving, The evidence is scarce and the truth gets buried under brush and silence. Indications were he should be right there, but he wasn't. This season, we're going deeper. From cold case files to whispered suspicions, from remote mountains to frozen backwoods.

Each story begins in the wilderness and ends in darkness. Because out here, there are no witnesses, no cameras, just fragments and the people left behind trying to piece them back. together. He's not an honest person. He's incapable of being honest. Somebody somewhere knows something. I'm Jordan Sillers. Season 2 of Blood Trails premieres April 16th. Follow now on Apple, Iheart, YouTube, or wherever you get your podcasts. May is a transition month. And where I live, spring is beginning to give way to summer. Turkey hunting activity starts tapering off.

Yerling bear cubs began looking for their own space and high school seniors say goodbye to one way of life and hello to another. Twelve years is a long time, 13 if you count kindergarten, and how could you not? For many of us, it was the end of a different era as well as the beginning of a new one. Work for many families these days as a husband and wife partnership.

The days of housewives and stay-at-home moms are now the exception to the rule when only a generation or so ago, it was the standard. Things change. I get it. They have to change in order for us to progress, and I'm not big on change. But don't misunderstand me. I'm not advocating for moms, wives, husbands, or dads to stay at home. I'm merely pointing out the fact that things change. We lived in Star City, Arkansas, for a short period of time. This was before I started school and rising. My mama didn't work then, and I remember going outside to get milk and butter off the steps,

early in the mornings with her that the milkman had delivered way before daylight. I spent all day with her every day and would until I started kindergarten, and when I did, I didn't want to go. Everything I knew and was familiar with was there within the confines of her companionship and our routine. That was safety and security and all the things I associated with living. Now, naturally, one wouldn't want to deviate from that routine. But the big yellow bus, in the case of all youngans growing up in the country when I did,

waited for us all. There was no escape. At some point, during my 60 year of life, I had to get on the biggest conveyance I'd ever seen and trust the driver with my life and my schedule. On top of all that, my mama made me get on it, and I felt betrayed. You have to go to school, Brent. A phrase that would be repeated to me by her. her for the next 12 years.

Which brings us back to what I started this oration out with five paragraphs ago, the month of May. The past few weeks on social media has been full of pictures of a child's last time in whatever grade they're in. Each parent announcing the pride and the milestones that their kids are carrying out, but it's the parents of the seniors that get most of my attention. I'm glad my mama didn't have Facebook back when I was in school. her post would have been something like,

I can't believe Brent got out of the sixth grade without going to prison. Here's to a great summer, a lenient judge, and juvenile probation. Not really, but it could have been. There's a lot to unpack for those parents and students, regardless of if it's the first time for each or just another in a succession of graduating offspring. It's a hard thing to do, at least it was for me on both ends. Yet it is the now.

progression in life. For 18 years, we nurture and train, teach, discipline, and provide the foundation for our children to function in society, to take care of themselves and hopefully become an asset to the community of humans inhabiting this spin in order of confusion that we all share. I think back to what it was like when my oldest graduated. At that time, my youngest wasn't even born yet. Now, I cried like a baby. I ain't, I ain't very. I'm vaccinated against squalling about it now just thinking about it. And my oldest daughter, Amy, graduated 16 years ago. I've never wanted any of them to leave,

but I also know that that's not how it works or should work. I was one of them at one time, and I couldn't wait to get out on my own. The excitement and the anxiousness of the future and seeing what was just over the next hill is how we got to this country in the beginning. It's also how the folks that were already here caught smallpox and ran out of buffalo. There's good and bad in everything. Growing up and growing older is no different.

I worked in the woods for different forestry concerns until I became old enough to work in law enforcement. The career I'd chosen for myself in elementary school when I realized I couldn't grow up to be a mountain man or a Hollywood stuntman. Now, 33 years of police work later, I'm not sure that stuntman thing didn't actually work out. It sure feels like it sometimes. My parents did all they could do to prepare me for life outside the nest. My teachers and coaches, several of whom I've mentioned on here, did the same. And I didn't pay much attention to any of them. My life had been a mission of fun to that point with nothing else really mattering,

and tomorrow would always be tomorrow. There's always time when you're young, and getting older and growing up was something you wished for, but never realized. It was like Christmas and getting your driver's license or going on a first date, hanging out uptown on the weekends on Friday and Saturday night. It would take forever for those times to get here.

But when they finally did, man, we're going to have fun forever, and it will never end. And then it gets here. The keys to the family car are a curfew and a little spending money. Two years from now, I'll graduate high school and then it's work or college. Either way, that's two years and forever away. But it's not. In the blink of an eye, it's over.

Even when I found myself filling out graduation announcements and staring straight down the double-barrel shotgun in reality, it seemed like there was always time until there wasn't. I've seen that look on some parents' faces over the past few weeks. Parents and my family and those of family friends who were seemingly changing diapers one day and scheduling college and trade school visits the next. I've done it twice myself in 2009 and 2016. I have one more to go six years from now, six years.

52,560 hours, 2,191 days. Now that would be a long time to be in jail. A long time to work at a job that you didn't like. And an even longer time to be sick. But the last six years of having your child at home, man, burns by so quick you can't even smell the smoke. At the end of the next six years, baby girl Bailey and my oldest granddaughter, Piper, will graduate high school the same year.

And I may need medication. The next six years may be the most important six years in preparation for the rest of their lives. And I would argue that anyway. This was a critical time for me and how I saw the world or in all actuality. I didn't see it. I relied on manners and charming my teachers to get me through school when studying and half the effort I put towards football and everything else but school would have

served me well beyond furthering my education. I didn't know how to study. I could halfway pay attention in class, do well enough to pass and keep my grades good enough to stay in sports and keep my mother at bay. I saw the same thing in my son Hunter, who I never saw crack a book all during high school, and he graduated near the top of his class of nearly a thousand students, only a few tenths of a point away from perfection. But even he got slapped in the face with a dead rat of reality when he got to college by not being prepared on how to study. Alexis warned him, college is going to be different, Bubba. He had to scramble and teach himself how to do that all on his own, but he did it.

but it wasn't easy. Fact is, it's all different. College, work, making a life for yourself, whatever it is they choose to do at our job from the moment we bring them home from the hospital is to prepare them for the last time they walk out the door is our possessions. It's not our job to prepare the world for our children.

It's to prepare our children for the world, when the opposite of that is the easiest. Running interference, fighting their battles, letting them win, ignoring the negatives makes for a happier child but a sadder adult because reality is cruel and it spares no one. Alexis and I want Bailey to succeed in everything she does, but we also know as hard as it is to watch that she has to fail and experience loss. The lesson then is how she deals with it and that's our job. accepting loss and using it to learn and get better is the only way you learn and get better. That's how we prepare her for the times when we're not there. And the decisions that she makes good or bad and how she reacts to the outcomes

rest on how we've prepared her for those moments. Being humble and triumph and gracious and loss. Both of those are hard to do, and I don't know which is harder. I'm no shining example of either. What I am is barely intelligent enough to realize how much better I would be as a man of faith, husband, father, a brother, and a friend if I was. And that's the best thing that we can do for our children and the community in which they live is to teach them not to be like us,

but to be like what we wish we were and want them to be. Last weekend, our little family spent Saturday and Sunday, eating barbecue and crawfish, celebrating two graduates from our circle of friends who are just like our family. Two high school seniors, Trevor and Savannah, sweethearts all through school, both shining examples of what a young lady and a young man would be if 1950s Hollywood had written him as a TV show. Neither of them related to me by blood, our closest relative would probably be Adam and Eve.

but they are my family by choice, and in the last couple of years I've watched them and how they interact with adults, their siblings, friends of their siblings, and they not only restored my hope for the future when Bailey and Piper reached that age, they helped restore my faith that there have to be others just like them. The ones the news outlets don't cover or talk about, the ones you never hear from because that's not news these days, and the prime reason I don't watch it. I saw all the news I needed this weekend trying to stay in the shade in front of a fan while we laughed at pictures of our two seniors, baby pictures, and some from six years ago.

The age of Bailey is now. And six years from now, the majority of the people I spent Saturday and Sunday with will gather again to celebrate her and her friends. It is a day I dread and look forward to all at the same time. Later this summer, Trevor and Savannah will move off to college, and for a while we'll be sad. They're gone. Then it will be just a part of life as we all settle into the new routine of their absence. If we have done our jobs, we will have prepared our children on how to survive without us. Unfortunately, no one gives us lessons on how to survive without them.

We have to take comfort that we've done our best that we can, and we've done our best that we can, We pray for them and trust that they listened, even if only remotely, better than I did. Good luck to all of you, whether it's college, trade schools, military, or straight to work. We're counting on you, and we believe in you. And thanks to all of you who have joined us here on the Bear Grease Channel each week. Clay and I appreciate it. We appreciate it very much. Until next week, this is Brent Reeve, signing off.

God we care. On Blood Trails, the stories don't end when the hunt is over. They just get darker. I've seen something in the road. I instantly thought it was a sleeping bag. And there was a full of blood. Oh, my God, he doesn't have a hit. Blood Trails is a true crime podcast born in the outdoors,

where the terrain is unforgiving, the evidence is scarce, and the truth gets buried under brush and silence. Indications were he should be right there. but he wasn't. This season, we're going deeper. From cold case files to whispered suspicions, from remote mountains to frozen backwards. Each story begins in the wilderness and ends in darkness.

Because out here, there are no witnesses, no cameras, just fragments and the people left behind trying to piece them back together. He's not an honest person. He's incapable of being honest. Somebody somewhere knows something. I'm Jordan Sillers. Season 2 of Blood Trails premieres April 16th. Follow now on Apple, Iheart, YouTube, or wherever you get your podcasts.