Here I am standing in the middle of a hardware store. I’m friendly with one of the owners, and I am sharing a photograph with him. A couple of young men, employees, joined in, examining the small screen of my phone, with a chorus of “Whoa!” or “That’s a nice buck.”

My grandson, 11, had gone on his first hunting trip and had snared his first deer. His baseball hat sat low on his head so that all we can see is his broad smile and his hands propping up the antlers of the 8–point buck. He was proud and happy.

I told the store manager, “I’m not big into hunting, but if he’s happy, I’m happy.” He totally understood and asked where our grandson, I’ll call Ethan, was hunting, somewhere in Michigan.

I’m not from a hunting background. When I was a kid, my parents and I would shake our heads over

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