I am eternally grateful for every tailgate turkey sandwich shared after a hard hunt.

For every foggy morning spent in a flat-bottom boat, pushing through hyacinths. No words. Only the gurgling of jitterbugs cast on either side.

For every after-dark drive back to deer camp down dusty, winding Blue Ridge backroads, making up our own crazy lyrics to the songs piping in through the static on the dashboard radio.

For every Snickers bar toast over freshly notched tags.

For every early morning creep through silvery dark woods toward the thundering gobbles that answered your hoot owl call.

For every time you let me sit wiggling next to you on a deer stand.

Every time you patiently untangled a backlash.

Every time you coached me through a shot.

Every time you slapped me on the back after lead met target.

If the Universe is kind and there is some paradise when we leave these earthly bodies, surely it must feel exactly like that.

Henry Robert Jones, III
November 8, 1949 - January 8, 2017