Special Feature
I’m not a Detroit Lions fan, except on Thanksgiving Day. And as if watching the Lions game is as much a part of the Thanksgiving festivities as is the turkey and dressing, the girls slowly drift away, one by one, retreating away from the living room and the rarely used television set. Most years, the Lions have been as bad as the rutabagas that Hannah sometimes cooks as a supposed compliment to the turkey and dressing. But still, I watch until I either drift off, retreat to find the girls, or maybe see if anyone wants to go hunting.
Hunting is a true Thanksgiving tradition at our house. My middle daughter, Cape, almost always joins me. My oldest, Bay, usually does too. And sometimes, depending on if the mood hits her, my youngest, Banks, will also. But sometimes, the mid-Lions game nap might overlap with what would have otherwise been hunting time. Hunting is time well spent. Not necessarily because we are hunting, but because we are together. The time would have been well spent watching the Lions game, too. But the girls have never been very interested in professional football. Truth be told, I haven’t either. Growing up in Lake Forrest, a subdivision in Spanish Fort, Ala., former University of Alabama and Atlanta Flacon quarterback, Scott Hunter lived up the street from us. His daughter and I were the same age, and so we found ourselves fast playmates. My dad occasionally watched the New Orleans Saints and the Falcons on Sundays, but not enough to amount to a tradition. But then came the United States Football League in the mid-1980s. Curious about the ‘new kid in town,’ my dad bought tickets to the Birmingham Stallions matchup against the Memphis Showboats. Legion Field was packed in my wide eyes, and I remember the Stallions won the game largely on the back of former Auburn great, Joe Cribbs. Somewhere, in a box of knick-knacks tucked away in a closet, I still have a plastic cup from that game… just as I’m sure Bay still has the bobblehead we picked up at a Braves game when she was fourteen. It was Family Night and she and I happened to be traveling through town and grabbed tickets. We watched ‘The Sand Lot’ on the jumbotron after the game. We laughed, drank too much Coca-Cola, ate too much candy, and went to bed with tummy aches that night. Just like when my dad and I ate too many hotdogs at the Stallions game.
This Thanksgiving, the traditions change. Bay, now a Senior at Ole Miss is geared up for the Rebels’ Thanksgiving Day rivalry against their arch-rivals, those dreaded Mississippi State Bulldogs. And in some weird twist of sibling rivalry fate, just so happens, that Cape is now a freshman at State. It’s a long road from Lake Forest to the Stallions of Legion Field to the Detroit Lions. But it’s an even longer road to Oxford on Thanksgiving Day. Along that road, we will let go of the rutabagas, turkey, dressing, Lions football, and even deer hunting so that our two oldest girls can start a new tradition. Some years from now, I suspect that Bay and her family all clad in blue and red, and Cape and her family all adorned in maroon and white, will rendezvous at Banks’ house, where she and her family will act as Switzerland- the neutral force amongst the clash- and the Egg Bowl will forever more be a part of the Thanksgiving traditions of the Merrell clan. I’m sure Hannah and I will be there too until the Lord calls us home, and Hannah will probably bring rutabagas too. And I might even take a nap during the game. Because I’ll be content and thankful that God has blessed us abundantly. And He has you too.
“Thanks be to God for His inexpressible gift!” 2 Corinthians 9:15
-Walt Merrell
A Christian Outdoorsman who writes of his adventures with his family, with the hope that others might be inspired and encouraged to embrace God’s tapestry, otherwise known as the great outdoors, as a means of finding Common Ground. You can follow him at Shepherding Outdoors on FB, YT and IG and at shepherdingoutdoors.com. His most recent book is available at shepherdingbook.com. Read his faith story at www.BirminghamChristian.com.
