By Andy Anderson
I was about 13 years old, my sister 11 and my little brother nine or so. We lived in a small two-story home, typical small family farm and country living you would expect from such. The staircase started near the dining area next to the doorway to the kitchen. At the top of the staircase was a landing with a window that allowed you to see across the farm. About 275 yards from the window, across the creek was a deer feeder in a small clearing. You could sit up there and see deer coming and going most any day.
One cold evening, as my mom was cooking dinner, my siblings and I finished up homework and began setting the table. My dad decided he was going to go hunting. But not in the deer stand; it was too cold for that, so he got himself a chair and sat right up there on that landing at the edge of the stairs.
The television was going, my sister and brother were at the table bickering at each other and Mom was yelling at us to stop fighting. It was a typical night really, nothing special. After all, we were all in the house, a place of security and comfort.
Mom was a great cook and had a way of making regular everyday food taste just the best, even Hamburger Helper, which was on the menu this evening. Every now and then I would holler up to Dad asking if he was seeing anything. “No, nothing yet,” he’d say.
We rocked on, a typical evening in the Anderson household. My sister was setting the plates, my brother was placing the butter, bread and other condiments on the table and I was placing silverware on the table along with napkins. Mom announced dinner was ready as we were beginning to take our places. Mom confirmed with Dad that he knew dinner was about ready. He acknowledged and said he would be right down.
It was beginning to get late, with just enough light outside to faintly see the feeder. Mom was getting ready to bring the skillet of food out and Dad could be heard putting his stuff away preparing to come down and eat.
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