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    Gone But Not Forgotten: A Christmas Story
    Gone But Not Forgotten: A Christmas Story
    Gone But Not Forgotten: A Christmas Story
    Ebook122 pages1 hour

    Gone But Not Forgotten: A Christmas Story

    By D.M. Wilmes

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    About this ebook

    An inspirational story about Clay Williams, a man burdened by misplaced priorities who's relationship with his family is deteriorating because of frequent business travel and endless hours at work. While quail hunting in the woods of his Uncle’s farm, an unexpected encounter leads him to Hartwin, a quaint little town along the Missouri River. During his visit, Clay finds new hope by discovering the fragility of life and family, and the timeless influence of choice through the lives of those that lived before him.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherD.M. Wilmes
    Release dateDec 8, 2010
    ISBN9781452344591
    Gone But Not Forgotten: A Christmas Story
    Author

    D.M. Wilmes

    D. M. Wilmes is an award winning Missouri author, which includes Foreword Magazines Book of the Year Finalist, Reader Views Literary Award for Best Memoir/Autobiography, Midwest Independent Publishers Association Book Award Finalist, USA Book News Best Book Award Finalist, and iUniverse Publishers Choice Award.

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      Book preview

      Gone But Not Forgotten - D.M. Wilmes

      Gone But Not Forgotten

      A Christmas Story

      D.M. Wilmes

      Gone But Not Forgotten

      A Christmas Story

      D.M. Wilmes

      Smashwords Edition

      Copyright © 2004 by D. M. Wilmes

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher.

      Discover other titles by D.M. Wilmes at Smashwords.com:

      Seven Days of Hospice: A Memoir

      To my family, Patricia, Robert and Paige,

      who comprise the whole of my soul.

      I love you.

      Table of Contents

      The Hunt

      The Visit

      The Search

      The Realization

      The Breaking Point

      The Trip

      The Ribbon

      The Encounter

      The Reunion

      The Promise

      The Hunt

      Clay walked among the trees scanning the forest floor ahead of him, occasionally glancing at Chelsea to see if she had picked up a scent. The dry winter leaves crunched beneath their feet with each cautious step. Chelsea methodically zigzagged several paces in front of Clay with her nose to the ground, pausing only to check the location of her friend, her partner in the hunt. She still possessed the unbridled enthusiasm and spirit of typical Brittany Spaniels, but age and deteriorating hips denied her a painless execution. This would be, regrettably yet undeniably for Clay, Chelsea’s last hunt. Clay stopped for a moment to catch his breath and scan the terrain. Sensing the pause, Chelsea stood upright and turned her head attentively to Clay. To his left lay a mound of brush entangled with a rusty spool of barbed wire, nestled in a small ravine. A perfect sanctuary for a covey of quail, he thought. Clay looked at Chelsea and pointed to it.

      C’mon Chels, bird in there, he commanded. Chelsea approached the dense thicket weaving her body through the fallen limbs and undergrowth like a snake. She drew in bursts of air through her seasoned nostrils as she probed the many cavities, at times burying her entire head into the thicket. Clay readied his gun anticipating the chaotic departure. He calculated the direction they might take and quickly reestablished the location of Alfred’s house, which was behind him and partially visible through the columns of trees. If any broke in that direction he’d have to let them go without firing.

      By this time Chelsea had nearly covered the entire perimeter. If there were any quail, they were holding tight. Clay placed his foot on one of the branches and readied the shotgun against his shoulder for a shot. In a flurry of kicks he rattled the pile to scare the birds from their roost. Chelsea, startled by the commotion, perked up her ears and looked curiously at Clay. The only thing to emerge from this nest was silence.

      Hmm, Clay mumbled with disappointment. Chelsea walked over to his feet and sat. She looked at the brush pile, panting heavily. Clay knelt beside her and carefully leaned his gun against the brush. With both hands he rubbed the sides of her face and ruffled her ears.

      Good girl, Chels. Good girl. Clay reached into his vest and extracted a bottle of water. He slowly poured the water out just above her head. Chelsea voraciously lapped it up as it fell from the bottle.

      I guess that’s why they call it hunting, girl. Otherwise they’d just call it killing.

      Clay stood up and looked to the North. The woods swept downward into a gully then climbed upward again towards the next ridge. This is where, Clay thought, Alfred mentioned seeing a covey some time ago. Clay looked up at the sky through the leafless trees, gulped the rest of his water and breathed a heavy sigh of contentment. It wasn’t hunting he looked forward to every year as much as it was being alone with nature. Birds or no birds this was a good day. Clay had always felt at home in the woods. As a child he played in the woods behind their house along with his brothers and sisters. Together they built makeshift forts, played hide and seek, and explored under nature’s canopy. His fondness for the woods never left. Whether the trees stood like statues in a perfect calm or waltzed with the placid, monotone song of the Missouri wind, there was a sense of solitude in the woods for Clay – like being one with God. Christmas was just around the corner. The air was crisp and dry. With closed eyes and silent focus, Clay could detect scents of cedar, pine and wood-burning stoves. This time of year roused his senses like no other. As he did every year since a child, Clay welcomed Christmas with open arms and let it saturate him to the bone.

      Chelsea had gotten her second wind and began roaming the area. Despite her reluctant body, her young and eager mind was anxious to start hunting again.

      Let’s go, Chels, Clay called out as he picked up his gun. Together they headed down the hill. It was difficult for Clay to keep his balance as he traversed downward. A smooth blanket of brown leaves now covered large rocks and limbs, normally visible in spring and summer. He nearly lost his balance several times, extending and waving his arms to keep from falling. When he neared the bottom of the gully, Clay looked for Chelsea. She labored behind him and equally had a tough time navigating the terrain. Her focus had shifted from hunting to simply plotting a course through the difficult maze of nature’s debris. Clay waited patiently for her to catch up.

      Suddenly, the ground began to move in a flurry. Shadows of brown and gray sped along the earth floor in all directions. Leaves were bursting from the ground like popcorn in an iron kettle and the noise was just as deafening. Clay felt his heart nearly beat out of his chest. Chelsea jumped straight into the air leaving all four feet. A cloud of tiny beating wings emerged from the ruckus and lifted into the air. Clay stood stunned as he watched a covey of quail frantically disperse into the forest. As suddenly as the commotion arrived, Clay jerked the shotgun to his shoulder and fired. His first shot was nothing more than a reaction, firing aimlessly into the center of it all.

      Focus, Clay. Focus, he uttered to himself.

      Clay’s father had taught him how to hunt as a child. Before each outing his father ritually instructed, Remember, don’t just shoot at the covey. Pick a bird and shoot. Just pick a bird and shoot. If you miss it, keep shooting at it. If you drop it, pick another one and shoot. These words echoed in Clay’s mind every time he set out for a hunt.

      Clay fired again, this time with determination and careful aim. The bird fell. He shot again and another bird fell. He quickly took aim again. By now the covey had gathered speed and was scattering into the woods. He pulled the trigger. Click. Clay was out of ammunition. The gun was empty. Then it became quiet – dead quiet. They exploded with a sudden fury and disappeared into the silence just as quickly.

      There must have been fifteen to twenty birds, but it seemed like a thousand. Clay tried to gather himself but his heart was still pounding. He pushed back his blaze-orange cap and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his flannel sleeve.

      Find the bird, Chels, Clay said in an eager pant. Find the bird.

      Chelsea roamed the area where the first bird dropped. Her bobbed tail kept time like the pendulum of a grandfather clock; it’s pace quickening as the scent became more intense. Her body jolted and she dropped her head into the leaves. When she lifted she was cradling a bird gently in her jaws. Chelsea bounced back to Clay with the prize. She opened her mouth just wide enough for the quail to fall at Clay’s feet, her tail fluttering with pride.

      Good girl. Good girl. Clay pointed toward the direction of where the second bird fell and commanded, Find the bird. Chelsea obeyed and darted off to find it. We almost stepped on them, girl. A lot of good you are, he laughingly exclaimed, then turned his attention to the lifeless quail in his hand. Silently he gazed at the bird and caressed its breast with his thumb. This one was a

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