I got a call one autumn day From cousin Silas Dean. He said two days had passed since Uncle Gideon last was seen.
He’d gone out chasing whitetails On a brisk November day, And where he went and for how long, No one could seem to say.
Now Silas knew that I had followed Uncle Gid around On many hunts, so I would know His favorite stomping ground.
He said he’d call the kinfolk, And some friends here round about, And then we’d get together, And we’d search old Gideon out.
I told him to hold up just a bit, And give me half a day And let me check a spot where He would often get away.
Now just last week, old Gid and I Were on a big buck’s trail That led us through a cedar swamp, An alder brake and swale.
I bagged that eight point buck that day And tagged out for the year, And that’s why Gid was all alone, Just him out hunting deer.
I grabbed my duds and headed out To check his favorite spot, While thinking that he might be hurt, Or maybe even shot.
And as I traipsed out through the woods, I thought of that first year That Gid had taken me in tow In search of whitetail deer.
He taught me of the woodlands And of his philosophy, And soon I had a different view Of what life ought to be.
I found Gid sitting by a tree; His rifle by his side. That thirty-two with open sights In which he took great pride.
The frost was on his moustache, And his eyelids, they were closed, And I could tell that he was More than mildly indisposed.
But I could find no evidence Of wound by gun or knife. It seemed that what had got him Was an overdose of life.
Protruding from his pocket Was the corner of a note, And in it were the final words That Uncle Gideon wrote.
He said, “I hope who finds me here Will come to understand That I spent all my boyhood years On this fine piece of land.”
“This tree where I am sitting, I would climb long years ago. It held me in its branches Safe from adults down below.”
“Now on that yonder cellar hole, My old house used to be. And there is something over there I’d like for you to see.”
I walked across what must have been At one time his front yard, And what I saw down in that crevice Made me swallow hard.
For stacked in that old cellar Was about two cord of wood, And how old Gid had stacked it there, I clearly understood
That it was not in usual rows Of four by four by eight, But stacked to form a funeral bier All set to conflagrate.
And as the oak leaves rustled In the trees that frosty day, I then continued reading Uncle Gid’s communiqué.
He said, “I know my last request Might set you ill at ease, So don’t feel obligated, And back out now if you please,”
“But if you’re kith or kin of mine, That yonder funeral bier, Should come as no surprise to you. I’ve always made it clear”
“That when my time comes, I’ll not have My mortal flesh and bone All dressed up in a suit and tie Beneath some granite stone.”
With shaking hands I pried that rifle From his icy grip, And like a bag of grain, I heisted Gid up on my hip.
He wasn’t very heavy, And it was no time at all, That I had Gid transported Down inside that cellar wall.
Now rigor mortis had set in, And with much trepidation I prepped the stiffened carcass Of old Gid for his cremation.
And as I lit the tinder For the hungry fire that day, I read the final words That Uncle Gideon had to say.
He wrote, “Now you don’t have to stay, And don’t feel that you should, But just make sure, before you go, The fire’s going good.”