Antler in the Mud

A nonfiction piece by Ace Courtad

I stared out the backseat window of my mother's car as we drove through the narrow, winding roads of the countryside. I had the window down and the scent of Earth filled my lungs. We were

on the way to visit my Aunt Sandy and Uncle Junior over the weekend. They both lived in a small, single-story house in rural Ohio, nestled between patches of woods and rolling hills of plowed

fields.

Though they were both in their late 70s, Sandy had become a caregiver to Junior. As his sister, she felt it was her duty, despite the burden it placed on her. Junior’s struggles were evident; moments of confusion dotted conversations. He would never be able to take care of himself on his own. I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was also taking care of something else: the memories they shared.

I’d been staring at rows of corn that stretched on for miles, seemingly endless. The drive was long, and I had passed the state border a few hours ago. Occasionally, a tractor lumbered down the road, and my father would let out an exasperated sigh before trying to dive around it. It was springtime, the season for planting, and each of the plowed fields was dotted with patches of rich green; small patches of woods would appear.

Much of my family owns these patches, and I would drive through them often when I visited. You could see the weathered post towers and faded tree markers if you looked closer. A thought crossed

my mind: perhaps we could stop by the clubhouse to see the hunting dogs; If I remembered correctly, my grandfather said they had just gotten a new litter. This brought a smile to my face. I liked to watch them run in the fields and try to catch pheasants on my Grandfather’s farm.

My older brother Grant sat next to me, fast asleep, uncaring for the beauty of the countryside glistening from the rain that we didn’t see often. I had a garden, sure, but it was nothing compared

to the rolling hills and fields of corn and soybeans. My mother and I liked to ‘rate’ the corn based on how tall it was.

I leaned forward to better see my mother in the passenger seat. “How's the corn, Mom?”

She glanced out the window, pretending to study it closely, a smile tugging at her lips. "Well, it's freshly planted, so probably a negative one,” she replied with a small giggle.

Suddenly, the crunch of gravel beneath the car tires pulled me out of my thoughts. I blinked, disoriented, realizing we had arrived. I had never been here before. They had moved here not too

long ago. Something about fresh air, and with Junior’s spotty health, it sounded better for them.

There was a small red barn on one side of the large gravel circle, worn down with the paint peeling off, unfolding like a book; I wanted to know the stories it held. Just inside was parked the old tractor. A garage sat diagonally from it, with one of the doors wide open. Inside, you could see a mess of vehicles and machines: a 4-wheeler, an old UTV, and a ranger. Although I’d never been here before, it already felt familiar, like a place I wanted to spend more time in. It was warm here, in contrast to their old home, which, despite being one-story too, always felt cold and distant.

I shook my brother awake before throwing the car door open. My parents close behind me, smiling, excited to see my Aunt and Uncle after so long. I inhaled, and the cool country air filled my lungs,

awakening memories of past summers spent with Sandy and Junior. I didn’t realize how much I missed being in the country after living in cities for so long. I craved it.

As we walked up the gravel driveway, the front door to the house opened, and there was Sandy, smiling and waving. You could feel the warmth radiate from her smile, as it enveloped you like a

blanket. It was hard to tell that she, too, battled a sickness of her own. My parents had told me she was sick, not with what, but I knew it wasn’t a common cold. I noticed her hands tremble slightly

and that she looked exhausted from simply walking to the door. Her hair was still gray, but something was different, something deeper. Her smile was bright, the same as the last time I’d seen her, yet it seemed to hide her own struggles. Even then, she still took care of Junior, a testament to her strength and love for family.

“Oh, there you are! Come on in!” Her voice was soft, a melody that reminded you of home.

I could tell that standing was hard for her, as she leaned on the doorframe. Seeing her fatigue, I rushed to the door in hopes she would lead us inside and sit down. My father, as always, held the door open for her. Maybe he noticed, like I did, how tired she was. She wore a mask expertly crafted by caring for others.

We were led to a small living room, pictures hung on top of old floral wallpaper that whispered stories of the past as you sat down. It too smelled like old country wood and trees, another smell I missed. There were a few rocking chairs in the corners and an old flower-patterned couch. There were almost enough chairs, but I preferred to sit on the floor anyway. Settling criss-cross on the

carpet, topped with a worn braided rug. I took in the room, and my gaze drifted past into the kitchen. The brown cabinets and vinyl-covered countertops had jars filled with fruits; canning was a hobby of Sandy’s.

Sandy did eventually sit down in the old rocking chair closest to the doorway and closest to them kitchen. “Can I make you anything? Perhaps some sweet tea? After a long drive, you should eat

something.” She went to stand again, but my mother was quicker.

“That’s all right, we took a pit stop and ate not too long ago.” My mother had taken a seat on the old, flower-patterned couch next to my father and brother, its fabric faded.

We talked and caught up on life, sharing stories of the years, and not once was her sick mentioned. It was as if we had signed a contract, an unspoken agreement not to speak about it at all; I thought it was better that way. Laughter filled the room as we joked around and poked fun at Junior; the atmosphere was light and airy.

Sandy turned to us. “Just don’t let Junior make any pie,” she teased, eyes shining bright.

My family and I erupted in laughter, knowing full well the story that she was about to share once more. “That’s probably a good idea. Did I tell you what happened last time I tried to make a peach pie?” Junior leaned forward in his rocking chair.

Years ago, when Junior was younger, he had tried his hand at making a peach pie for a special event. Unfortunately for him, in a classic mix-up, he had switched the salt and sugar. It wasn’t until he took a bite that he realized his error. “And then I threw it out the window!” He leaned back in his chair.

Not even the family dog would eat it, opting to treat it like a fire hydrant. “The dog took one look at that pie, then and then he peed on it!” Junior laughed; the sound was infectious, and the story

never got old.

I’d heard the story every time I saw them. It was woven into the fabric of our family history, each telling like a patch on a quilt, each piece its own unique story, sewn together by our sharing.

Eventually, boredom began to creep in for my brother and I. Just then, my aunt suggested we take the old UTV out for a spin, taking turns driving. Grant and I exchanged glances, our eyes shining with excitement, before we bolted out of the house and to the old garage. My father chuckled with amusement before following behind us to help maneuver the vehicle out of its nook. It was old for sure, but even then it was clean and spared of mud and weather.

My brother, being older, claimed the driver's seat first. I climbed into the bench seat next to him. There weren’t any seat belts, only a handle on the frame to hold onto. Grant took off through the fields, Dad shrinking in the distance. The tall grass whipped at our faces, and I swatted the flies away. We veered left towards the woods, but it was flooded, so he turned around and opted to drive down the country roads next to the cornfields.

My brother, having his license by then, was confident as he drove, smiling as the wind whipped his hair around his head like a halo. I was annoyed that he always got things first, but not for long, as the wind sucked all my negativity out, replacing it with cool country air and memories. I spotted deer in the distant fields, their forms darting into the trees as we approached. Their antlers gleamed in the sun and disappeared in the shadows, becoming dull, a symbol of endurance and strength.

When we returned to the house, it was finally my turn to drive. I had yet to even get my diver’s permit, but I felt a rush of familiarity as I hopped into the driver's seat. I retraced the path Grant made, noting the bumpy parts hidden by tall grass. I smelled the scent of dirt and rain. I could breathe here, far from the confines of the city.

We had driven before on my grandfather's pheasant farm, though it was much scarier there. I recalled the concrete bridge he had insisted we cross, with no rails, over a creek, with a dropoff.

The bridge was just wide enough to fit the UTV, and I, of course, was the one who had to drive across it. I must have been only around 10 at the time; my knuckles turned white as I gripped the

steering wheel with all my strength, hoping that it would save me from the creek below. My brother, spared from driving over the bridge, peered out nervously, watching as the UTV crept along the edge. My heart was hammering in my chest, but somehow I had made it. It was easier here, with weathered trails in the fields carving out the path ahead, and no such obstacles.

But now, without the threatening drop off, I was a tad more confident. Once I had driven far enough on the road, Grant taught me how to do a 3-point turn. I laughed as I watched cars drive

past us, gawking at the sight of us teenagers driving alone. It was common, at least I thought it was, to see kids driving around by themselves. My turn was not 3 points, but I did get us facing the way we came from.

As I drove back to the house, I decided to take a slight detour back to the woods. I just wanted a few extra minutes of driving time before I had to hand the wheel back to my brother. It was just across a small gap of land that was flooded. It was only about a foot deep– enough to drive through without a problem. Still, the thought of getting stuck lingered. I hesitated and realized I didn’t want to take any risks, so I decided to try my turn 3-point again and go back to the house. I didn’t get to drive often, with my brother being older and taking every opportunity I was handed. I had to make sure I didn't mess it up, though it was unlikely for us to get stuck; I wasn’t taking any chances. The sun shone bright overhead.

Just as I began to turn the wheel, a hand shot out and gripped it, halting my movements. It was Grant’s hand, fingers curled around the wheel as his lips curled into a mischievous grin. I looked at him, already sensing what he wanted me to do.

“Wait,” he said, excitement bubbling, “Let's drive into the woods this time.”

I hesitated, looking warily at the flooded patch of land once again, but gave in. He knows what he’s doing. He’s older, it’ll be fine, I think. I shifted gears and slowly made my way across the flood. Water threatened to leap into the UTV, but it got to the other side, only slightly wet.

The dirt road was not faring well after so much rain; it had become a sloshed, muddled mess. I paused involuntarily, my foot still on the pedal. We were stuck. The back tires were caught in the

mud, spinning and sinking with each second that passed. Oh my god, no, no, no, why would he do that?!

I panicked. “This is why I didn’t want to come here!” I yelled, frustration bubbling and boiling inside.

In all his wisdom, Grant simply shrugged, a nonchalant smile on his face. “It's your fault for driving through the muddy part.”

“The whole trail is mud! Where was I supposed to drive?” I knew yelling wouldn’t help, but it wasn't my fault we were stuck here in the woods, surrounded by freezing-cold mud.

We then realized the only way out was to push the UTV together. But one of us needed to push the pedal, while the other shoved the vehicle from behind. I suggested he get out and push because he

was stronger than I was. He only shook his head.

“I don’t want to get dirty.”

“You’re the one wearing shorts.”

“I said I don’t want to.”

If he isn’t going to, I will. I messed up. Mom and Dad will never forgive me. Throwing him a glare, I unzipped my boots and pulled off my socks, shoving them into my shoes before throwing them into the back. I jumped out; the mud was cold on my bare feet, and it felt like ice. Each step was a stab and a reminder of what I had done.

Having grown up in Michigan, I knew what cold was, but somehow it never prepared me for the biting chill of freezing mud. I stalked through the mud, hearing it squelch between my toes as I too

sank. I positioned myself behind the vehicle and inhaled sharply.

“Okay, go!” I yelled as I gritted my teeth and shoved with all my might, while my brother shifted into a different gear and slammed down on the pedal. At first, it didn’t budge, and I slowly started to slip into the mud. I channeled my fury and shoved harder. I felt a surge of determination, and I pushed again, digging my feet into the cold mud, and I pushed hard enough to free the UTV. I stumbled as it lurched forward, free from the restraints of mud. I ran to catch up with Grant and hopped back onto the bench-seat next to him.

He drove a ways out before turning around. As the trail looked even worse up ahead. We had a better chance of getting back the way we came than going around. On the way back, he tried to drive in the least muddy part of the trail, but it didn’t work. Once again, we were stuck. I groaned with annoyance, biting my tongue to ask my brother why he drove in the muddy part as he asked me.

Still, without shoes, I got out of the UTV, the mud once more biting my feet as I pushed with all my might. This time, it didn’t move. I tried to scrape the mud off the tires with my hands, as the cold traveled up my fingers and they slowly became numb. It didn't work. My brother, growing more frustrated and fine with defeat, sighed loudly. I grabbed some nearby sticks and shoved them under

the tires, hoping it would give us an ounce of traction, or leverage, anything. But it didn’t work. We were stuck for good.

I stomped my foot down, frustrated, but it was soon overshadowed by pain.

“Ow!” I jumped back and then peered down into the mud. I noticed something poking out of the muck just under the trunk. There was a deer antler. It was fairly small compared to the ones you’d see at the clubhouse, dripping with cold goo. It was maybe about the size of my forearm. I liked collecting things, and despite my mood, I felt a flicker of excitement. I grabbed it and tossed it into the trunk with my boots, admittedly a little too hard in my frustration. Unfortunately, my small sense of joy was quickly replaced.

Deflated, I knew we had to trudge back to the house on foot to get help pushing the UTV out of the mud. I hated it. This whole ordeal was not my fault. But I couldn’t shake the feeling it was.

“We’ll get help, only if you tell them it was your fault.” My brother walked in front of me, uncaring if I was following.

“But it’s not.” I protested.

“You drove in the mud and got stuck; it’s definitely your fault.”

We took our time walking back to the house, eyes locked onto the grass. I’ll never get to drive again. The thought loomed over me like a dark cloud. My feet, still bare, now hardly retained any trace of feeling. The mud slowly dried and stuck to my skin. I said nothing, trying not to give Grant a reason to become angry again. The only hint of mud he had was on his shoes when we walked out

of the forest.

The house eventually came into view and loomed in front of us like a guillotine, and I was at the front of the line to my death. I felt my heart sink as I watched my Mom and Dad step out of the

front door. But their concerned faces were overtaken with amusement.

“So... where’d you guys get stuck?” my father called out, a smile spreading across his face.

My face grew warm as they approached me. “In the woods,” I sighed. “I didn’t want to go there, it’s not my fault.”

I didn’t want to give a reason for them not to let me drive again. My words were sharp, but frustration won; I just wanted my parents to know it wasn’t my fault. I just hoped they understood.

The walk back felt longer, even though it was only 15 minutes or so. My legs grew heavier, and I felt them less with each passing second. We splashed through the flood and squelched our way through

the mud to the UTV. It was the only thing I could hear; none of us spoke. The trees watched our struggle like silent witnesses.

Finally, we got to the UTV. My Mom was the one pushing the pedal this time. My Dad and I braced ourselves against the trunk, planting our feet as firmly as we could in the mud. My father's shoes would be stained forever, I thought. My brother stood to the side this time, watching us. I rolled my eyes.

“What?” He asked innocently.

“You gonna help?” I shot back, already irritated at the sight of him.

“There’s no room to push.”

I sighed and turned my attention back to the task at hand.

“Ready?” Dad asked.

I nodded in return.

“Ready!” He called out to Mom.

My mother pushed the pedal gently at first, then a little harder. The wheels spun uselessly, and my Dad and I pushed with all our might. The tires were dug deep into the mud this time, but as I

strained further against the trunk, I felt it inch forward just like before. This time, I knew to watch out. The UTV lurched forward once more, and I caught myself. My mother paused to let us hop in, and we were off. I sat in the trunk with my boots and remembered the antler I had found. I showed it to my Dad, and he smiled.

“That’s a nice antler. Let’s wash it off with the hose when we get back.”

I studied it closely as we drove back. I turned it over, noticing all the grooves and bumps, wondering where I would display it when I got home. The thrill of discovery brightened my spirits

slightly.

Having grown up here, my father said we had to clean off the UTV before we put it away. He told us of a friend– family– who lived above now, but he would have our heads if we put away

equipment unclean. My father turned on the hose and started spraying away the stubborn mud that was caked everywhere. I scrubbed at it the best I could. My mother helped too. To my surprise, even Grant pitched in, though I suspected it was simply because our parents were around. I bit back the annoyance. The mud slowly surrendered its hold on the UTV as the water assaulted it, and we scrubbed at it. My arms burned. But with the four of us, we won the fight.

My father plucked the antler from the trunk and rinsed it off before handing it back to me with a smile. A token of our adventure and chaos. It was more than just a trophy; it was a connection to

this moment, to Sandy and Junior.

“You’ll have to show Sandy and Junior what you found.”

Once the UTV was clean and back in the garage, we made our way back inside to retell the tale of our getting stuck. I was still covered in mud; it soaked into my pants, and my limbs had become numb. Sandy and Junior looked at us with amusement. My brother launched into the story, while I chimed in to clarify what had actually happened.

“Reese got us stuck in the mud in the woods!”

“No, I didn’t! You made me drive there!”

“You’re the one who drove in the mud.”

“The entire path was mud!”

My mother noticed my shivering, stepped up to me with a gentle smile, “You can shower to warm up.” Sandy pointed out the bathroom, “We can grab you a towel.” I was the only one who needed to shower, so the bathroom was mine.

I came out of the bathroom feeling refreshed, but not quite warm. I could hear laughter as Grant retold the story once more. Each telling added a stitch to the new patch on our family story quilt. He tried to twist it, tell himself the hero, but I interrupted with a scoff.

“No way! You’re the one who forced me to drive into the mud!” I crossed my arms and then looked around for where to put my towel.

I unfortunately had only my dirty clothes to wear, but they had been somewhat washed and dried by the time I was done showering the grime off. Sandy was laughing more, almost as much as telling

the pie story. And I knew that this would be told time and time again at gatherings and cherished in the tapestry of our memories.

At least I walked away with some sort of prize out of the mess. I proudly displayed the antler to Sandy and Junior, who showed genuine interest in it, even though it was hardly a rarity for them,

living next to woods and all. It made the trinket special as if I had discovered a treasure chest below the dirt. I placed it on the kitchen counter for the time being.

But soon the day started slipping away, and the sun began its descent, casting golden hues across the

sky, reflecting off the brilliant white clouds. I remembered my antler and ran to grab it before we

left. Sandy looked at me and smiled softly. “Nature has a way of teaching us about resilience, doesn’t

it? Just like the way antlers grow back every year, we too can find ways to endure.”

I wondered what she fully meant. Did she sense something I couldn’t?

Before we left, I hugged Sandy tightly. Then I turned and hugged Junior, too. “We’ll visit sooner next time. I promise.” I truly meant it. I would make sure to be better about seeing them.

Once home, I found the perfect place to display my trophy - on the mantle in the living room, surrounded by cherished family photos. To me, it was more than a trinket; it was a memory

encapsulated, something to look back on, a moment in time. A story to tell and a new patch on the quilt. Each time I looked at it, I was reminded of my adventure, the stories we shared, and the bond

I had with family.

I got to see Sandy again soon, like I had promised, not even a week later. But this visit was different.

She was asleep, motionless and pale. In contrast to the wood she lay in. She was as lifeless as the antler I had found just days ago. A piece of nature that would never move again. I stood next to the casket, a lump forming in my throat. I wanted to reach out, to grasp her hand in mine. I wished to feel the warmth of her hand, the warmth of our happy memories, her smile, her laugh, and her

kindness. I wished for one more story, one more adventure before time stole it all away. I hated being forced to drive in the mud, but knowing it was the last memory I had of her, I let go. My

heart was heavy, the antler was a reminder of life, and of loss.

The cold grip of reality settled in, and I realized I had underestimated how fleeting life could be.

I didn’t think my goodbye would be for good.