Following a recent outing into the fall woods, then brightened by dabs from a fiery color wheel, I stopped for a moment and looked toward the spot where the old shooting tree once stood.

I knew it was no longer there. It had fallen unceremoniously to the ground a few years ago. But ever curious about every inch of the family land I hunt, I walked over to examine what was left of the tree, now a rotting log lying on a thick bed of dead leaves and withering away with every passing day. I saw a spent, 20-gauge shotgun shell stuck in the ground, and naturally, Papaw came to mind. That's nothing unusual, especially this time of year, but I wondered if it was possible that he could have pulled the trigger that fired this particular shell toward our target.

In the seven years since Papaw passed away, few days have passed when I haven't thought of him, or thought I heard his chuckle. And whenever Thanksgiving comes around, it's like he's with me.

My maternal grandfather, Papaw Hicks as we called him, was one of my best friends. We were born 60 years apart, but our bond transcended time. I wanted to be just like him and was with him every day in the summers of my youth, working his garden, fishing on Lake Norman and venturing through the country — one time sideways through a ditch — in one of his Ford trucks (It also meant I was honestly nervous when I first showed him the new Chevy I bought).

Those days were so special I wish I could have bottled some for the future.

The old shooting tree at the edge of my parents' back yard was already enjoying its final upright days when we began shooting at it as sort of a tradition on Thanksgiving mornings. We'd pull out all the family guns and just fire away at it, with each impact splintering wood in every direction. Papaw, a quail hunter in his early years, would also bring Coke cans to the shoot and toss them into the air. He could hit each one repetitively and keep it angling upward, a skill that apparently did not get passed down to his second grandson. The shooting always began about nine o'clock, after the morning deer hunt, the most anticipated of the year, had concluded.

The hunting and shooting tradition of Thanksgiving is deeply rooted in me. Papaw's one of the main reasons why.

First gun

I'm not sure what it was that Papaw loved about Thanksgiving. He never said. And ironically, though we ate together countless times over the years, we never shared a Thanksgiving meal. That tradition was spent with other family members.

Whatever it was about the holiday — something passed on from his youth or whatever — he made the day special for me very early on, as evidenced by one photo. It was snapped on Thanksgiving morning 1985 when I was 5 years old.

Papaw stopped by to visit and had an unwrapped present for me, one that I would not get to fully enjoy for many years to come, but one that I could at least declare was mine, even though I had no way of comprehending just what it was.

He presented me with one of his oldest shotguns, a side-by-side 20 gauge double barrel with two triggers, one he had toted through Lord knows how many acres in his hunting days.

One of my earliest memories is what happened next. He set up a can or bottle of some kind, knelt down and held the shotgun in the shooting position, the stock up against his right shoulder, his left hand on the fore end. Then he brought me over to stand with him and let me pull the trigger. I can remember the sudden blast, the smoke dissipating, my eyes widening and the laugh we shared.

From a pure safety perspective, it's not something I would recommend for a 5-year-old. However, Papaw was in control, and it was a thrill for me then. It also serenaded the beginning of a great relationship.

I've looked at that picture in passing quite a bit recently. Then again, it's November, and I just can't help it.

Insurance

Now that I have a son, and another child on the way, my perspective has changed. I'm getting older and now understand more about what Papaw was doing when he gave me that first gun and, a few years later, also on Thanksgiving, gave me another with which I eventually bagged my first deer. He wasn't just giving me guns to use because I needed them; there was more to it. He was giving me his history, his hunting stories and his treasures. And in another sense, he was giving himself some insurance.

He knew that one day he'd be gone, and it made him proud to know that somewhere, years after his death, I, or maybe my son, would be carrying his gun through some muddy field or thick brush and thinking of him. He was right. Whenever I hold Papaw's guns, I can feel his presence beside me, see his face and hear his voice.

As I stood near the old shooting tree the other day, I realized I was mere feet from where Papaw and I last exited the woods together. It was the day before Thanksgiving in 2003, a day I remember quite well. We had ventured out during the middle of the day and taken up separate stands. I actually saw a few deer blaze through the woods just after we split. The deer were intent on finding cover anyway, couldn't be spooked any further, so I just yelled Papaw's way so that he could turn and see them. But he didn't hear me.

Later, after we met up to walk out, Papaw became tangled in some brush. He was cradling his gun with both hands, but his feet were just stuck amid some low vines. As I took him by the arm and helped him step free, our eyes met for what was probably less than a second. He, like many men from his era, had a lot of pride. He had been so strong throughout his simple, hard-working life, had run a service station for 40 or so years, and that I had to help him get untangled, I know, broke his heart.

The date was Nov. 26. Neither of us knew then that we would never again walk together along a wooded path and stride to the soundtrack of crunching leaves. We had walked many miles side-by-side, and it was truly the end of an era. But walks in the woods aside, we certainly had no idea the next Nov. 26 would be the date of his funeral.

Last visits

In early November 2004, my doorbell rang on a Saturday morning, and it was Papaw, who appeared to have something on his mind.

He could be that way, wasn't great at hiding his intentions. When I was growing up, we'd see his truck driving slowly by our house, and we'd just laugh. He didn't want to interrupt anything if we were busy, but it was clear he wanted to stop in and get us involved in something. We were always glad to see him.

We sat together on the couch that day and chatted only briefly. He said he couldn't stay long, didn't want to impose, though in my mind there was no one more welcome in my living room.

I didn't know it then, but Papaw was on a farewell tour. He knew he wasn't feeling well, that his time was nearing, and it was as if he had a checklist.

Papaw was hospitalized soon after, with what I'm not sure. I visited him there, and to me, he looked okay. He had already outlived all his siblings and most of his friends, and though he had often expressed to me that he was ready to go, I always said, "We're not done with you yet." The way I saw it — and hoped — he was going to live forever.

As I stood in the hospital room that day, oblivious to the clock ticking away his final days, Papaw needed to be repositioned in his bed. And for the second time in a year, our eyes met in the midst of an unfortunate circumstance. The look, so deep from his translucent blue eyes and into his soul, was the same one I saw in the brush the previous November:

"Boy, I just can't move, and dadgummit, I need your help. Boy, you know I used to could do this. I hope you never feel this old."

His body was limp, and he was helpless as we moved him. But even then, I reasoned, it would turn out alright.

I got the call six days later, on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, as I was putting the finishing touches on a newspaper. It was time to say goodbye, but before I could begin to collect my thoughts and make my way to the hospital, the phone rang again. Papaw was gone.

It seemed impossible, yet also fitting in a sense, that he left this world so close to the holiday we cherished together, though admittedly, we didn't really know what to do without him for the first time. So on that Thanksgiving, we blasted as many shells as our ears and shoulders could stand, ate some turkey, then shook hands for two straight hours at his visitation.

A lasting legacy

Life has not been the same without Papaw. There's still a discernible void, which is no surprise for any of us. He was quite the character, the family entertainer, a storyteller and one sweet, caring man who seldom expressed his love through words. For Papaw, it was always what he did that made him special, and he dearly loved his grandchildren. Any of my cousins could attach their name to a similarly themed piece about him.

Since his passing, the days and years have rolled by, and the clock's chime has brought with it joyous and trying moments. When tough times have come, I have often thought of Papaw's simple, consistent and strong-willed approach to life.

When he spilled tobacco on my Grandma's dress one day, he immediately quit chewing after many years. When his brother died, he told me he wouldn't cry because he had made peace with God on the matter. Folks around Denver used to say they could set their clock by when his store lights went on every morning. He worked long hours, but Sundays were for church and free time was for family. Even when life's struggles came, he always had a way of lightening the mood with a silly comment or a laugh that was more like a guffaw.

Three years after his death, life's roller coaster dropped my wife Shanda and I off at the same hospital where Papaw took his last breath. That November, just weeks before Thanksgiving, we saw Jett, our son, take his first breath from that same pocket of air. It's a connection I didn't think about until later, but one I now cherish.

Though Jett and Papaw never met on this earth — and it would have been like watching fireworks to see them together — I'm proud to be the link between them.

Papaw's guns, which will eventually be passed on to the great-grandson he never knew, are symbolic of that bond, the connection we all share. But I've found Papaw's legacy is about more than shotgun blasts in the chilled November air, spent shells collapsing to the Carolina clay and Coke cans being blown into bits by guns he once held dear.

It's that more than 2,500 days have passed since his death, and I still find myself wishing we could share another walk in the woods. Just a short one.

Just one more.