My uncle likes to tell hunting stories this time of the year – deer hunting tales, specifically – about my father and his two brothers and their annual treks to the Machias woods for the fall sojourn.

My father was never much of an outdoorsman. He did become quite a fly fisherman in his later years, enjoying time with his best friend, Ralph, on the open water.

My father’s brothers, Glenn and Roscoe, loved to recall their days in the woods with Dad. November will always remind me of the three big men, walking through the woods, searching for the clever, elusive, white-tailed deer.

I have many fond memories of Thanksgiving at my grandmother’s Scarborough home. That old white clapboard structure used to rock with her booming laugh. My, was she a great cook, and an even better host.

It was there on the annual family holiday that I first tasted venison. I must admit that it was a unique experience for a youngster used to beef and fish. Nana had a special recipe for the meat that made it so seasoned and so tender that it became the favorite fare of the entire meal.

Family stories still abound that Uncle Roscoe was the true marksman of the Brown clan. My uncle Glenn says his brother could pick a whisker off a deer’s lip at 200 yards, an impressive feat indeed.

Although my father spent much of his early years cutting meat of all varieties, most hunting stories that were passed down to me during the holiday season spoke of Roscoe’s handling of his prized Winchester rifle and my father’s noisy hunting style.

Heavy footed, Dad would plod along, scaring prey away until he joined his father, my Grampa Deck, back at the camp to cook the evening meal. My grandfather, a house painter by trade, was the family chef at those excursions. I have to give him credit for teaching my own father to be such a wonderful cook.

One of my father’s favorite passions was to cook outdoors. Imagine the smell of Irish stew, made with deer meat, fresh vegetables, and seasoning, boiling over an open fire. Waiting for the hungry crew to return “home” from the hunt must have been quite a sight to behold when the evening meal’s scent hit their nostrils.

The most famous fall tale of all in our family was the day a much younger Doug Brown bagged a trophy buck in the Down East woods.

Oh, my. I can’t imagine the glee of a fourteen year old boy, shooting that deer in front of all those relatives. That broad smile must have stretched from ear to ear. When my father grinned, he lit up the place.

Picture Dad’s excitement of loading the animal on the train in Machias and traveling with it to Portland, a place the family moved in 1943.

My father never took me hunting. That sport remained reserved for brothers who spent Thanksgiving morning attempting to add to the already-crowded menu Nana and my dear mother were preparing back at the house.

In fact, those memories are passed on now by our beloved cousin Hazel, the family historian, who resides in Skowhegan.

This season is the hardest time after the death of loved ones.

Dad was larger than life to all who knew him. His own Thanksgivings were spent carving the turkey and making certain everyone had more than enough to eat.

And how he loved to entertain.

If you had the good fortune to attend one of Doug’s turkey dinners, then you’d be wise to unbuckle your belt a notch or two before you sat down.

Plan ahead by eating a light breakfast, for my father grew up in a family which loved to eat. Combine that with a career grocery man who loved to entertain, and you’ve got the makings of some special meals and times together.

No, Dad wasn’t the greatest hunter. That skill was reserved for his brothers, his uncles, and his father. But he could cook and serve, just like Nana and Grampa Deck.

And the hunting tales and the holiday memories will last well into the next generation of the Brown family. That’s what this time of the year is really all about.

NEWS columnist Ron Brown, a retired high school basketball coach, can be reached at bdnsports@bangordailynews.net