• Originally published July 16, 2008 at 11:43 p.m., updated July 16, 2008 at 11:43 p.m.

“The greatest gift of life is friendship, and I have received it.”

- Hubert H. Humphrey

The little hunting cabin out in the woods off U.S. Highway 77 won’t be the same come November, because Charles Jackson won’t be there.

I got word today that Charles had passed away overnight and, as happens at such times, a flood of memories washed over me.

I couldn’t help but smile, even with the great sense of loss I felt for this man who toiled for almost three decades at the Advocate, but who I remember best for all his help each deer season, and for all the fun we shared at the camp.

Charles was the man who made sure we half-baked hunters had everything we needed, whether it was a hot cup of coffee before he drove us out to our deer blinds in the pre-dawn darkness, or (I confess) a strong drink during one of our all-night domino games.

Charles was a good domino player, but he was never quite as good as he thought. Nevertheless, when a partner and I opposed Charles and his partner, and had a rare win, I’d rub it in good, because I never knew how long it would be until the next victory.

When Charles won a game, he’d let out this high-pitched, signature laugh like someone calling in the coyotes. But it was the kind of laugh that always made you smile, and always made you just feel good.

Charles’ boots on the wooden floor of the hunting cabin was the first sound you always heard in the morning. I never knew him to fail to click on that dad-gummed light at five o’clock sharp, even when the night games had gone too late and I just wanted to sleep some more.

Charles was often the target of some harsh joking around when he made certain mistakes at the camp, like sticking a truck in the mud or emptying a rifle without hitting anything. Once, he was supposed to dispatch a wild hog with a shot to the head, but instead blew the poor creature’s nose off.

Charles endured the heckling over that, but I think deep down it bothered him more that the hog suffered for a few moments until he could put it out of its misery.

Yessir, Charles Jackson was a man of many talents, but the one thing he could do better than anyone else I ever saw was skin a deer. Using some ancient knife that looked like it had been honed in the Bronze Age, he effortlessly cleaned up the animal and then would often cut and wrap it up for cold storage.

I guess that old knife will still be out there this year at the little hunting cabin on 77, but it probably won’t move as fast.

And the folks who hunt there each year will surely miss the sound of those boots on the floor, and the click of that light switch at precisely 5 a.m.

Somehow, though, I think his presence will still be felt.

Jim Bishop is a senior editor for the Advocate. Leave him a message at 361-574-1210 or jbishop@vicad.com or comment on this column at www.victoriaadvocate.com

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