Although our relationship was still far from ideal, and we held vastly differing views on most subjects, my father had learned a great deal over the years between my 18th birthday and my early twenties. As we talked, it became more and more apparent that neither of us really wanted to be out here freezing our backsides off. Dad had reached an age where the damp cold went to his bones and joints and made him really uncomfortable, but he didn't want to disappoint me . I had come to a point in life where I liked walking in the fields and enjoying nature, but didn't really enjoy doing it on a cold, wet morning with a loaded weapon in my hands, I kept doing it because I didn't want to disappoint Dad . Finally, we just stopped and looked at each other for a moment, and silently acknowledged the end of an era.
Tradition is like that sometimes.
For years, tradition serves us. I wouldn't trade those Thanksgiving mornings in the woods, or the memory of returning to a warm kitchen with the intoxicating aroma of thanksgiving dinner in preparation, for anything in the world. The memory of that tradition is warm and wonderful, and I will cherish it as long as I live. There comes a time, however, when tradition no longer serves us, but we serve it . If we fail to honor that tradition by retiring it and moving on to a new era, we allow that tradition to grow cold and lifeless, and risk losing the memory of the sweet days when the tradition served us .