Yes, it is safe to say I was raised in a butcher shop.

“If you kill it, you eat it.”


That’s what dad always told my brothers and me. And so it was. The squirrels we shot from trees, steers we raised from birth, and panfish that floated back to the pond’s surface after the hook had been pulled free, all came to rest in the center of Ma’s dining room table, circled by bowed heads and folded hands.

Ron Shutter, the author’s father, with her and his rifle buck taken in Alpine, New York, circa 1990.

The lesson to be learned was always the same – respect.




Respect any weapon you hold, the land you hunt, the meat you harvest, the mothers and calves you care for, the direction you’re given, and every responsibility that comes with lowering a cheek and giving the trigger that slow-and-steady pull.




Early on, we learned the importance of sitting quietly in the woods on frosty mornings with our backs pressed stiffly against rough trunks, our breathing slow and quiet as we waited and watched dad react to the sudden grunts made by nearby whitetails. As we grew, the knife was passed from my father to my brothers and me, then back again as organs were removed and dad pointed, named, and asked the three of us questions about the purpose and function of each squishy mass we touched.




Later, we ventured into the woods on our own – heading out well before sunrise wielding guns, knives, supplies and the confidence he’d instilled in us. We’d sit alone in stands we placed ourselves or against trunks of trees that bordered Brian’s Plot, a silky green acre covered in thick alfalfa, dotted with fruitful apple trees, and named for my father’s brother – the man who’d pulled countless deer from that very patch of green in years past.



Matthew Shutter, the author’s brother, with a rifle buck taken from “those acres on the hill.”

Once a kill had been dressed, it was moved to the clean concrete apron at the custom butcher shop my father opened in the early 80’s. There, at Shutter’s Custom Meats, located in our lower driveway just a stone’s throw from the two-story cabin where I was raised, the whole family went to work. Each one of us had a role – skinning, hanging, cleaning, quartering, breaking down and cooling each carcass.



Shutter’s Custom Meats founder, Ron Shutter, the author’s father, before hanging quarters of beef.

My father removed hides and heads.

My youngest brother tossed forelegs into barrels.

My middle brother salted, folded and stored capes for mounts and tanning.

Ma trimmed fat, sinew and silverskin from every roast and steak, and wrapped them all with ease and precision.

I cleaned bones, fed the grinder, tied bags of grinds, and wrapped standing at the counter beside my mother.

It was a tradition – our tradition – something the five of us had always shared, for as far back as I’m able to remember. And while long weekends together in the shop butchering, cutting, wrapping and cleaning cows, pigs, goats, lambs and deer were sometimes torture, and my dad’s ruthless taunting and teasing sometimes elicited tears, most of my greatest memories include that land, that building and, of course, those Shutter folk. Dad’s direction, the slide of a steel against a dull blade, the hum of a grinder hard at work, constant ribbing between my brothers and me, clean bones clanking on the sides of an old metal barrel… these are the sounds that accompany my memories of fall, family and those 80 acres on the hill that I’ll always call home.

“And at the end of the day, I am thankful there are bones to clean.” – Melissa Shutter, author.

It’s thanks to these people, and because of these opportunities to watch, hunt, catch, listen and clean that I discovered pleasure in the work and value in the knowledge that today allows me to take care of myself and the people I love most.