Autumn brings a crisp edge to the air, the rich colours of leaves and scads of waterfowl, as hunting season begins.
I’m not exactly a fan of the sport. My sons, Justin and Chris, have learned to tread lightly around me when it comes to their own bloodthirsty ways – making it hard to comprehend why they would ever dream of asking me to accompany them duck hunting. I think Chris asked me on a whim, never expecting I’d agree. I thought of it solely as precious time spent with my boys. (Also, I have to admit, I was hoping to warn the ducks.)
As a sliver of light edged over the horizon, I stepped outside my door. A frigid October wind sliced through my thin coat.
“Hold it!” I announced. Marching back inside, I applied four more sweaters, three pairs of long underwear, ski pants, two hats and my husband’s enormous canvas coat. Oh, and some furry gauntlets like people wear snowmobiling when it’s -40 C. Now, I was ready. Chris could be seen tapping his steering wheel impatiently by the time I trod heavily to the truck. I swung each leg out stiffly in a sweeping motion, arms slashing, each step calculated, robotic and deliberate.
“Help,” I said, pausing rigidly beside the back door of his enormous 4x4. My loving sons tossed me into the back seat and we rumbled off across the brown prairie grass.
Pulling up to the edge of a slough, west of our farm, Chris parked near a forest of rustling cattails. The men hopped out, shouldered their guns and strode over to a canoe secreted beneath a tarp in the weeds.
“What’s this?” I demanded sharply, “No one said anything about a boat.” My boys know I have a dreadful fear of water. “What if we tip?” I whine. “I’m sporting 50 pounds of extra clothing. I’ll go down like a rock!”
“We’ll drag you out – eventually,” Justin assured me nastily, holding out a hand to help me board before climbing in behind.
Sadly, there comes a time in every parent’s life where the tables turn and the parent becomes the child. This was mine. Grimly I held each side of the flimsy craft and moaned with each surge forward into the murky water.
“Stop whimpering,” Justin hissed, “You’ll scare away the birds.”
They rowed into an area thick with rushes where we stopped and took up arms. Well, they took up arms, I hunkered miserably between them thinking of my soft bed at home. Suddenly, quacking could be heard and the whooshing of many wings heading our way.
“BANG, BANG!” Shots rang out beside me and a bird plummeted from the sky. Then another dropped in a tangle of wings and splashed into the water.
“Oh no,” I cried in distress, “Those poor, defenceless ducks. There they were, innocently flapping along without a care in the world, and you shot them dead. I’ll bet they had devoted families too – wives, husbands – maybe children who’ll have to forge onward in their lonely journey south without loved ones. All so you can gnaw on their sad little bones at the dinner table.” I looked accusingly at my sons as they picked up oars to begin retrieval of the birds.
“Jeez, I almost feel guilt,” said Justin, gazing toward the protruding feathers. His rowing ceased.
“Alright, that’s it,” Chris rounded on me with a scowl. “You’ve been nothing but trouble all morning. Either you’re quiet or we row you back to shore and you can sit in the truck.” He turned decisively to lift a bedraggled bird from the waves and watched with immense satisfaction as its life force ebbed away and it went on to that great duck pond in the sky. (Exaggeration for effect.)
I shrank down and was silent. “I suppose this isn’t a good time to tell you I have to use the bathroom?” I ventured moments later, peering up from under my two hats. Remember I said the tables had turned?
Yes, hunting season is here again, but it will likely pass without me in attendance. I’ll enjoy watching flocks of mallards winging by overhead, the occasional group of sandhill cranes flapping slowly past, or hear geese honking late at night over on the slough, but I won’t go hunting again.
Doubt if I’d be asked.
