Strange Hunt

It was hot that afternoon. Even the shade of the large oak above offered little reprieve from the summer sun, unwilling to give way to fall’s milder temperatures. But it was dove season and Papa said the birds were flying, so there we were.

He sat atop on old, 5 gallon, chemical bucket, well worn and faded, with a hole cut out of the side so that he didn’t have to get up to put away another downed bird. His large, black coated lab sat by his side panting away the heat and gnats that pestered him. My dog, Grace, laid down beside me, lifting her head occasionally to check on the action. It was just the four of us that afternoon and we decided to sit close and talk rather than spread out for an earnest attempt at keeping the birds up.  He was in no hurry and neither was I.

We talked a while about the little things in life, made predictions about this years football team, and confessed that we really didn’t know what we were talking about. We talked about my pregnant wife at home and laughed about how I may have a chore list a mile long by the time I got home. I asked him about all the finer points of being a father and how to know right from wrong. I listened intently and smiled when he told me some of his best memories. There was something peculiar about that day, that moment. I felt the need to ask him everything all at once. I wanted all of his knowledge and wisdom right then. It was an unusual feeling.

I did manage to knock down a bird between my questions and missed several more. He never raised his gun, just sat there, intent on watching. I stared at him. I looked at him like I have never looked at him before. I saw the wrinkles on his face and noticed the way his eyes smiled when he talked about the things that he loved. I watched him stroke the black dog’s ear with a warm kindness. It was like each brush of his hand brought a new memory of hunts gone by. I think he knew there was something unique about this day too.

Sitting there as the sun began to set, I took my time in telling him my thoughts. I don’t know why, but I shared with him everything I felt and why I felt that way. He listened in earnest. He always had the knack for making a person feel heard without having to respond. And, as always, his replies put me at ease and opened me up to even deeper thoughts.

It was just about dark when I had said just about everything that could be said. The crickets were singing their summer song and the cicada’s were starting to drown out any new thoughts I might come up with. I looked down at my watch, realizing the time, I apologized to him and told him that I really needed to get home. He said he understood. I gathered up my things and began walking away. After a few steps, I turned back to him and asked if we could do it again next week.  He said he hoped so.

I got back to my truck just as the sun faded into the night. Grace loaded up in the passenger seat. I drove through the gate and locked it behind me, no one else would be coming out tonight. The whole drive home I wondered if he would really be there next week. I looked forward to talking to him again, even if it was only in my imagination.