A HUNTER WITH DREAMS story

Morning dew was like a wet blanket wrapped around our shoulders. My grandson Matt and I waited patiently among the sheltering shrubs alongside Cooking Lake, Alberta. He adjusted the leather strap on his backpack, placed a duck call to his lips and lovingly patted last Christmas’ gift of a 12-gage shotgun across his legs, prepared for quick movement. I hunched beside him, sharing his eagerness for any duck activity.

We scanned the horizon, as embers of sun prepared to burst into an egg yolk of brilliance. I hoped his left leg wouldn’t cramp up again. Absentmindedly he gave it a rub, felt the weight of his weapon, took a deep breath, then released the tension, excitement almost overwhelming him. Now I was sure he was ready. So was I, even though I was simply an observer during this grandson-grandfather outing.

Mallard flocks and Teal hurried by several times, too high right now for a good shot. This waiting for the correct moment was like a game of chess; your move feathery ones.

Yesterday about this time Matt was carrying a bucket of grain for the sheep on his dad’s ranch. Within bellowing Baa’s from 21 wooly critters jostling in line for their regular munching he whistled his usual morning tune. The words were jumbled, same as his life had been these past few months, but we knew it helped him be patient with himself, something he needed working on.

That’s why we were here, together. This little hunting trip was a chance for us to chat. Different generations would share the cold of early morning. And when the time was right, talk. About himself, his parents, his life and his dreams. I promised to listen.

Things were getting a little better between mom, dad and himself since leaving his love nest and coming home. They warned him about the mess he was stepping into, but his stubbornness didn’t help. “It’s dad’s fault,” he said earnestly, looking me straight in the eye. “Dad expects too much from me. So I had to move on.”

His nineteen-year old seriousness almost made me smile. So young about life I thought.

Thank goodness, his girlfriend finally laid it on the line, saying, “Maybe it’s time for you to take a hike.” And Matt did. Living together was a tricky option, especially with another man’s child as part of the household. Changing diapers, keeping household expenses under control, and dealing with a young woman was a hefty responsibility.

“That really wasn’t the worst problem,” he confided. “Her ex was always hanging around, ignoring the Court’s Peace Bond, forgetting the many times he threatened her if she looked at another man.” I knew Matt didn’t enjoy the hassle of being considered a second hand husband every time George phoned the house all hours of the day.

Everyone was pleased when Matt left that unsavory situation and returned to the family farm, helping out with needed chores, being where he was missed, and loved.

I watched him stir in his memories, as we both looked up. Several ducks had broken off from a group, perhaps sent ahead to secure a safe landing spot. They came closer. Matt’s simulated calling teased them back and forth, finally heading them in the right direction.

From a kneeling position his shotgun blast knocked one unsuspecting Mallard from its flight path, parachuting it to the ground. Almost like a lump of fallen dreams tumbling from the sky. Another shot went astray and a fleeing pile of feathers retreated in shock, leaving its mate behind.

With no further action in the sky, Matt retrieved his catch and hung it from a protruding branch. We exchanged digital pictures as the egg yolk of sky arose warmly over us. It was about this time yesterday we spotted a coyote lingering by the neighbor’s woodpile. It’s gray color with black on the bottom third of its tail wiggled happily as the creature pranced in anticipation looking for mice.

At the time we wondered if Matt should get his .22 and pot off the cute dog-looking killer. A year of steaks would be a sure bet that animal was part of the pack responsible for ravaging a dozen of his father’s sheep last autumn,

As we pondered when to head home, another flock came by and this time Matt’s shooting was quite successful. Two more flying missiles were flushed from the sky with one just winged and doing a flopping dance in the shallow end of the lake. Getting up in a rush Matt sloshed through the shoreline water. I didn’t have the same spurt of energy and allowed him to pick up my trophy.

The wounded mallard stared without fear somehow understanding this was the end. A broken neck soon removed nature’s magnificent creature from an episode of further pain. “Some humans are like that, Matt,” I said gently. “Wounded, feeling useless and unwanted waiting for doom.” It was my turn to look him directly face to face. “That’s why you must draw strength from the family, from people who care about you.”

We knew this duck would be tasty, not useless and unwanted. And offering itself up as a small feast for tonight’s supper, would take the sting out of its removal from the flock.

“Yes, life is full of decisions,” I said. “Like knowing when to leave Alice and return home.” Now he’ll have a chance for renewal within his own family, a re-focusing of his future. Bringing home meat for the table, would be his peace offering--for mom, dad and his brother, Travis. It was indeed an opportunity to share with loved ones. And seek forgiveness for hasty words he left behind.

“Someday I want to have my own farm,” Matt said, interrupting my thoughts. As we chatted we knew, with support from his family, he was destined to have better days ahead. And I was never prouder of him, than right now. Just then another flock approached our location. Matt blew a calling, sighted down the barrel, focused on his end bead, and fired.

“Got him!” I shouted.

Matt’s smile was wider than the full-blown sun.

* * *

© Richard L. Provencher 2008

Richard & Esther Provencher invite you to read their first of three novels ‘FOOTPRINTS” now available from www.synergebooks.com. “Someone’s
Son” and “Into The Fire” will also be available soon by the same company. These books were written during the first several years while Richard was recovering from his stroke, which felled him in 1999. He is still recovering.

The link to “FOOTPRINTS” is as follows: http://www.synergebooks.com/ebook_footprints.html