Randy Kidd
08-21-2004, 02:00 PM
This is kind of long.
The musty smell of damp leaves and moist earth was as familiar as those of brewing coffee or of fresh gun oil. The silence of the pre dawn darkness still made his heart beat a little harder, and his breathing a little faster. Not out of the slight fear of the dark as it had in his youth, but from the anticipation of the coming season.
And in this the last few minutes before the eastern sky begins to tinge indigo and magenta he begins to remember, something that he has always done at this exact moment on this exact day for the last 40 years, it has become as familiar as the smells and sounds and he has learned to anticipate it as much as any of the other rituals that comprise opening day.
Summer of 1964 was a magical time, The boy now 10 had begun his first job, two jobs actually, delivering newspapers to 53 homes in the mornings, seven days a week, and working at his Great Uncle Ed’s Sunoco filling station, sweeping floors, cleaning bathrooms and keeping the oil cans on display outside the station in neatly stacked pyramids. He worked hard and was rewarded often by his uncles boasts to the regular customers that if he didn’t keep an eye on him his great nephew would “steal my business right out from under me”. Part of the money he made was going to a few of the necessities that are dear to 10 year old boys, slot cars, fireworks and baseball cards. But most of it was going into the old tin box that he kept hidden in his room. That money was for something special. A hunting coat, he had been shopping with his dad at Sears one spring day when he saw the coat, a real canvas hunting coat, the kind with all the pockets with loops that held shotgun shells, and it had a pouch in the back where you could carry all the game you had taken. He tried it on and even though it was a little long in the sleeves it felt just right. He looked at the price tag hanging out of the right sleeve, seeing the price of $18.00 dollars his heart sank. Knowing that with his allowance of fifty cents a week he would never be able to afford the coat by September. He put the coat back on the rack without saying a word; He did not see the slight smile one his fathers face as he walked over to the display where they kept all of the penknives.
It had been something he had done with his father a long as he could remember, had been going out to the fields on cool mornings to shoot targets, First the .22 rifle, Hours were spent by his father showing the boy all about the safety, and how to aim, and when to aim, It seemed like forever before he actually got to shoot the rifle, He missed a lot at first but by the end of the day he was hitting the black dot drawn onto the paper plate almost every time. Same with the .410 shotgun, dad said it had been his since he was a boy. It was a single shot kind and it made a loud boom when his older brother shot it, when it was his turn he closed his eyes yanked the trigger, a loud boom but it did not “kick” like he thought it would. He kept his eyes open after that first shot, and soon they were blowing up the apples that dad had brought for targets with ease.
September came and school started, His Mother and Father had made him quit his paper route saying a boy of ten should concentrate on school. He really didn’t mind since because of school he would have to get up everyday before sunrise to deliver the papers before school. He got to keep his job at the filling station because it was on the weekends.
Opening day of small game hunting was on a Tuesday that year so he knew he would be going out to the woods with his Dad and Great Uncle that weekend, He had been going hunting with them for four seasons now and considered himself quite the hunter. Even though he was still a little afraid sitting quietly in the dark woods before the sun came up, he would hear his fathers breathing beside him and his fear would go away. He had learned to watch the treetops for bowing, shaking branches when there was no wind. He had learned to look for the shells of chewed up acorns and hickory nuts scattered underneath trees and in little piles on logs and stumps. He was always proud when he spotted the twitching of a tail on the side of a tree or hanging off of a fat tree limb and showing these to his dad with quiet slow points and whispers. That had been the hardest to learn. At first he would get so excited that he saw one he would almost shout it to his dad, The Squirrels would scamper and hide, His Father never got angry, he would just smile and say “looks like no squirrel stew tonight” He tried hard to be quiet, and after a while he learned. And his father always told him “good eye son” when the squirrel would go into the pouch on my fathers back.
Monday night Dad was getting all of his hunting things ready, wiping down his gun with oil, rubbing Neets foot oil into his old hunting boots, Hanging his old hunting coat outside to air out, Getting cans of Vienna sausages and sardines along with a box of saltines out of the cupboard. He would secretly fill his tiny silver flask from the bottle of Old Grandad whiskey he kept in the Kitchen. He went to bed thinking how lucky his Dad was because he could take the day off of work to go hunting while he had to go to school,
He was shaken out of his sleep by his Father saying “time to get up” before he could say anything his father said “Do you want to go hunting with me and Uncle Ed today” he was out of the bed like a shot, scrambling to get his clothes on his father told him that coffee and biscuits were ready in the kitchen. Now he had taken sips of his fathers coffee before but this morning when he reached for his Fathers cup his dad put his hand on the cup and said “ How old are you boy” The boy told him he would be 11 next month. The father said, “you are old enough for your own cup” The hot, bitter black liquid never tasted so good. He finished his biscuit and coffee as his father came in from the porch with his hunting coat under his arm. The boy jumped up and went to the closet to get his jean jacket the man said, “ how old did you say you were boy” “11 next month” the boy replied. “Well then you are old enough” and from under his own coat the father pulled a real canvas-hunting coat and tossed it to the boy, it was the same coat he had looked at In Sears in the spring. Before the boy could say anything the father said it was time to leave and pick up uncle Ed. They pulled the station wagon under the old Oak quietly closed doors. Their hunt would start just 100 yards into the trees. The boy stood hands shoved deep into the pockets of his new coat, fingering the loops that would someday hold rows of shells, while the men lowered the tailgate on the wagon and started sliding shiny black shotguns from the padded cloth cases. When they were done the Father turned to the boy and said “tell your uncle how old you are boy” The boy looked at his uncle and said “11 next month” the Uncle looked at the father and said “that’s how old you were wasn’t it boy” the father said “yep” The uncle looked down at the boy and said “ You’re old enough” and from inside the wagon he handed the boy a brand new shiny .410 shotgun. Just like his fathers old one. His pocket loops now filled with shells they walked into the dark woods. No longer feeling the fear of the dark, sitting next to his father on the old log as daylight crept into the tops of the trees, He scanned the tree tops the weight of the shotgun resting across his knees, the smell of the fresh gun oil filling his nose. The faint sound of scraping claws on wood the flicker of orange and gray tail. The sound of his Fathers whisper “take him” He never felt or heard the gun go off, he only saw the squirrel fall to the ground and the smile on his fathers face.
As the light in the trees became a glow a familiar scraping sound from the tree in front of him brought him back from the memories of the past, as two squirrels ran around the tree he looked down at the boy sitting next to him on the log. He asked for what seemed like the fifth time that morning “ How old did you say you were again boy”.
The musty smell of damp leaves and moist earth was as familiar as those of brewing coffee or of fresh gun oil. The silence of the pre dawn darkness still made his heart beat a little harder, and his breathing a little faster. Not out of the slight fear of the dark as it had in his youth, but from the anticipation of the coming season.
And in this the last few minutes before the eastern sky begins to tinge indigo and magenta he begins to remember, something that he has always done at this exact moment on this exact day for the last 40 years, it has become as familiar as the smells and sounds and he has learned to anticipate it as much as any of the other rituals that comprise opening day.
Summer of 1964 was a magical time, The boy now 10 had begun his first job, two jobs actually, delivering newspapers to 53 homes in the mornings, seven days a week, and working at his Great Uncle Ed’s Sunoco filling station, sweeping floors, cleaning bathrooms and keeping the oil cans on display outside the station in neatly stacked pyramids. He worked hard and was rewarded often by his uncles boasts to the regular customers that if he didn’t keep an eye on him his great nephew would “steal my business right out from under me”. Part of the money he made was going to a few of the necessities that are dear to 10 year old boys, slot cars, fireworks and baseball cards. But most of it was going into the old tin box that he kept hidden in his room. That money was for something special. A hunting coat, he had been shopping with his dad at Sears one spring day when he saw the coat, a real canvas hunting coat, the kind with all the pockets with loops that held shotgun shells, and it had a pouch in the back where you could carry all the game you had taken. He tried it on and even though it was a little long in the sleeves it felt just right. He looked at the price tag hanging out of the right sleeve, seeing the price of $18.00 dollars his heart sank. Knowing that with his allowance of fifty cents a week he would never be able to afford the coat by September. He put the coat back on the rack without saying a word; He did not see the slight smile one his fathers face as he walked over to the display where they kept all of the penknives.
It had been something he had done with his father a long as he could remember, had been going out to the fields on cool mornings to shoot targets, First the .22 rifle, Hours were spent by his father showing the boy all about the safety, and how to aim, and when to aim, It seemed like forever before he actually got to shoot the rifle, He missed a lot at first but by the end of the day he was hitting the black dot drawn onto the paper plate almost every time. Same with the .410 shotgun, dad said it had been his since he was a boy. It was a single shot kind and it made a loud boom when his older brother shot it, when it was his turn he closed his eyes yanked the trigger, a loud boom but it did not “kick” like he thought it would. He kept his eyes open after that first shot, and soon they were blowing up the apples that dad had brought for targets with ease.
September came and school started, His Mother and Father had made him quit his paper route saying a boy of ten should concentrate on school. He really didn’t mind since because of school he would have to get up everyday before sunrise to deliver the papers before school. He got to keep his job at the filling station because it was on the weekends.
Opening day of small game hunting was on a Tuesday that year so he knew he would be going out to the woods with his Dad and Great Uncle that weekend, He had been going hunting with them for four seasons now and considered himself quite the hunter. Even though he was still a little afraid sitting quietly in the dark woods before the sun came up, he would hear his fathers breathing beside him and his fear would go away. He had learned to watch the treetops for bowing, shaking branches when there was no wind. He had learned to look for the shells of chewed up acorns and hickory nuts scattered underneath trees and in little piles on logs and stumps. He was always proud when he spotted the twitching of a tail on the side of a tree or hanging off of a fat tree limb and showing these to his dad with quiet slow points and whispers. That had been the hardest to learn. At first he would get so excited that he saw one he would almost shout it to his dad, The Squirrels would scamper and hide, His Father never got angry, he would just smile and say “looks like no squirrel stew tonight” He tried hard to be quiet, and after a while he learned. And his father always told him “good eye son” when the squirrel would go into the pouch on my fathers back.
Monday night Dad was getting all of his hunting things ready, wiping down his gun with oil, rubbing Neets foot oil into his old hunting boots, Hanging his old hunting coat outside to air out, Getting cans of Vienna sausages and sardines along with a box of saltines out of the cupboard. He would secretly fill his tiny silver flask from the bottle of Old Grandad whiskey he kept in the Kitchen. He went to bed thinking how lucky his Dad was because he could take the day off of work to go hunting while he had to go to school,
He was shaken out of his sleep by his Father saying “time to get up” before he could say anything his father said “Do you want to go hunting with me and Uncle Ed today” he was out of the bed like a shot, scrambling to get his clothes on his father told him that coffee and biscuits were ready in the kitchen. Now he had taken sips of his fathers coffee before but this morning when he reached for his Fathers cup his dad put his hand on the cup and said “ How old are you boy” The boy told him he would be 11 next month. The father said, “you are old enough for your own cup” The hot, bitter black liquid never tasted so good. He finished his biscuit and coffee as his father came in from the porch with his hunting coat under his arm. The boy jumped up and went to the closet to get his jean jacket the man said, “ how old did you say you were boy” “11 next month” the boy replied. “Well then you are old enough” and from under his own coat the father pulled a real canvas-hunting coat and tossed it to the boy, it was the same coat he had looked at In Sears in the spring. Before the boy could say anything the father said it was time to leave and pick up uncle Ed. They pulled the station wagon under the old Oak quietly closed doors. Their hunt would start just 100 yards into the trees. The boy stood hands shoved deep into the pockets of his new coat, fingering the loops that would someday hold rows of shells, while the men lowered the tailgate on the wagon and started sliding shiny black shotguns from the padded cloth cases. When they were done the Father turned to the boy and said “tell your uncle how old you are boy” The boy looked at his uncle and said “11 next month” the Uncle looked at the father and said “that’s how old you were wasn’t it boy” the father said “yep” The uncle looked down at the boy and said “ You’re old enough” and from inside the wagon he handed the boy a brand new shiny .410 shotgun. Just like his fathers old one. His pocket loops now filled with shells they walked into the dark woods. No longer feeling the fear of the dark, sitting next to his father on the old log as daylight crept into the tops of the trees, He scanned the tree tops the weight of the shotgun resting across his knees, the smell of the fresh gun oil filling his nose. The faint sound of scraping claws on wood the flicker of orange and gray tail. The sound of his Fathers whisper “take him” He never felt or heard the gun go off, he only saw the squirrel fall to the ground and the smile on his fathers face.
As the light in the trees became a glow a familiar scraping sound from the tree in front of him brought him back from the memories of the past, as two squirrels ran around the tree he looked down at the boy sitting next to him on the log. He asked for what seemed like the fifth time that morning “ How old did you say you were again boy”.