This morning I was looking back over some work I’d completed 10 years ago. Sometimes I have to research my own work because my brain is old and cannot remember things. While doing so, I stumbled on this story I wrote and it might be of interest to some. (This is about as deep as my shotgun writing gets and maybe it won’t waste your time like some stupid list.)
Small patches of fog drifted just above the treetops like lost spirits. The morning was cool and overcast and the world seemed dim. Robert stepped from the car and picked up his coffee he had ignored during the drive. The coffee was cold. He poured it out and tossed the cup into the car. Taking the hunting vest from the back seat he slid it on; 16 gauge shot-shells ratted in the pockets. It had the aroma of must but there was another smell, one he remembered.
Pulling the shotgun from the well-worn case he noticed rust on the receiver at the balance point. That bothered him. Like it would make it go away, he covered the rust with his hand and started toward the old gate that framed a new high-tech plastic posted sign. His keys were still in the ignition.
On the old haul road, just past the gate, a wide hollow opened to the left and into the rising sun. Covered by a canopy of giant hardwoods a trickle of a creek meandered down the draw. The path was there, just as he remembered it. It would follow the creek up to a point where the water disappeared into the ground under a stand of hickory. As the timber swallowed him he felt alone and out of place. He had been here many times but that was long ago and this time, he was alone.
When he reached the hickory trees he was surprised to find the same stunted oak with the bent trunk he had hunted from so often. He rested there again with the old Winchester in his lap. His mind wondered but after a while he could almost see his father beside him; hat pushed far back and whispering instructions as a big fox squirrel fed ever closer. He could remember shouldering his little 410 single shot and wishing it was his father’s 16 gauge. He could remember his father’s smile when he put that fox squirrel in his vest too.
He remembered the other times he’d seen that smile. When he graduated. When he came back from overseas with the Purple Heart, and the crutches. And the last time, when little Bobby was born. His father had been a serious man, smiles with him were like respect, they had to be earned. But, hunting with his father had always been special because Robert never had to compete with anyone or anything else for his father’s attention.
He also thought about the only tear he ever saw come from those deep dark eyes, when Dad had to tell him Mom was gone.
When Robert looked at his watch for the first time it was past noon and the sky had cleared. He stood, took a deep breath and a long look into the tops of the same old hickory trees that had stood over him when he was growing up. When he was learning. He wiped his own tear and started back down the path.
As he approached the mouth of the hollow he noticed a pickup truck beside his car and when he stepped into the road a man about his age, dressed in overalls, white t-shirt and a John Deere cap got out of the truck. Robert felt embarrassed he had trespassed. He knew better. Had been taught better.
Taking his ball cap off and shoving it toward the posted sign the man said, “I’m a guessing you didn’t see the sign.”
Robert nodded, “No sir, I saw it and I…I’m sorry.”
“Maybe you thought it wasn’t meant for you. I’ve had so much trouble with fellers coming in here trashing up the place and poaching I don’t allow hunting anymore. And those kids on them blasted four wheelers.” The man replaced his hat, obviously annoyed.
Robert continued, “I do apologize and I understand…it’s just, well, my Dad used to take me squirrel hunting up here. I just wanted to…”
The man cut Robert off and pointedly asked, “What’s your name?”
“It’s Walton, Robert Walton.”
Wide-eyed, the man said, “Say. You Bob Walton’s boy?”
“Yes sir, I am.” Robert nodded.
“I’ll be damned! I’m Allen, Allen Wise. I remember when y’all used to camp down by the river. Roland is my Pa. Y’all used to come by every fall. I remember Bob would always bring Pa a pair of them boots he sold back in the city and he always had some chocolate too. Pa really liked him. He always said your dad was one of a kind; put together the way a man ought to be. How is your dad?”
Robert looked away, back toward the hollow. “Dad’s gone. Two months. Cancer.”
Allen, hanging his head, “Damn. I’m sorry.”
Still uncomfortable he’d went onto another man’s land without permission, Robert continued, “That’s why I was here, I wanted to…There’s no excuse for trespassing. Especially to hunt…I just…”
Allen cut him off again, “I understand.”
Silent, Robert walked over to the car, opened the door and reached for the gun case.
“Well look there, is that a Model 12 Winchester?” Allen asked, in an effort to change the subject.
Robert looked down at the old gun. It was his now. His eyes and fingers felt the nicks, gouges and the bright shiny steel, long void of bluing. It looked rough but each imperfection had been earned honestly. It was a finish that couldn’t be bought or duplicated by the finest craftsman.
The sun was high and bright now, warm on Robert’s shoulders and it made the fall colors surrounding the two men all that much more alive. Smiling, Robert slid the old pump-gun in the case.
“Yes sir, that’s a Model 12 Winchester. Put together just the way a gun ought to be. Leastwise that’s what Dad used to tell me”
