If These Heels Could Talk they would say, "I might be from the country but childhood trauma cured me of ever wanting to hunt."
Thank you dad I am still paying for those therapy lessons.
You see what had happened was.....
Growing up my mother never let me and my two brothers go anywhere with our dad. Well they would get to go hunting and fishing for the most part, but me I always stayed at home with my mom to do our womanly duties: cook and clean.
It wasn't that my dad was a bad dad, my mom was just protective of us and knew that my dad on most occasions was unpredictable and subject to show up at a poker game or some other shenanigan at the drop of a dime.
However, my mom made an exception one Sunday afternoon, the first and only time. Now that I am a mother of three, my thoughts are that she was just shy of losing her last nerve before a complete nervous breakdown and therefore said, "what the hell, let them go." So we went. This is my first and last hunting story.
My dad never traveled anywhere without having at least two different kinds of riffles in his vehicle of choice. On this day, it was no different. I was ten years old.
It was a bright, sunny, yet bitterly cold Sunday. I was wearing my favorite purple and white sock cap and scarf. Actually it was my only sock cap and scarf, nonetheless it was my favorite. It was soft and fluffy and kept my head and neck warm. Since my hair was in the style of a little boy's this attribute of my apparel was especially important to me even at ten years old.
This trip that we set out on came about when my dad got a hankering for something to wet his whistle. And as you may or may not know twenty years ago they didn't sell any whistle wetting beverages on Sunday in Georgia. So off we go, venturing out for someone or something that might sell a fine brew.
We make our way via every possible dirt road that we could find to wherever it was we were going. Traveling on the paved roads would have been too much of a luxury. The first stop was to pick up my dad's friend Bo. There was just enough room in that Nova for the five of us and the artillery that my dad elected to carefully stow away just for rides like today. He was always anticipating the kill. The kill meaning, the kill of anything that could be cooked, fried, boiled, stewed, baked or grilled. Nothing was an exception.
As we continue on this journey in search of the finest brew that could wet a man's whistle on this Sunday afternoon, the car comes to a sudden halt on that dirt road we were traveling. And there she was....... looking out into the pasture all ten eyeballs was on one of the prettiest female deer that I have ever laid my eyes on. "oohhh look!" I squeal in my ten year old voice.
"Shhhhhhhhhh" All four males in the vehicle say to me at once. I was immediately scared to silence.
"You will scare her off with all that chatter." My dad quickly explains.
So I sit there along with my brothers in silence. My dad takes one of the rifles that he always has in tow and slowly raises it up out of the driver's car window and the next few minutes are a blur.
I hear the gun shot, feel my ears ringing and I see the deer fall to the ground. The next sounds were some of the most God-awful noises any ten year old has ever heard. The deer was wailing out in pain. My dad had shot her in the right hind leg, injured but not killed her. He quickly hands one of my brothers the gun and tells us to take the gun and hide in the woods.
Well this Sunday ride has really turned into a dramatic sequence of events. "My momma is gonna be so mad." Is what I was thinking.
So my brothers and I make our way over the barb wired fence and lay down under some brush and bushes and we wait for what seemed like an eternity.
As we are lying there we suddenly hear what sounds like another car drive up and then I can hear the squeak of a brake and then we all hear a lady's voice yell out, "I am calling the law, this is private property and you are trespassing."
My little heart was pounding out of my chest, I immediately start to cry. My brothers are loving every minute of this less than desirable turn of events. They both tell me to, "shut up with the crying."
All of a sudden I hear my daddy's voice saying, "c'mon young'uns get cha asses in the car."
Hmmm why is he mad at us, I never wanted to get out of the car.... anyway we make our way out of the brush and bushes and my brothers clear the fence. Of course they do they are boys. I get to the fence and immediately panic at the site of the prickly things sticking up ready to rip my flesh. I really was not up to getting injured on this Sunday.
I continue to slowly try to clear the fence without injury and then feel a hand on my pants at my waist and shirt and the next thing you know I am over the fence thanks to my dad's super human ability to "snatch my ass over the fence." I did make it without injury but not without loss.
My scarf, my favorite scarf, my only scarf got hung on that damn fence and I could see it hanging as I looked out the dusty rear view window. I could suddenly feel a chill on my neck and all the events within the last half hour took control of all my emotions and I began to cry. I was sad for that deer and I was even more sad that I had got my scarf caught on that fence and my dad left it there.
I don't even know if my dad and his friend Bo ever got that deer. If I had to guess they did. They didn't bother getting me my scarf though and that just doesn't sit right with me. To this day I will not hunt, don't care to hunt and you will not find me hunting. I am not against anyone else doing it because as a matter of a fact I love me some deer meat. I will however let someone else do the dirty work and bring me the deer meat.
My mother never let us go back on a Sunday ride with my dad again. I can't say that I don't blame her.
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