"Ducks on the pond," he said. "Heard ‘em last night."
Semi-conscious, warm feet on icy linoleum, I shivered into a sweatshirt and jeans. The clock said four-forty. Sleet pecked my window. I wrestled into hunting overalls, so well camouflaged I could barely see myself, and left behind the muffled sounds of sleep from a flock of sisters in cozy nests.
The cold wind stabbed out of the northern darkness. Chills climbed my back, spawned goose bumps. Sleet stung my cheeks, crusted my hair. We walked a path so familiar we could do it briskly in the dark.
The pond, a half-mile away, Y-shaped, three acres, on the Skunk River flyway was inviting duck water. We crawled into our blind, made of hay bales. It was located in the crotch of the Y. From there we covered the entire surface.
We sat like statues, listened. Then came a muted quack. Father leaned back against the wall of the blind to wait for dawn. Quiet electricity surged in me. I loved being with my father, but killing pained me.
On clear days, dawn explodes. On murky days, dawn oozes out of the fog like mother's breakfast gravy. Finally, we saw them in the quiet water near the edge of the pond in easy shotgun range. My heart hammered.
They were so close, so beautiful. Was that his mate nearby? Were the others his children? My eyes locked on the old mallard's head, the iridescent green, even in this flat light, so much more brilliant in life than in death.
"Let's go, son," my father whispered.
Father moved toward the opening. We would crawl outside and stand. They would see us and flush. We would shoot. I grabbed his sleeve, pulled him back.
"Wait. They're so pretty. Let's watch them for a while."
Father nodded, leaned back against the blind.
They paddled. They rooted on the bottom with their butts in the air. They fed, and chuckled, caressed each other. Talked. Preened. A female laid her head on the back of the male for a long time. Was it a hug? "Chukka, chukka, chukka," they said. They had personalities. One swam with a limp. They were at peace, unaware of the danger.
After five minutes father moved again.
"Ready?"
"Let's watch a while longer."
Father hesitated. He was a hunter. He came for meat. He first hunted in the depression when pennies were pinched, and success meant food on the table.
"They are interesting," father said. He smiled, put down his gun.
We watched for half an hour, we whispered, we named the ducks, and laughed when Limpy, weary of Homer's teasing, chased him halfway across the pond. It was a fine show, interesting characters, creative choreography, beautiful staging and the music was divine. It was not unlike a performance by humans unaware that a bomb would soon explode in the front row.
"Look," father said. "That's a big snapper."
We both froze. It was a golf-ball-sized black triangle sitting on the surface about fifty feet away. Beneath that triangle, hidden by the water, was a turtle the size of a steering wheel, with a beak that could sever fingers. A snapping turtle, which would have been buried in the mud, had not the two weeks of unusually hot weather, prior to this storm, delayed his hibernation.
"He wants to get Limpy's other foot," father said.
"What shall we do?" I asked.
"Let's flush them."
I reached for my gun, but my father's firm hand closed on my wrist.
"Leave your gun."
We moved out, stood and clapped our hands.
"Look at them go," father shouted.
"I love their shape," I said, "like fighter jets."
"Good luck, Limpy," father called through cupped hands.
The ducks skimmed the low clouds and disappeared.
"Damned that turtle," father said.
We unloaded our guns and returned home. It was the best hunting trip I ever had. We never hunted ducks again.
"I'm too old to crawl around in the wet grass at dawn," my forty-year-old father said.
But I knew the magnificent truth.
Marty RicKard Bio
Marty RicKard attended William Penn College , Iowa State University and University of Southern Mississippi , from which he holds a BS degree in journalism and photojournalism. He also has a Masters Degree in photography, in addition to the Craftsman, CPP, and A-ASP degrees. Marty spent two years as a technical writer for White Motor Company, and has worked for the Charles City Press, Mason City Globe-Gazette, and Davenport Times-Democrat. He was co-owner of the weekly New Sharon Star, where he was twice named Iowa Master Columnist for his article, which was syndicated in twenty Iowa newspapers. For more than a decade Marty's regular column appeared in the Professional Photographer magazine. He has been published in many other magazines and newspapers, including Writer's Digest, Writer Advice, Golf Digest, Resource Magazine, Picture, Range Finder, and Darkroom. In addition to his writing credits, Marty has won numerous photography awards, has lectured in 48 states, and has traveled internationally as lecturer, and judge. He was one of thirty from the U.S. to participate in the first cultural exchange with China in 1986. He currently is a regular columnist for Lens Magazine, and a full-time writer of fiction and poetry. He is the author of two poetry books and one volume of short stories. He is an entertaining speaker.
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