Dad the Hunter
Chapter 12
Today I stand in the butcher section of the grocery store, studying labels that boast “organic” and “hormone-free.” In the 1960s, our proof sat in the deep freezer in the garage. Wrapped in white paper, packages of venison, quail, turkey, and fish filled the big white box. My dad’s black, scratchy handwriting stretched across each package, listing the contents and the date.
We never worried about harmful bacteria. Dad’s hunting and fishing supplied us with meat from animals that roamed freely across my granddaddy’s land and fish pulled from clear creek water. That was the original organic, hormone-free meat.
So I knew a real gun when I saw one. Guns were in our house—along with fishing poles.
Dad let me watch the ritual of preparing his hunting gear. His whole body took on a different swagger. The small muscles in his hands stood out as he worked. Even his gaze changed as he spread the plastic tablecloth across the kitchen table.
He laid his guns across our dinner table. Next came the gun-cleaning kit filled with
copper brushes and old T-shirts cut into rags. He lined up cans of oil and polish as though every cleaning were a lesson.
I loved the perfume of gun oil and solvents. When no one was looking, I lifted the can of Browning gun oil and breathed it in. Someone should bottle that scent as a cologne and name it DAD.
He knew his guns so well he could have cleaned them blindfolded. I never felt unsafe around him or his weapons. To me, he was the expert.
Out of nowhere, never really wanting an answer, he’d ask, “Do you see how I’m holding the gun?” The barrel always pointed away from us. Only then would I give him a silent nod.
He finished by checking his knives for sharpness, nodding with approval as a blade sliced cleanly through a sheet of paper. He patted the pockets of his bright orange vest, then filled the loops on his utility belt with large red shotgun shells. When everything was in order, he slipped the guns into their cases for travel.
Dad preferred to hunt alone. My mom usually saw him off with a hunter’s breakfast and a pot of percolated coffee.
I crawled out of bed to watch from my bedroom window as he loaded his gear—and my dog—into our old Chevrolet. Dressed in his hunting clothes, he looked like the GI Joe I’d borrowed from my brother to be Barbie’s boyfriend—confident, capable, and happiest on hunting days.
My mom stood in the driveway in her long purple robe so he wouldn’t forget to kiss her goodbye. The cold, damp air turned the Chevy’s exhaust into a white cloud that drifted around them like something romantic.
Dad didn’t disappoint her. He gave her a long kiss, then looked up and saw me peeking through the window. He smiled and waved.
Other times, though, the house rattled with each door he slammed on his way out. My mother stayed in bed.
No breakfast.
No coffee.
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