Ever felt the stillness of the before dawn air? I'm sure most of you have: riding the bus, perhaps, or driving to some place you must get to at some ridiculous hour in the morning. But I mean really felt it.
I remember feeling a rather removed excitement when I ate my scrambled eggs in the dark that morning. Dad was far more fidgety than me--he could barely keep from jumping up and down. My breath steamed as we loaded the guns into the truck. The stars were out, twinkling at us.
It was still dark an hour later when we pulled down a winding driveway and set up shop in a little fringe of scrubby trees on the edge of an empty strawberry field. Greg, Dad, Jerry, Joe, and I simply sat, waiting for the sun to come up. The air was so dark, and so peaceful, it felt as though nothing could ever disturb that odd calm. Imagine trying to argue with a tree. Eventually, though, the peace faded away and up came the sun, long heralded by birds singing their morning songs.
With the sun came the geese. I'm sure you've guessed it by now--we weren't there just to enjoy the six 'o clock air--we were there for population control. Or to make it sound a little nicer, we were there to bring home the bacon. In feathered, winged form. Eight or nine birds flew in from our right. Greg didn't call the shot, so we let them land among the decoys. Then another flock flew from our right, making an odd picture of stupidity. They came level with us. For a moment, all that happened was the thump-thump of my heart.
Greg whipped his gun to his shoulder and fired. Everything Dad had told me flew out of my mind like those birds would if I didn't fire--so I pointed my gun at the flock and twitched my finger. The gun recoiled against my shoulder and a goose crumpled out of the sky with the shot--a hit! I watched the rest of the scene unfold like an awestruck ninny, still jumpy with adrenaline. The guns roared and shot little dots of death into the sky--and plop-plop-plop-plop fell down dinner. The guys did their best to get the whole flock down, but the birds caught on quickly. They were out of sight in a matter of a few frightened flaps.
Silence.
I felt like bobbing up and down and shouting, "That was awesome!", but of course, I didn't. I didn't fancy being laughed at. Someone said, "Go get 'em," and I walked out with Joe to go retrieve our spoils. But I wasn't quite sure if you picked them up my the feet or the neck, so I dawdled until I could see what Joe would do. Their necks were surprisingly slender. We piled the geese--five in all--in a little heap, and I sat back on my little stool, eyes sparkling. All drowsiness had been long forgotten. In all my life, I will never forget the shock of the gun against my shoulder.
Later that day, after we had made our weary way home, and told the same stories over several times, Jerry asked me how many shells I had used on the flock. I gave a little laugh because I wasn't sure what the questions was for, and said, "One."
"One!" Jerry shouted. "You can keep shootin'. Yeah, definitely use more 'n one shell." He laughed more. I just saw the bird go down and figured that was enough.
Of course, we got up and did it again the next morning. It was a fiasco, that day was, let me tell you. We got one flock the whole morning and I still felt like laughing. We sat in the little stand of trees until ten or so, just waiting and enjoying the free air. It was so boring, even Dad was up for leaving before noon. Then we heard the honking. Everybody tensed. It grew nearer. Then we saw them--straight over the trees they flew, and then wheeled. Greg had harnessed them with his goosecall. They headed straight for us like little dive-bombers. I held my breath. Just as the nearest two began to land, Greg snapped, "take 'em!"
We took 'em, all right. Boom boom ba boom! Noise exploded and so did the flock. Birds fell, some backpedaled furiously, feathers flew. boom! I struggled to reload my now empty gun, feverishly snapping the breach closed. Several of the geese were taking flight. Dad jumped up, complete with some swearing, gun roaring. I scrambled to my feet and fired, the shock knocking my back into my chair. I will never, ever forget that feeling.
I will never understand why I enjoy discharging objects by explosion at very high speeds. Perhaps it's in my blood. Perhaps we have a hereditary love of conquest. Or maybe I'm just crazy. My only comfort for that thought is if that's the case, than alot of other people are just as crazy as me. Dad.
