Lessons Learned in a Cornfield

Lessons Learned in a Cornfield

In the bottom-land there is a slight rise where a home once stood. Old fescue grows around and between tumbled river stones which once formed steps, a foundation, a fireplace and chimney. This is my cover today -a little island in a field, surrounded by a fallen militia of golden corn. The Low-Country sun is heading to a western horizon, taking along the warmth of a late autumn day. I turn up the corduroy collar of my hunting jacket and slouch a bit lower, resting against the old chimney. In my lap is a Browning 12 guage shotgun, a bit worn, but serviceable, like its owner. I am guessing that about thirty minutes of daylight remains. It goes by so slowly and is gone so fast.

Finally, I hear the sounds:
urgent. clarion calls-

Quak!Quak!Quak!Quak!Quak!Quak!

Descending over the trees along the river, I can just make out the first flock of Mallards. They will circle the corn field several times before landing along the bank, the iridescent greens and browns brilliantly under-lit by gauzy rays of late afternoon sun. Today, I will not disturb them - only admire, for the hundredth time, the wonder of their very existence - how they find their way unerringly to a precise spot of their choosing - how they seem, always, to be so organized and disciplined - taking care that not one bird is left out. I have seen them in expansive flocks, still holding together as family.

No, today I am waiting for the geese. They are even more cautious and will appear at just about dark, making sure that the Mallards are safely down. That will be their signal that it is alright to come in and share the corn, drink from the river and settle for the night. They are the wise elders, guarding an age-old heritage of survival - like the Mallards - mates for life - family.

In the distance, a shrill honking begins:
Sqronk!Sqronk!Sqronk!Sqronk!Honk!Honk!

I hear them but cannot quite make them out yet.
Then, their wings make a thunderous swoosh over the trees. An avalanche of raucous honking fills the air. They will make a pass over the field, I know, so I must be ready. Breathing and heart-beat must be brought under control and be ready. The Browning inches to my shoulder. I need a clear silhouette against the fading sunset. I could probably take two if I really concentrate and the last bit of daylight holds on. But I plan to only take one.

***

There were afternoons when Boom!'s would erupt from around the field, and four or five birds would drop at a time. Mallards and geese would appear in the sky in huge black clouds - slow to comprehend their fatal mistake - confused by so much good corn on the ground. Brownings and Winchesters and Remingtons would blast away, and shouts would penetrate the once tranquil afternoon:

"On your left! - "Coming in over the trees! - "Here come six over the corner!- "Look out in the thicket!

The shouting and shooting would continue for what seemed like hours. After a while, a single lonely shot might echo around the field, and a bird, a mile-high, would be seen racing to safety.

Laughter and congratulations would then begin, and a tally done of the "hunt- birds stacked like cordwood in the back of an old horse-drawn wagon. There would be barbecue and unfeigned camaraderie. Old stories savored like cognac. It was a rite of passage and initiation for a young boy growing up in Low-Country South Carolina in the '50's, and a high ritual for his elders; a marker, something to define a period - gone for a long time, though, along with much of the wildlife.

Something remained. I never spoke of it, nor rid it from my mind. I downed a bird and went running into the field to retrieve it. I found only a wounded Mallard, wing broken, looking up at me with two beady eyes - pleading, startled eyes - terrified eyes.
Taking the bird back to my cover, my initiation was complete: "You'll have to kill it, son.
And I did.

****

The old stone chimney is cold and uncomfortable against my back as I swing the Browning along an arc defined by the silhouetted goose. I push slightly away and attempt to stand, but the uneven stones beneath my feet do not provide a hoped-for platform. I'm just a touch off-balance.
One chance! but the barrel will not line up properly. A young novitiate would fire three random shots in the direction of the goose, hoping to fill the air with enough lead to find a mortal strike. I cannot bring myself to do it. Fair is fair, and I have not met the requirements. Bad luck or bad Karma is part of the bargain. Murder is unacceptable. It is no longer about numbers.

****

There had been plenty of Boom!'s, pop-pop-pop's! and shouts in a rice paddy in a far away place where another initiation had taken place. There, I went into a field to retrieve a fallen one. Startled, terrified eyes looked up at me - pleading eyes. This time, though, I took him back to cover, ultimately to safety, although at the time neither of us could be certain of that. They gave me a medal which I only wore once, then put away.

In a cornfield amidst abundant life, I discovered death.
In a rice paddy, among stark death, I came to fully appreciate life.
I never spoke of it, nor rid it from my mind.

****

It is too dark now to attempt another set-up. Slowly, I lower the Browning and unload three unspent shells from the chamber and magazine. A full moon is beginning to slide over the eastern horizon. The air temperature has fallen dramatically. A bit stiff and awkward, I gather my gear and myself, and begin to move toward high ground where the truck is parked. It was a beautiful afternoon, but I would welcome a warm fire and a cognac about now, and a family - a son to share my stories. Maybe there is still time.

If there is, then I will someday take him to a cornfield and tell him about Family - geese and Mallards - an old home place made with river stones - and of lessons learned.