Hunting For Dreams

Morning dew was like a wet blanket wrapped around my grandson Matt’s shoulders, as we waited patiently among the sheltering shrubs alongside Cooking Lake, Alberta.

He adjusted the leather strap on his backpack, placed a duck call to his lips and lovingly patted the 12-Gage shotgun across his legs, prepared for quick movement. I hunched nearby eagerly awaiting any activity across our view.

Matt scanned the horizon, embers of sun preparing to burst into an egg yolk of brilliance. I hoped his left leg wouldn’t cramp up again. Absentmindedly he gave it a rub, felt the weight of his weapon, took a deep breath, then released the tension, excitement almost overwhelming him.

Now he was ready. So was I, even though I was simply an observer during this grandson-grandfather trip. Mallard flocks and Teal hurried by several times, too high right now for a good shot. This waiting for the correct moment was like a game of chess; your move feathery ones.

Yesterday about this time Matt was carrying a bucket of grain for the sheep on his dad’s ranch. While bellowing Baa’s from 21 wooly critters jostled in line for their regular munching he whistled a morning tune. The words were jumbled, same as his life had been these past few months, but it helped him be patient with himself, something he needed working on.

That’s why we were here. This little hunting adventure was a chance for us to chat. Different generations could share the cold of early morning. And when the time was right, talk would ensue. About himself, parents, life and his dreams. I promised to listen.

Things were getting a little better between mom, dad and himself since leaving a love nest and coming home. They warned him about the mess he was stepping into, but being stubborn didn’t help. “It was dad’s fault I left home last year. He expects too much from me,” he said. “So I had to move on.”

His nineteen-year old seriousness almost made me smile. So young to learn about the responsibilities of life I thought.

Thank goodness for him, his girlfriend came right out and said, “Maybe it’s time for you to take a hike.” And Matt did. Living together was a tricky option, especially with another man’s child as part of the household. Changing diapers, keeping household expenses under control, and dealing with a needful young woman was a hefty responsibility.

“That really wasn’t the worst problem,” he confided. “Her ex was always hanging around, ignoring the Court’s Peace Bond, forgetting the times he threatened her if she even looked at another man.” I knew Matt didn’t enjoy the hassle of being considered a second hand lover every time George phoned the house all hours of the day.

Everyone was pleased when Matt left that unsavory situation and returned to the family farm, helping out with needed chores, being where he was missed, and loved.

I watched him stir in his memories, as we both looked up. Several ducks had broken off from a group, perhaps sent ahead to secure a safe landing spot. They came closer. Matt’s simulated calling teased them back and forth, finally heading them in the right direction.

From a kneeling position his shotgun blast knocked one unsuspecting Mallard from its flight path, parachuting it to the ground. Almost like a lump of fallen dreams tumbling from the sky. Another shot went astray and a fleeing pile of feathers retreated in shock, leaving its mate behind.

With no further action in the sky, Matt sloshed through the shallows, retrieved his catch and hung it from a protruding branch. We exchanged digital pictures as the egg yolk of sky arose warmly over us.

It was about this time yesterday we spotted a coyote lingering by the neighbor’s woodpile. It’s gray color with black on the bottom third of its tail wiggled happily as the creature pranced in anticipation looking for mice.

At the time we discussed whether Matt should get his .22 and pot off the cute dog-looking killer. A year of steaks would be a sure bet that animal was part of the pack responsible for ravaging a dozen of his father’s sheep last autumn.

As we pondered when to head home, another flock came by and once again Matt’s shooting was quite successful. Two of the flying missiles were flushed from the sky and ended up close to the shoreline. He got up in a rush, noticing one was doing a floppy dance. I didn’t have the heart to do what must be done and allowed him to complete the task.

The wounded mallard stared without fear somehow understanding this was the end. A broken neck soon removed nature’s magnificent creature from an episode of further pain.

I laid a hand on his shoulder. “Some humans are like that, Matt,” wounded, feeling useless and unwanted waiting for doom.” We knew this duck would still be tasty, not useless and unwanted. It had offered itself up as a small feast for tonight’s supper.

“Life is made for decisions,” I continued. “Like knowing when to leave Alice and return home.” I knew he would have his chance for renewal within his family, able to re-focus on his future. Bringing home meat for the table, would also be a sort of peace offering--for mom, dad and brother, Travis.

It was indeed an opportunity to share with loved ones. And seek forgiveness for hasty words left behind, not so long ago.

“I want to have my own farm,” Matt said, interrupting my thoughts. As we chatted we knew, with support from his family, he was destined to have better days ahead. And I was never prouder of him, than right now.

Just then another flock approached our location. Matt blew a calling, sighted down the barrel, focused on his end bead, and fired.

“Got him!” I shouted.

Matt’s smile was wider than the breaking sun.

© Richard L. Provencher
Website: www.wsprog.com/rp/