As Far As I Can See

I know the difference between the sound of a shotgun and that of a rifle, although my experience with guns doesn’t even count. As I pulled weeds in the garden yesterday morning, a shotgun thundered in the trees to my southwest—probably on someone else’s property—reminding me of why I stopped walking the pastures and woods of these 200 acres a few years ago. Shortly, a rifle confirmed my thinking. At daybreak this Sunday morning, I’ve heard the first rifle volley. So I ask, what is in season? Silly question, though, because hunting is born and bred in many who live and visit this rural county, where the population of the largest of several small towns is something under 1500. Wild hogs, squirrel, deer, rabbit, the woods of Leon county are ripe for the picking.

The Texas Department of Wildlife website lists the hunting seasons for 24 animals, from alligator to woodcock, although I also see from their listing that nothing is in season right now for our county. Nonetheless, the guns sound daily. Though I’m not opposed to hunting or hunters, still I think about Mother and Daddy reporting that their youngish lawyer had been killed over the weekend by a stray bullet while deer hunting—probably at least 40 years ago.

At 4 in the afternoon, pow pow pow—pow 10 times—comes from the woods to the northwest. No way that squirrel got away, unlike the lucky one that barely made it across Farm to Market 2446—bushy tail whisking the hot early afternoon air—as I made my way back home from a mid day outing today. Instinctively, I stomped my breaks, the same as if it had been a dog, or a bird. I really don’t want anything to do with killing, unless it’s a pesky fly or mosquito or a menacing wasp, or one of the vile rodents that has the misfortune of showing up in my barn house every once in a while.

Who hunts when the temperature registers 95 degrees—101 degrees with the heat index? There is clearly no romance to it, as far as I can see. But then, I suppose only the real men get it. For me, summer time is for lazy hours in the garden, under the trees, early in the morning and late in the day, when the chance of catching a breeze is believable. Hot weather is for stretching out on the sofa upstairs, barely mindful of the whirring of the bank of fans suspended from the loft ceiling, book in hand or on the chest as you nod off for a nap. We’re headed toward 95 again today. I will work early this morning in the garden, already anticipating the lazy hours indoors come afternoon. That’s for me. And early in the morning the shotguns have begun their work in the woods nearby.

As Far As I Can See—Normangee, Texas (September 7, 2009)
R. Harold Hollis