Belly of the Whale

Holidays in the South


My brothers and I woke up at six, dressed, and were out the door heading toward the farm by six-thirty. On arrival at five after seven we realized that the gate was locked and wondered how anyone would have gotten in before us, since we were a little late. But we pulled up to the trailer and there sat Matt, Jamison, and the Cooper brothers. My half-brother Dibble pulled in right behind us. We all started pulling on waders and organizing shotguns as the sun was already bright red in the east. We were a small group, about ten guns is all. Before we headed down the the duckponds a bottle of Hot Damn went around a few times to make sure we all stayed a little warm.

The ponds were quite and still. The corn has never looked so puny and pathetic. We all spread out in twos through the adjacent ponds. Not a duck was in the air. As Matt and I started making our way through the water, mud, and corn to the middle of "the Refuge" as we call it, we jumped woodies and teal. It wasn't an auspicious beginning. I am used to great outpouring of ducks in the early morning. Nothing. As we approached a narrow strip of small box elders in the middle of the thirty-acre pond I finally decided it was time to shoot. I dropped a woodie hen that flew over my left shoulder.

With that shot, the air started to shudder. From the flooded timber and corn ducks by the thousand rose up, quacking and whistling. We stopped shooting a moment to simply watch. They flew around, not wanting to leave. Despite the glaring blue skies, despite the lack of guns, the ducks circled around and around all morning. Woodies, teal, ringnecks, mallards, a good mixed bag.

After a few hours Matt and I turned back to the truck. We lined our birds proudly on the tailgate and cracked the first beers of the morning. We walked up to the corner of the new pond where Dibble and the Cooper brothers were still hunting. The shot sporadically at the late, still-flying ducks. We drank a few beers before Dibble and the rest met us with grins and cheers.

Everyone had a good hunt. We killed lots of greenwing teal which are beautiful small birds with a cinnamon head with a dark green stripe across their eye. Dibble whipped out the bottle of Hot Damn. We told some jokes were slow to leave the ponds.

My brother Will and Jamison had a dove hunt and bar-b-que to attend, so were the first to leave. Dibble and his friend Kim discussed how the hell they were going to get home in such a drunken state. Matt and I decided to take the beer and drive around the farm to see how things have changed in the time since we were last out here.

We drove all over, looking at fallow fields and the sad new clear cut down on the Level. The farm looked quiet and solitary, more so than I have seen it in many years. My brothers and I used to spend so much time here. But our stomachs began to gnaw at us around one, so we drove off the farm toward the Waffle House, the old high-school tradition.

For me, if was just refreshing to spend so much time with an old friend, to ride around property that I loved, places I have known for so long, and now were often so distant from me. But this sort of activity has always entailed alcohol and I was maintaining a buzz, fighting getting drunk, but fearing letting the buzz dwindle to a tiredness.

Matt decided that I needed to ride with him to the other side of Columbia to my Uncle Burwell's farm. Matt was meeting Author out there to deer hunt. I didn't have any plans. Matt thought we could just ride around and look for deer. That was about as good a thing as I could think to do with a day. I used to work out at Burwell’s when I was a teenager. I haven't ridden around there in years.

We stopped at a gas station to get more beer.

We spent the day creeping around corners and walking down deer trails looking at deer rubs. I climbed a big sweetgum because I figured it needed to be climbed. The day passed in a long moment and the sun dropped out of the sky as we sat in the grass and clay at the edge of wheat field. The air felt like the air of the morning we had started the day with. I had spent the whole day gong inside only twice. No deer came out and we walked to the truck, drank another beer, and then Matt took me home.

Not until I reached the kitchen door did I realize how damned tired I was. I wasn't sure what to do first: shower, dig dinner out of the fridge, or simple drink water. I took off my dirty carhearts, drank some water and hopped in the steamy hot shower for a long time. I took some Aleve and made a whoping plate of leftover Chinese food Will and I had bought with Pop's money the night before. It was a luscious meal. I felt rejuvenated and turned on the Bond: 007 Days of Christmas. I read an article in the Utne Reader'about living in the Now.

I wanted to write about this day because I think it typifies something about the South for me, my South, the South of my youth. I lived here for many fun years with some great friends and family. I love the land still. All the good and the bad are here in this story, however brief and skeletal.

I hope the holidays are great for everybody, amazing how different they all will be: Nepal to Boston, New Zealand to the Keys, France, Spain, and Cuba. Today it was sixty degrees in Columbia. What was it like today in Missoula? The sun is so bright here it hurts my eyes. People live such different worlds. ...anyway. I need to go home and eat more leftovers and watch another movie: the "Extended Edition" of the secong Lord of the Rings. I can hardly wait. Vacations can be good for the soul...

-jonah