A well known joke to some is a statement made by a speaker defending his thoughts about animal rights which goes something like this: I love all animals, preferably grilled.
Recently I had an email inviting me to submit something for publication relating to the outdoors such as hunting for instance.  I am at a loss even to imagine that I could write even one paragraph about such since that chapter part of my life is practically blank.  It was not that I was not exposed to the pleasures of the outdoor life since I grew up in a farm  family that enjoyed the challenge of man versus nature especially hunting and fishing.  My father, in his youth, was an avid hunter and his hunting genes were passed along to his sons or at least some of them.  I missed out.  But I had a taste of the great outdoors but only briefly.
A shotgun (double barreled) and rifle were available at home for my use without any restrictions or, indeed, guidance. My introduction to the fine art of weaponry began early with a Daisy air rifle or BB gun. I shied away from the shotgun because it had a ‘kick’ that earned my respect, but the .22 rifle was another story.  There was always plenty of ammunition (short and long bullets) and ample opportunity for its use. The weapon was used mostly to shoot rats invading the feed bin in the chicken house.
I lived in the country with a strip of woods just beyond the back yard.  All kinds of game were available such as quail, dove, rabbit, squirrel and for the daring an occasional possum and ‘coon .  Mountain oysters were not unknown fare for the daring.  My brave brother even kept a ‘mess’ of rattlesnake in his freezer.  Once in awhile, we had deer given to us. Too, we had the ordinary protein such as pork, chicken and beef.  We definitely were not vegans. 
I knew about and respected guns and because of being a member of a family of hunters, I naturally wanted to be like my brothers and father meaning that I wanted to bring home a bird or something to show off.  I was perhaps 10 years old at the time.  But I did not think I would ever be good enough with a gun to bag a rabbit or squirrel but there were birds aplenty available, and my goal was to bring home at least one trophy. The opportunity finally came, much to my joy and sadness, happening at almost the same time.
The woods behind our home were fenced for livestock.  I saw plenty of targets but they all were either too far away or wary of my presence until I spotted one as she flew onto a nearby tree limb and, to my surprise, landed next to her nest and remained there momentarily practically motionless.  Today, I would never commit the act I did back then as a child but the target then was irresistible.  I kept thinking of   taking her home as proof of my marksmanship.
I crept along the wooded enclosure until I came to a small fence post on which I rested the barrel of rifle, quietly and with great anticipation.  The target remained still giving me ample time to aim the weapon at its target, perhaps 50 feet away. I pulled the trigger, satisfied by the pleasing sound, to me, carrying the bullet to a defenseless, innocent target.  What joy I felt as the small bird fluttered to the ground. I had achieved a victory, a dream come true; I had reached my goal as a hunter.  
I ran to the site where the bird had fallen and watched this miracle of flight now silently lying at my feet.  By then, surprisingly I was not too sure of the initial joy I once felt.  I had taken the life of one of God’s creatures and for what purpose except to satisfy my childish ego.
I picked up my conquest and held her warm body in my hand for a long time, feeling her soft feathers and then noticing the out-of-place blood stains.  The bank eyes stared at me making me feel even more miserable. No thought was given for the nest.
Then the emotion of joy was replaced with sadness.  I had not anticipated fully the consequence of my actions until its tragic result was resting in my hands forever still. 
I never did hunt again, and no weapon rested in my hands until I entered army basic training as a rifleman. Fortunately the training was all academic since my service was at a time when the world where I was posted was relatively peaceful.  I have often thought if I were overwhelmed with sorrow from the death of a bird at my hand, what would it be like to fire a weapon at an enemy even in battle?
Maybe that’s why I ended up as a pen wielding clerk.
*
Bill Lee, PO Box 128,
Hamer, SC 29547