Ten Again by Michael Bellito

Author:Michael Bellito
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Publish on Demand Global LLC

CHAPTER 11

“SKUNKY SPUNKY”

My cousin Kenny and I stealthily approached the creek’s bank, crunching carefully through the dry leaves and twigs. With every third or fourth step, we stopped to listen. Hearing only the muttering of water as it slid over rocks, we resumed the hunt. We moved slowly. Convinced there were pheasants up ahead, we squeezed our shotguns ever tighter. We could no longer see my dad and uncle, but we knew where they were, flanking our right side at the top of the ravine, waiting for us to flush a bird.

Back then, the sight of two young boys carrying shotguns in a wooded suburb did not bring a phalanx of police with weapons, dogs, and bullhorns: “Drop your guns, and raise your arms above your heads where we can see them! Now, fall on the ground! Place your hands behind your backs! One false move and we shoot to kill!” A friendly wave and “hello” from a passing cop was more likely. Hunting was a common practice in the woods and cornfields all over the Chicago area. One didn’t have to drive for hours to find a good spot.

The first time I went out—at age eight—I carried only a BB gun. The flapping of the pheasant’s wings as he rose up and flew low above the corn, followed closely by the roar of my father’s shotgun, scared me half to death. The bird landed hard—my dad seldom missed—crashing down through the crisp stalks to the dirt below. We hustled over to the beautiful, blood-soaked body. Not yet dead, it panted for air. My father reached down quickly, twisted its colorful neck, and it was over. Feeling natural pity for one of God’s creatures, I refused to lift it off the ground. Dad carried it back to the car. His philosophy was simple: killing the birds was okay as long as you ate them. “It’s just like chicken or turkey, only someone else kills those for us.”

After lunch, I aimed a shotgun for the first time in my life. Not at a moving target but at a bottle sitting on a stump.

“Remember,” Dad cautioned, “keep the stock pressed tightly against your shoulder.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see.”

I saw. The kick from the 12-gauge nearly knocked me to the ground. What, I thought, was the purpose of this? Couldn’t we be a fishing family?

Now, two years later, I had my own gun and a lust for blood. Every Saturday in season, we hunted. Our most frequented farm was located off US Route 30 a half hour out of Aurora. Weather was never an issue. My dad, having liberated Europe, showed extreme displeasure if I suggested that it was too cold-snowy-rainy-sleety to hunt. Encased in hats with earflaps and wearing thick gloves, marching drearily like war-weary soldiers, Kenny and I scanned the horizon only to see my dad out in front. With an infantryman’s cadence, he moved swiftly across the frozen field. Chin held high, unshaven face jutting out against the whipping wind, shoulders gathering stripes of snow, he surveyed with squinting eyes of steel the battlefield looming ahead of him.

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