I woke, once to the predicted short rain, and again to the shotgun blasts coming off of Lake Iamona just before daybreak.
I smiled and thought about the "odd" portable duck-blind that I had seen heading down Thomasville Rd. this week which will morph back into a bass boat after today, the last day for duck hunting this season in Florida. I had not recognized the blind for what it was.
The shots continue, and I've cracked the window a little to better hear the reverberation of a sport that is very alive and "in our blood." What better way to put fowl on the table than forgoing the route of chicken farming and food industrialization?
In these days of vegans, and empathy for the animals, and Meatless Mondays, I yet remember the "clean shot" ducks, given by one friend or another, seasoned with love, cooked long and slow, placed on the white platter that I still use during the holidays, and presented (with much ado) to Grandpa on Christmas Eve for his approval.
Roast Duck needed a smile and a nod from the patriarch before being placed on the holiday table laden also with the venison roast and, sometimes, wild boar.
On the other hand, I pay homage to Old Duck this morning. He fell into our Jacksonville lake with a gunshot wound and laid on the hill nearly dying before recovering to become both my pet and a surrogate husband for Goosy, whose wife Ossie had recently died and left him lonely and cranky.
Not one of our in-the-know friends nor the duck identification charts ever gave a hint as to Old Duck's species. He was bigger than a mallard and beautifully hued in green, rust, and brown.
Old Duck's birth origin was forever a mystery other than the fact that he "dropped out of the sky" with a great big splash and remained my friend for many years until he died a peaceful and natural death (me sitting with him) on the same hill he had lit in on.
It's nearly 7:30 now, and the gunshot spurts continue. May the tables be laden with duck and rice, the refrigerators with confit, and the freezer shelf – earmarked for the ringtails and such – be full and sustain families from time to time throughout the year with special meals full of hunting stories and loads of laughter.
The limit is low, the ducks are plentiful (because of the weather to the North) and I know from experience the exuberance of a man knocking the mud off of his boots at the back door after a successful (duck, not so much in my own case) hunt.
My own two wood ducks sit over my kitchen cabinets on a piece of hollow tree, products of taxidermy, totally inappropriate and politically incorrect in this day and time.
I had ordered the matching pair (as the hunter was walking out the door thirty-four years ago) to commemorate my new life on the day after I was remarried. Those beauties were in the bag by about this time that morning!
The gunshots are waning now and I can picture the happy hunters, muddy camo, and calls home to wives getting ready for church. The cell phone era is truly a boon to the hunter. Instant messages and cheerful conversations on the spot! You can't beat that, can you?
