The boy did not see snow very often in Northeast Arkansas, but in the winter of 1996 a blizzard blew in. At 15, Jacob was too old to make a snowman, but too young to stay inside. The only option - hunting.
Grabbin' his single-shot 16 gauge and about 10 shells, he hurried to the door. He'd almost escaped into the snowy, winter wonderland when his dad's voice brought him up short, "You forgetting something, son?"
Turning back, he could see his father stretched comfortably on the couch, a paperback book perched precariously on his chest. His dad's books were always a bit tattered and creased in the middle from being folded in his rear pocket ready to be read if the opportunity arose. Eccentric? Maybe, but that was dad.
Excitement caused his heart to skip one small beat. "You gonna come too!?" he exclaimed.
"Huh?" puzzled his Dad, "Oh... no. Not that. It's your coat. You forgot your coat."
"Ah, I see. Thanks", Jacob smiled quickly to hide his disappointment. He should have known that was not likely to happen. The last time his father had gone hunting with him it was long before Jacob could go alone. Maybe that's a father's way of teaching that individuals have their own lives to live, he told himself.
Jacob wasn't maligning his dad. His father was a hardworking man doing his best to provide for Jacob, his sister, and Mother, and he liked to spend his days off reading. "More relaxing," he would say.
Unlike his dad, who savored the adventures of Louis L'Amour's Sacketts or some autobiographical account of a World War II fighter jet pilot, Jacob preferred to create his own exploits.
Warmly bundled in his coat, boots, and toboggan cap, he headed west about 1/8 of a mile to the railroad tracks. "It's weird how people get used to the noise these things make," he mused as he paced impatiently, waiting for the train to pass. Finally, Jacob hopped on the tracks. When they'd first moved to this small backwoods community, the heart-stopping horn of that darn steel elephant, as it roared across the foothills of Crowley's Ridge, could cause him to search his soul, praying Gabriel's trumpet wasn't prematurely sounding.
Hiking the rock levee, he could hear the steel rails hissing, relaxing from the burden of the tons of weight that had just passed over it. Engrossed, Jacob gazed, trying to count the number of times the lone red light blinked on the tail of the caboose. The train rumbled on, disappearing from his sight; and finally, silence.
"No breeze, no sun, just winter," he thought. To his left, downy snow blanketed the fields that had been flush with corn earlier that summer. To his right, a thick balloon of pine trees creaked under the unfamiliar snowy weight. Jacob trudged on up the tracks due northeast. The train tracks were climbing ever higher, offering him a pretty good view. "Too bad there was nothing to see yet," he grumbled, anxious to get on with his hunt.
"Where are all the rabbits?" he pondered. He wondered if they had holed up to escape the cold. "Smarter than I am, I reckon," he thought. "What am I doing out here without a dog? Too bad Jason couldn't come." Jason was Jacob's cousin. Jacob should have invited him, partly because Jason was decent company, but also because Jason has a couple of beagles that love to run the underbrush. Jacob pushed on glancing into the creek that meandered along under the railway. "Not even the fish would be seen in this cold," he grinned.
"Time to head home," he mumbled distractedly. After two hours of trudging along the tracks, his feet felt like ice.
Feeling disappointed with the whole adventure concept, Jacob turned philosophical. Maybe Daddy had the right idea. Not much adventure out here. No rabbit, no squirrel, no fish, no anything.
Turning back, he continued to scan the woods and fields for movement as he ambled toward the house. "Something! Something! Anything!" He no longer felt adamant about collecting a trophy from today's hunt. He wondered if Nimrod, the great Biblical hunter, had ever encountered such a disappointing hunting expedition.
Movement disturbed his speculation. In the still, gray afternoon, Jacob's breath became shallow as he cocked the shotgun. Quietly, he creeping a couple yards closer, until, he could see on a low hanging branch– a bird.
"Dang it! I'm taking something home," he resolved. Momma would have frowned on his "Christian cussing" as she called it. The bead of the single 16-gauge's sight was perfectly aligned with the fowl.
Booooommmm!!!!!
The blast echoed across the fields.
Jacob lowered the weapon. He crinkled his nose and rubbed at it with his flannel jacket sleeve. The gun powder tickled his nostrils. "Smell the air!!" he thought, "It smells like the fourth of July."
He slipped down the embankment and headed toward the tree where he had downed his prey. He could see the small bird laying nestled in the snow there. Jacob knelt to get a closer look. A tiny, black eye blinked once before freezing open. Its little beak gaped open repeatedly as it gasped for oxygen. Finally, it lay motionless.
Jacob swallowed hard. "This doesn't feel right," he grimaced. The thrill of the kill eluded him. He lifted his amiable prey up by one small foot, then swiftly dropped it again. It was a European Starling. Jacob's breath caught in his chest as he peered at the speckled, black bird and the crimson red blood soaking into the stark white snow. It was so contrasting. So vivid. "God! Why am I fixated on this bloody scene? Why can't I turn away? Why are my eyes glued to this bird?" Jacob felt immoral. Not much sportsmanship in this; his conscience became his antagonist. The bird possessed animosity toward no one! A single tear dripped from the end of his nose, mingling with the bird's blood before it melted a small hole in the snow.
He stared a few minutes more, then began digging in the snow. Jacob stopped when he reached the dirt. It was too hard to dig deeper; it was frozen. Picking up the bird he buried it in the snowy grave. Then he took the used shell and scraped the bloody snow into the hole with it. Dropping the spent shell casing into the hole, he filled it with clean pure snow. Somehow, he hoped to delete the savagery of the death scene from his mind. Instead, Jacob felt like the epitome of sin in need of an absolver.
Disappointed not in the hunt but in himself, he swore never to kill again unless it was for food.
Sixteen years later, Jacob has yet to go hunting; instead, he is seen with a paperback in his back pocket.
