Can You See It? Flesh goose-pimpled along my arms as an autumn breeze rustled the brown stubble of harvested fields. I stood among swaying goldenrods at the edge of a wood, a shotgun uncomfortably cradled in my right arm. My heart thudded. I was fourteen years old and my grandpa was taking me on one of my family's rights-of-passage: squirrel hunting. Grandpa had selected the ol' Green place for my inaugural hunt. Years before, he and grandma had sharecropped this eighty acres of silty-rich soil. My dad sometimes reminisced of sweaty hours spent over crops of cotton, corn and soybeans planted here. Time and the elements had reduced the house to a few scattered, gray, and pitted boards. Nature reclaimed the fields and transformed them into thick woods and tangled underbrush. Perfect habitat for small game. The gun's blue-black barrel kept time with my pounding heart. Slowly I tilted it. The safety switch was angled back in the "on" position. The shell couldn't be accidently discharged. I pressed my thumb against the switch, just in case. With the barrel pointed safely toward the ground, just like grandpa taught, I peeked a timid glance from beneath my hat at the tree tops, then eased into the timber. Grandpa, wide shoulders relaxed, leaned against an oak tree. Bulky, tan-colored hunting coat over faded-blue overalls. Calloused hands rested loosely across his gun. Gold-rimmed glasses augmented shimmering blue eyes which held in them an Irishman's joyous indifference to what life had offered. He raised a platinum eyebrow, "You ready to hunt?" He asked in his rich baritone voice. I briskly nodded, "Yes'ir," I responded. A gentle pat on my back calmed my heart. We turned, and slipped deeper into the woods. Oak, hickory, elm and sweet-gum trees wove their branches into a brilliant autumn canopy. A light rain of gold, red-orange and yellow leaves performed natures wind-dance, then layered a crinkly multi-colored carpet over the dark earth. As we moved through the ocean of color, leaves rustled and twigs snapped beneath my feet. Grandpa's steps were as quiet as a whisper in a Sunday morning church service. The second of six children, Roy McGee was born to Acil and Dora McGee in the rocky hills outside Doniphan, Missouri, in 1909. Around 1920, Acil, pulled by steady work logging in the mosquito and snake infested swamps around Naylor, fifteen miles to the east, moved the family. Roy was raised in a work-hardened, yet cheerful culture and "Did a man's work," beginning at age twelve. He married green-eyed, Lizzie Mae Jones in January, 1928. The first of eleven children was born later that year. Their eighth child, my father, Jim, came along in 1942. Grandpa labored as a farmer, traveled the lonely railroads as a tie hauler, then eventually retired from construction. He bore his responsibilities with proud seriousness and a mischievous grin. Now, in the twilight of his life, another responsibility had been handed him: me. I came from a fractured home. A revolving door of people, places and often violent environments marked my formative years. I had no comprehension of the value of hard work and the unadulterated lessons of country life. The only stability I had ever witnessed was in him and grandma. Grandpa stopped, "See this tree?" His voice had a soft, patient tone, as his hand caressed the gray- black bark. "post- oak. The grain inside runs long. Splits easy and is good for-" "Burning," I blurted, chest swelled. Grandpa's head tilted, "-making posts. That's why it's called �post-oak'" He chuckled and stroked the laugh wrinkles in his cheek, "Will make a good fire though." He picked up a small, oblong green object with a coarse, brown looking crown on top. He held it up. "Acorn. Squirrels love'em" He squinted his eyes and searched the ground. "This time of year though, the bushy-tails are cuttin' hickory nuts." "Cuttin'?" I inquired. "Squirrel's two front teeth are razor sharp. They'll eat thru the hard shell, pull out the meaty parts then push the shell off the limb. If you look close enough, the ground under an oak or hickory will be littered with half-shells with rakish looking tooth marks. It's a sign the squirrels are �cuttin'. That's where you want to wait." He looked hard at me, "Quietly wait, for the animals." Grandpa suddenly became very still. He turned his head. "Hear that?" he whispered. "Hear what?" I replied. The corners of his mouth twitched, "Not so loud, boy." I shrank. He cupped a hand to his ear and turned his head, "There it is again. Scratching sound. Like scrapping your finger nail against rough wood. Hear it?" His eyes darted from tree to tree then halted. I followed his gaze, my eyes widened. The tree was enormous. He nodded admiringly, "That's where he'll be. Shag-bark hickory." He eased toward the tree. I stumbled along in his footsteps. He stopped about twenty feet from the tree. Beneath it were hundreds of almond colored, half-chewed, round pods. "Cuttin's." grandpa stated. He craned his neck. His bushy eyebrows pulled together. I made a cursory inspection of the branches and fluttering leaves. Nothing. I sighed and shifted my feet. Grandpa's blue eyes flashed, "There he is." He slowly raised his arm, then extended a finger toward the distance. "Can you see it?" Excitement crept into his whisper. "Just follow the trunk of the tree until it forks." Creases on his forehead bunched together as he raised his bushy eyebrows. "Hey, that's one of the biggest red squirrels I've ever seen." He looked down at me. His eyes twinkled. His face held an expression of what to him was obvious: there was a squirrel in that tree. I glanced over his shoulder at the bulky limbs. My heart skipped a beat. The gun felt heavy. What lay beyond my grandfather overwhelmed me. My shoulders slumped. "I already looked and didn't see anything." I whined. Grandpa bent toward me. I caught a remnant of Old Spice aftershave "Look again, closer this time. Sometimes a squirrel will flatten himself against the tree" He explained, voice barely audible yet thick with patience. He traced a pattern with his finger. "See how his legs are spread out, and his tail is flush against the bark. See him?" He smiled, and I found confidence. I squinted my eyes and thrust my chin upwards. My eyes darted along the sun-dappled branches. Probed the dark shadows at the forks. Sought a faint outline at the far end of yellow-leaved limbs. My breath quickened. I began to visually grope the labyrinth of branches. My heart pounded in my ears. No squirrel. Weighted with failure, I cast my eyes to the ground, and slowly shook my head from side to side. The template of my youth, from the other side of my family, dictated that now would come the yelling, perhaps a beating. I sensed a hand looming over me. I tucked my chin into my chest and half-turned. A hand lightly covered my shoulder and softly squeezed. A thick, work-hardened finger hooked under my chin and pushed my head up. Our same-colored-eyes connected. His glistened at me the wisdom of many such lessons taught. "You may not have seen him this time-" Grandpa's voice crackled. He straightened, blinked hard, then fixed his eyes on something deep in the woods. "-but, you take heed to proper instruction and soon you'll see them as clear as the sky above." He patted me on the back. We turned and left the woods, and the squirrel, for another time. The following three years Grandpa and I trekked through fields and woods hunting rabbits, squirrels and racoons. We sat side-by-side on muddy ditch banks and reeled in catfish, perch and bass. He always talked of the value of honorable work and its intimate relationship with self-worth. I wondered why he spoke so much about it. Perhaps his blue eyes could peer into the future. Seventeen is a dangerous age. Particularly when shackled with an inconsistent childhood. Grandpa and grandma sat in the kitchen. Coffee pot percolating. Their eyes filled with unheeded prophetic tears. I was running away. Grandpa warned that if I left in anger I could return to visit, but, never again could I live with them. I hesitated. He offered me forgiveness and a way out. But, pride and obstinance won. Come back? I could make it on my own. I grabbed my bag and walked out into the thick heat of a bottom-land summer and into the vortex that can be life. And so began six years of hell. A rustle, and wave-like a field of dark-green crops rolled to a late-spring breeze. I sat cross- legged in the cool grass and fixed my blue-eyed stare at, but far beyond, the name engraved on the granite marker. "Roy McGee, Sept. 3, 1909 - June 23, 1981." He died before I could apologize. Before I could tell him the depth of the impression his life has on me. I whisper to the stone and tell him of my comfortable middle-class home filled with three children and a loving wife. That I fill their hearts with stories of those whom have gone before. I tell him I found the squirrel.
Copyright © 2001 James A McGee |