| Sharing an Ancient Tradition
By M. Edward Wyatt
My father’s voice awakened me that early-October morning many years ago. “You wanna go squirrel hunting?” he asked, leaning through the doorway. My only acknowledgment was a slight groan and a tug at my coverings. I was warmly sandwiched between heavy quilts and a feather-tick mattress, my face the only part of me to bear witness to the chilly, autumn morning.
I rolled over to view the room through squinted eyes. It was illuminated by a dimly lit hurricane lamp. The glowing mantle of the little gas stove offered the only heat—my grandfather’s home having yet to enter the twentieth century. I propped myself up on one elbow and defrosted a spot on the icy windowpane with my hand. Peering out, I saw that God had applied a coating of white velvet to the fields and trees.
My mind raced in rampant debate: Should I relinquish the warm comfort that enshrouded me and follow my dad into the woods for most of the day? I knew the answer, however discomforting. Slowly, I slid through the cold half of the quilts at the foot of the bed, passing my younger brother, who occupied the outer side, and lowered my feet to the floor. The cold linoleum encouraged a quick prance across the room to the warm throw rug that awaited me in front of the gas stove. There, I pulled on my thermal underwear and dressed for a cold day of hunting.
Gas mantles glowed from the walls, lighting my way through the living room, kitchen, and pantry, as I made my way to the back door for the short walk to the outhouse. The stars glistened in the pure country air. The crisp stillness of that frosty morning air awakened me fully, clearing all remnants of drowsiness. There was no time wasted going to and from the outhouse on such a morning.
 Just inside the pantry, I found a kettle of hot water, soap, and a washbasin. As I washed, the aroma of brewing coffee and sizzling bacon filled my nostrils. My father prepared our breakfast clad in hunting pants, boots, and a flannel shirt. “How many eggs do you want?” he asked. My grandfather, an early riser by nature, joined us for breakfast. He had hunted the Wetzel County woods surrounding his farm all of his life, but he did not join us this morning.
My mother, brother, and sister also stayed behind, enveloped in their warm quilts and feather-tick beds, while my father and I traveled up the old logging trail and into the woods. The frost-coated leaves, crunching under our feet, sounded like Styrofoam. We could see puffs of our breath in the chill air as we climbed, and as we progressed up the hill, these emissions became greater in length and volume.
On our trip up the steep incline, my father and I occasionally rested, and he told me tales of his growing up on the farm. He whispered his stories, so as not to forewarn the game of our presence, and his words came in short pants, obvious proof of our labored ascent.
After reaching the area known as the Cain Road, we traveled around the hill to the great oaks, where acorns were strewn about. My father advised me to remain there while he pushed further on, out of sight but within shouting distance. I remained at this site for much of the day, moving about, sitting on logs, or standing on a patch of ground that I cleared of leaves—the latter a trick my father taught me. By removing the leaves, I could stand and turn without making noise.
In time, the morning became increasingly brighter. The sun crested the adjacent hill, slowly driving its cold shadow down into the hollow below me. My clothes absorbed the sun’s warmth like a sponge. I soon became quite tranquil and surrendered to my drowsiness. I carefully unloaded my gun, as my father had taught me, before curling up in the leaves for a nap.
It was midmorning when the sound of squirrels cutting on nuts aroused me. Their yakking and gnawing came from various places throughout the hollow. The sun had burned the frost off the leaves, and they were once again crisp and dry. I reloaded my gun and was waiting to bag a squirrel when the serenity of the moment was abruptly fractured. A sudden burst of gunfire echoed from hill to hill and roared throughout the hollows surrounding my grandfather’s farm. It originated from the direction where I had last seen my father. My heart raced and my respiration became shallow—nearly ceasing. But calm soon returned and I once again stood anxiously, anticipating my claim to game.
I listened to the sounds of nature: birds shrieking, trees rubbing against one another, a twig falling onto the ground. After about 20 or 30 minutes, I heard a squirrel hopping across the dry leaves. I searched the brush for a glimpse of the little critter, but the sound stopped as suddenly as it began. My eyes raced up and down the oaks.
A faint breeze freed many more leaves from their lofty abodes. At that moment any movement would be quite visible to a hunter’s keen eye, as well as to a squirrel’s. Then something caught my eye.
“There it is!” I whispered to myself. A gray squirrel scampered up the side of a red oak. I raised my single-shot .410 as the squirrel rounded the backside of the tree, just as my dad had taught me. My movement went unnoticed and I awaited the squirrel’s return. Finally, after several minutes it reappeared, but in the fork of the tree. My aim was wavering. I took a deep breath and let it out, then a short breath and held it. My aim was steady now, and I squeezed off a shot. Again the calm was severed, but this time by the blast of my gun.
 After the blast, I saw no movement and no squirrel. Where did it go, I wondered? Was my aim poor? Had I missed? I reloaded and slowly moved closer. My father had taught me that squirrels sometimes bury themselves in leaves when shot. At the base of the tree, I kicked the leaves about. Sure enough, there it was, lying under the oak leaves. I had bagged my first squirrel! I sat immersed in gratification, knowing that I too would contribute to the bounty of the table.
A few minutes later, more crackling of leaves announced the return of my father, who had heard my shot. Seeing the squirrel, he rejoiced in his eight-year-old’s achievement. We traded our experiences of bagging our game while having a trail snack and drink. This was a triumphant moment for me. My father and I now shared a survival tradition as old as mankind.
Later, with the sun sinking behind us, we walked back down the mountain to a meal prepared by my mother in my grandfather’s warm, cozy home. Soon, beyond the windows, stars sparkled in the darkness and the chill night air cast a new blanket of frost over all.
Writer M. Edward Wyatt grew up in Hancock, Brooke, and Wetzel counties. The author of poems, plays, and other works, he recently completed his first novel, Texas, the Lone Star “Wars” State. This story is dedicated to the memory of his father, Robert C. Wyatt.
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Sharing an Ancient Tradition
