Open Season

12/2/2015

The Lay of the Land

By Lyn Messersmith

Open Season

            The first shot echoed across the valley as I tended the trash fire in our incinerator, clear and unmistakable as death itself, shattering the frosty stillness of a perfect fall morning. It wasn’t unexpected, after all, this was opening day of deer season; just unsettling, given the events that had taken place in Paris less than twenty four hours earlier.

            It would have been friendly fire, if there is such, because the only people with permission to hunt on my spouse’s ranch are relatives; responsible folks who always ask first and let us know where they will be. The meat will be used in some appropriate manner, and they won’t abuse the land by making tracks in delicate areas that tend to become blowouts.

Still, the sound of gunfire hit my gut and ear hard; made me flinch and say a prayer for the hunted, of any species. I tried to pray for the hunters as well; the ones who do it for sport and for sustenance; even for those who are somehow convinced that killing in the name of ideology and religion is heroic. But sometimes my prayers are simply words, and I have to hope that a higher power can turn them into real intention for good. At such times, I say the words anyway, for whatever they are worth.

As the quiet, peaceful day wore on I hung out laundry in shirtsleeves, watched sun sparkle on the lake, and listened to geese gabble their way to winter quarters, while sitting on the porch swing with a purring pile of fur on my lap. I swept a collection of leaves off the patio and pondered the necessity for us to sweep thoughts of hatred and resentment out of our heads, so as not to become like those who live only to harm the innocent.

Also in shirtsleeves, Bruce worked at repairing a shed, but instead of accompanying him, our dog cowered indoors getting underfoot and displaying general uneasiness. Maggie hates guns, and although there were only a couple of shots near enough to be heard, instinct told her that it was time to take cover. Lately, it’s hard for us two-leggeds not to adopt the same attitude. We could let fear and uncertainty overshadow the joy of a season predicated on our belief in ultimate forgiveness and love, but if we do that, the terrorists win.

I’ve waited a while to write about this, knowing my tendency to react, rather than responding thoughtfully. Here’s what I do know. Maggie lost a lovely day, perhaps one of the last we will enjoy for a long time, because she was afraid of something she can’t understand, that occurred at a distance. The possibility of shots nearer the house certainly existed; our relatives sometimes get their deer in a tree strip just east of the barn, but on that day, it didn’t happen.

Life is risky. Live it anyway, with all the joy you can muster.