That Bird Won’t Fly
But for my husband, I’d be a lot less interesting. Over the course of our 31 years of marriage, he has cajoled, maneuvered and sometimes begged me to do things I absolutely resisted. Scuba diving and sailing come right to the top of the list. So, it’s no wonder I find myself at 58-years old repeating basic phrases from Michel Thomas’s Deluxe Edition of Spanish discs and squatting in the shower under hot water heated in a solar bag on the deck of our boat.
I’m also, at the moment, listening to the scratchy whirs, beeps and putts of a HAM radio. (John worked very hard to get his HAM license this fall while we were in Charleston.) . He swears he did it for me and I don’t dispute that. I pitched such a fit in the Bahamas about communicating with our girls and knowing about the weather that he was compelled to find a solution if we were ever going to leave the States again. I don’t feel very guilty, though. He’s wanted a radio ever since his older brother built one with a Heath Kit years ago.
This does, however, add a new routine to my life. Rather than the “Today Show” or “Good Morning America,” we start our day with the “HAM Cruiser’s Net.” Some of it is quite beneficial for our purposes, particularly the weather. But, in many respects, it’s akin to the old party-line. You hear conversations between people you don’t know discussing things you don’t understand. They could be anywhere in the world. It sounds like they are next door to each other.
Usually when we share “Net Time,” I wander off to do something else. That’s not literally, of course. You can’t do too much wandering on a sailboat. But, the other morning, I happened to overhear some guy from Oriental, NC, talking about how he had recently been invited to do something that he hadn’t done for twenty-five years – hunt pheasant. He gushed about how wonderful it was; how the dogs worked the field and honored each other’s points; how beautiful pheasants were and such good eating. I’d say he enjoyed it.
The whole thing had no relevance to me until the next day. As we listened to the radio the following morning, someone called this his sign to see if he was on the Net. He was. The conversation went something like this.
“Hey, Charlie. You mentioned going pheasant hunting yesterday. Where did you go? Pheasant aren’t native to that area, are they?”
“You’re right. They aren’t. But, I have a buddy who owns several hundred acres right outside of Oriental who had the pheasant flown in from up north. Now, don’t get me wrong. We weren’t just killing ‘em like innocent pheasant. My friend has recreated their natural habitat. These birds were living in their normal environment. They had plenty of time to get adjusted to it. They had been there for two for three days.”
I about fell off the settee. His build up begged for years or months. Not two or three DAYS. That was ridiculous!
It reminded me, though, of a similar story about my dad. Years ago, when I was a little girl, a developer put together an extensive piece of property just north of Travelers Rest, SC, along the South Saluda River. It was a remote stretch of land in the foothills below Table Rock Mountain, maybe a forty-five minute drive from Greenville at the time. He intended to build a lodge to serve as a weekend retreat where businessmen could come to fish and hunt. Success was guaranteed. At the end of the day, the lodge chef would prepare their bounty for dinner. They would enjoy cigars and brandy, then retire for the night. It was to be an authentic “back to nature” experience for the hard-working, citified pillars of the Greenville community. Fittingly enough, the name was “The Wing and Fin Club.”
While the club was under construction, the developer sold memberships. My dad and his law partner, Steve, became “charter members.” It didn’t take long for the club to reach its goal.
Finally, the weekend came for the club to open. Dad spent a couple of nights ahead of time gathering his hunting gear – shotguns for dove and duck – and his fly-fishing tackle including waders. He carefully packed it all in the car before heading for work on Friday morning. He and Steve would leave from work in order to get to the lodge that evening. There was to be an inaugural duck hunt around the signature pond at daybreak the following morning.
I can only imagine the excitement those men felt when they awoke on that Saturday. The smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the rough-hewn timbers of the lodge. The hot liquid washed down the doughnuts they ate to tide them over until after the hunt when the chef would whip up a grown man’s breakfast of eggs, bacon, grits and biscuits with gravy. There was laughter all around in anticipation of the great fun they would have.
Around 5:00 AM, the developer/owner/guide piled his prized customers into a bus and drove them to the duck blinds dotted all around the lake. With the rising sun, a new era in gentlemen’s leisure would surely dawn on his “Wing and Fin Club.” It would become an expensive, exclusive institution with a waiting list for inclusion.
The rays of the sun began appearing over the trees. The sky lightened step by step. The hunters whispered in their stands, waiting to hear the first sounds of ducks flying into the pond. “Quack, quack, quack…….” There it was. “Quack, quack, quack….”
Everybody’s eyes lifted to the heavens, earnestly looking for the perfectly formed “V’s” of the ducks as they spotted the pond and made their approach.
“Quack, quack, quack …..” Where were they? Necks craned upward, trying to figure out the direction of the sound.
“Quack, quack, quack …….” “Quack, quack, SPLASH!” The first duck hit the water.
A collective “What the …..” came from every duck blind. All eyes fell to the ground.
Instead of flying into the pond, the ducks were marching in line down to the water. They were marching from their pens just like they had done every morning for the last six months while they were being fed and fattened to be shot by the businessmen of Greenville. The developer/owner/guide flapped his arms wildly behind them trying to get the ducks to leave the ground before they came to the pond. He hoped it was still dark enough that his hunters wouldn’t see him. If the birds didn’t fly, nobody could shoot because they might shoot each other. It was to no avail. At best the ducks might have jumped a little, but they had no concept of flying. They were probably too fat to do it anyway.
Thus, the demise of the great Wing and Fin Club began with its calamitous opening-day duck hunt. When my dad came home, he dejectedly unpacked the car and put all of his gear away to gather dust in the basement.
As I listened to the guy talk on the HAM radio about the great sport of hunting three-day old imported pheasants, I couldn’t help but chuckle about dad’s private hunt club. At least the ducks had a reprieve because they wouldn’t fly. I have a feeling the pheasants didn’t fare so well.
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