4 � SOUTH � JANUARY-FEBRUARY ’ 24
LETTER FROM THE EDITOR Just don ’ t tell Mom
In that moment , I did not believe I ’ d hit the mark . That robin was perched on a telephone wire under sunny skies about 50 yards out from the cool shadows of the drive through of a corn crib where I was taking aim . No way was I going to knock off some small target that was beyond the driveway , past the large red tanks of diesel for the tractors and across a county gravel road . I was taking aim with a BB gun , for Pete ’ s sake . That bird had no worries and would be bringing home dinner for all his hungry baby birds later that day . Or so I thought until I squeezed the trigger and the red-bellied thrush – much to my astonishment and horror – dropped stone cold dead . “ Oh , crap .” I was an impressionable young guy with an overly active imagination , 10 years old at the time , and figured I had just broken state law – if not an entire canon of Iowa code – written under close supervision , no doubt , of the Audubon Society to protect popular songbirds from young farmboy terrorists . In a flash , I figured game wardens would be dispatched just as soon as they caught wind and would arrive with handcuffs and intent to lock me up . I imagined families of all the birds on the farm , from the goldfinches to chickadees , from the barn swallows to the blue jays , from the junkos to the downy woodpeckers , were spreading the word of a wayward child , hellbent on murdering innocent and harmless feathered fowl without provocation .
More concerning , however , was whether my mother instinctively knew what I had done or if she had caught a glimpse of my dastardly deed from the farmhouse kitchen where she tracked and recorded all comings and goings and news of the day – from the noon farm market report to the boxscore of the Iowa men ’ s basketball
By J . Damon Cain
team from the night before – and made notations in a journal she kept in a drawer next to a pencil , her lighter and her pack of Salem menthols . It was hard to get much of anything past Mom . She had a sixth sense about all the trouble a farm-boy could get into . I had two older brothers , after all , and a younger one , too . So , yes , plenty of trouble and shenanigans out on the farm . So much so that she had Dad sell his shotgun – just a tragic accident waiting to happen , she thought . Well , not in her house , not to one of her boys .
So even though the shot that brought that robin to his grave was perfectly executed and worth a brag , I was certainly not going to tell Mom . And I certainly wasn ’ t about to tell my brothers because – count on it – they ’ d purposely spill the beans just to see me get a good talking to if not a lickin ’.
She loved those birds – her birds – especially the chickadees and other smaller species that would get bullied at the bird feeder . She was always coming to the defense of the more vulnerable among us , man and beast . I suspected that she would be none too happy that I , one of her kids , had shot a robin for no apparent reason other than – in her view – a little cruel and heartless target practice . “ Why not the rabbits or squirrels ?” she ’ d probably ask . “ There ’ s a big ol ’ grove out there with all kinds of critters . There are rats in the barn and mice in the crib . And you had to pick a defenseless , unknowing robin as your prey ?”
And the kicker : “ You need to go to your room without dinner and think about what you have done .”
Nope . Not telling Mom . I was hungry . I ’ d rather deal with law enforcement on a full stomach than with Mom on an empty one .
And I wasn ’ t the only one who felt that way .
Being especially protective of pheasants during the fall hunting season , she posted no hunting signs on fences bordering Cain property from all angles . She ’ d even go so far as to put out shelled corn just beyond the grove , trying to draw the birds out of the hunter ’ s scope , out of the harvested corn fields and out of harm ’ s way .
On more than one occasion , when she heard a shotgun ’ s boom , she ’ d run out to the pickup truck and race off in the direction of the blast , blocking an interloper ’ s exit if she found them lingering and – especially for a good Catholic girl – let loose with some fine profanity , saying in no uncertain terms that she would let every living soul in Bagley know just what the hunter had done , trespassing and all , and had a mind to call the local authorities . If she knew him , she would threaten to call his parents . She also said she would say a prayer for him at Mass on Sunday so that he might not go to hell . She would not relent until she got an apology and a promise never to pull such a dumb stunt again .
The ring-neck male pheasant , you see , was one of God ’ s more beautiful creations , in Mom ’ s book . Why , the man upstairs must have opened up all the colors of a watercolor rainbow to create such a beauty – a complex and layered plumage of gold , brown , green , purple and white punctuated with complex patterns and long , striped tails . The rooster ’ s head was colored proud in greens and blues with a distinctive red wattle . So perfect , so beautiful , Mom would say . So , no , do not dare show up in the Cain farm driveway asking for my mother ’ s permission to go hunt pheasant in our fields . Heck , just go to the grocery store and buy a chicken . Save you a lot of trouble .
Not like it ’ s a robin or anything .
J . Damon Cain is editor of West Virginia South and The Register-Herald in Beckley , W . Va . He is a fan of the San Francisco Giants , the Iowa Hawkeyes , good beer , black Labs and his family . Over the course of a 43-year career , he has won myriad journalism awards , including those for writing , newspage design and photo editing .
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