I had no sooner put my tools aside and settled down to enjoy my handiwork on a new back porch than I got the surprise of my life.
Behind me came a flutter of wings and two Bobwhite quail buzzed over my head. The cock bird settled on the end of the new hand rail as if he had been the carpenter.
His mate dropped to the ground, occasionally checking to see if he would join the feast.
I sat, frozen. Never in my life as a farmer, hunter or outdoorsman have I been any closer to live quail.
I did not move. I held my breath to see how this once-in-a-lifetime vision would last. For at least ten minutes I waited and watched. Finally, the female bird hopped beside her protector, and in instant departure they disappeared towards the woods.
Those few minutes made my heart leap. I long ago had given up hope that my favorite bird had survived the pounding of the hooves of cows, the constant mowing of hay or plowing for crops.
Most of my life has been spent on this old farm – five generations of my family have lived on it, seen the seasons change, as well as the wonders of life. I have also never lived elsewhere.
But it was I who had done the greatest harm. I had the machinery and equipment to tear up the trees and grow crops never meant for my soil, and I did it constantly, even several times a year.
And I was not alone. Most of my friends, as well as the ones who may have looked up to me had done the same.
I recall some of those years. I am surprised that the years my family and I had to work the hardest – and usually earned the least – we were happiest.
Let me give an example.
Some “city guys” drove in one day and introduced themselves. They wanted a place to “run their dogs and maybe find a bird or two.”
They were polite. I gave permission for them to hunt – first making sure they knew a cow and a horse were not to be shot. When they returned later, they handed me a ten dollar bill each. That was big money then, and I naturally invited them to return – which they did.
They invited me to join their club in Springfield – which I did.
And suddenly we had a new set of friends. It was soon agreed that we had the ideal location for their annual field trial, and we did. And we asked them if we could be the host.
The result was electrifying. Helen, with a friend, provided the food for 200 outdoors lovers and a good time was had by all.
And that was only the beginning. The friendships went on forever; they helped Helen and I when we had to have jobs in Springfield, which eventually resulted in paying for the old family farm and saving a bit for retirement – which we have been enjoying for many years now.
Now you can see why I got so excited and had such a thrill when those two quail decided to visit our home a few days ago.
It is early October. I remember back to when the geese circled my north pond, landed, rested and fed from my wheat fields. This season I cast my eyes again to the northwest, from whence the geese once came. But the geese no longer appear. It is not only the geese that are missing. I have not seen any wild ducks, either. And Bobwhite quail are all but gone from fields and woods. But at least I know two quail that are back. I will guard them jealously.
I am reminded of nearly half a century ago when the Missouri Commission asked me, along with three other journalists, to attend the opening of the duck hunting season in north Missouri.
Hunters were stationed before daylight, and when ducks – thousands and thousands of them started the signal for hunting to begin, the ducks flew over the hunters and thousands of ducks fell to the ground.
I, too, pulled a trigger. The target was a beautiful Snow Goose. It fell at my feet. That once beautiful white plumage landed at my feet. In mud.
That lovely creature, that was harming no one or anything, would be the last creature I would shoot. My gracious hosts were unhappy with the lead of my story – “Fly high, geese. You will never fear my gun anymore.”
Coyotes aside, as for hunting, my guns shall gather dust. I fear mankind has already done too much damage to our wildlife and its habitat.
