Matt Liere: Family ties and byes

Just before this year’s pheasant opener, I stopped by Dad’s to check in and talk about the schedule for the upcoming weekend. He sat in his old, leather armchair with the daily paper draped across his lap under weathered, folded hands, an early-season fire smoldering dimly in the glass door window of the wood stove nearby. He looked up above his reading glasses, listening patiently as I laid out the plan for our annual hunt, before slowly shaking his head. “I’m gonna have to pass; I don’t think my legs can’t handle it.”

Both legs had gotten bad over the past year, the neuropathy creeping from feet to thighs, rendering them numb, leaving him unsure and unbalanced. “You go on without; let me know what the terrain is like. Maybe I’ll make it out next time.”

Aside from a few missed openers during my military service, this would be the first since settling down that we would forgo our tradition. I nodded, swallowing, hoping to hide my disappointment and any evident sadness. “Well, I’ll take Lucy anyway,” I said. “It will be good for her to get out and run some birds.”

Dad looked over at the 13-year-old Brittany, curled up on a dog-bed next to the fire. “I think she is probably gonna sit this one out, too,” he sighed. “She can’t hear anymore anyway – makes her hard to control.” I thought I saw sadness in his eyes, too.

I hunted hard with friends, sans Dad, working the familiar draws and grassy eyebrows of the Palouse we’d traversed together so many times before. Mike’s dogs worked well, offering up two straightaway shots that were gimmees – all missed cleanly with four shots from my old Baker double-barrel. I returned home dejected and empty-handed.

I relayed the day’s events to Dad that evening, detailing the action and my embarrassing misses in dramatic fashion. He listened patiently, waiting for me to finish.

“When was the last time you patterned that gun?” he asked. “It’s pretty old. Used to be my dad’s, you know. Bought it used when he was 16 for 10 bucks,” he said. “Must have been around 1930. Guy threw in a box of shells, too.”

I knew the story well, having heard it repeatedly various times since receiving it as a gift from him at age 12. The ancient side-by-side was heavy as a tank at 9 pounds, had a double-trigger, a touchy safety, and a history I knew better than my own. I let Dad tell me about it again, anyway.

“I’m just saying,” he said, wrapping up the old tale, “everything has an expiration. Things just get tired and worn out. Maybe you should pattern it; see what’s going on.”

I set up a target the next day, shooting a 30-inch circle from 25 and 40 yards away, using No. 6 shot by two different manufacturers. Surprisingly, there was little difference between manufacturers or chokes with regard to hit percentage, but concerns trump surprises, and I was deeply concerned with the large hole showing an absence of pellets in all patterns, dead center and high. On paper, it looked like I was shooting above and around the birds I was pursuing.

Showing my results to Dad, he suggested I borrow his 20 ga Ithaca my next time out and see what I thought. “I know it patterns well,” he testified, handing it over. “I checked it at the end of last season. But you still gotta know how to shoot,” he joked. “Here’s a box of shells.”

I went 5-for-5 the next weekend, connecting on two beautiful roosters and three quail, which included a double. The Ithaca felt familiar but light, and I was elated with my performance. The feeling was somehow bittersweet.

It was dark when I arrived at Dad’s to find him still sitting in his worn armchair, this time reading Nelson DeMille, the eternal fire still glowing in the stove nearby. Lucy slept in her bed at his feet, curled up against the warmth of the hearth. She never heard me come in.

“Well, how’d it go?” Dad asked, turning the book down on his lap. “Get anything?”

I relayed the day’s events to Dad that evening, detailing the action and my fantastic shooting prowess in dramatic fashion. He listened intently as I rambled on, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Well, anyway,” I finished up, heading to the door to leave. “I’ve got your gun in the truck. I’ll bring it in.”

“Nah, you keep it,” he said, shifting his position. “I don’t have much use for it anymore. Retire that old gun of yours, but leave it here. I’ve got a spot on the wall that would fit it perfectly.” I nodded, looking down, trying to conceal the glisten in my eyes.

“But you owe me 10 bucks,” he said, picking up his book, flipping it to return to where he left off. “For the gun. For old time’s sake.”

“Sure, Dad,” I replied, pulling the door closed behind me. Sounded like a fair deal to me.