The Back Garden

On the wall in the kitchen at the farm, far out of the reach of small, curious hands, hung a pair of antlers. Uncle Byron would sometimes hang a jacket or a shirt on them. Above them, hung a rifle.

One warm summer night, Uncle Byron took the gun down and slung it under his arm. He reached for his pipe and old green cap and headed toward the back pasture. I caught up with him at the gate and begged to go along and he gave me a long, contemplative look before he nodded. We walked up the hill together, not talking. I watched the smoke from his pipe making wispy trails behind him. He walked in no hurry, even paced, eyes down - past the hay wagon, past the barn. He was the first born of the family and his skin was leathered from outside work, his hands already gnarled and scarred played the accordion, milked cows, cut wood. He wasn't old then except for his eyes.

We reached the top of the hill where the back pasture sloped down and away toward the woods. He tapped my shoulder and when I looked up he put a finger to his lips and shook his head then knelt down on the gravel path that led to the back vegetable garden. He settled the rifle on his shoulder and whispered to me "We're downwind of them....venison it'll be for Sunday dinner." I looked in the direction of the rifle and saw my first deer.

There were several of them in the garden. They stood like statues for a moment, heads up, sniffing the air, absolutely silent. Then the buck lowered his head to the ground and resumed eating. Moonlight illuminated them
brilliantly, sleek coats dark noses and huge eyes. I remembered Bambi and thought this is so much better! I had never seen such delicate, beautifully crafted animals. I tugged on my uncle's shirt to get his attention and tell him so but he shushed me.

Several things then happened in rapid succession. I realized with horror that my beloved uncle was about to shoot
one of these magnificent animals - an image of the antlers in the kitchen flashed in my head and I suddenly remembered what "venison" was. So I kicked him. As hard as I could. He lost his balance, the shot went wild and cracked through the night like the ax he used to split firewood with. The deer scattered before the echo of the shot even started and I ran for my life with "Son of a bitch!" ringing in my ears.

In all the summers that followed, I never saw the rifle taken off the wall again and my uncle never spoke to me about that night. We had a quiet understanding.