Autumn Deer
by Lee Wilbur
Trace tightened his grip on the old Winchester 30-30 lever action layed across his lap as three deer walked from the woods and stood looking at him from underneath the flowering crab tree. He’d planted two crabs some forty-odd years ago. Lost one he’d cut down that mid-June when a wood borer had drilled through the center and left the pink blossoms hanging brown and dying. Probably wasn’t such a terrible loss. One managed to stand proud, and as he thought back, probably less trouble to take care of.
The young buck stood motionless, head up, just to the east of the tree, sun engulfing and warming as his eyes took in the lawn where the two does, heads down, began to graze on the deep green, late fall grasses.Without moving he could also look at Trace sitting in the old cushioned chair where he often sat, watching as deer came out in the long sloping field and on the lawn to feed before winter would keep them back in the swamp, dependent on their reach for low hanging cedar and the occasional foray out to dig for frozen apples or to nibble at a summer owner’s hedge. The young buck had grown up on this island, knew few natural enemies, other than an occasional dog and most of those were now of the harmless variety, little foofy things with a yip or yap, and a wannabe protective posture.
Trace let his gaze wander from the deer down over the field towards the tree line of leafless Red Maples that he’d trimmed over the years. He never got tired of enjoying this field and the magnifient trees. Easy for him to slip back in time to when he and his wife had bought this old gravel pit with just a strip of decent soil which they’d worked hard to clear, then build the house. Though no one would suspect now, they’d hauled in an old trailer, only thing they could afford, then built around and over it. Looked kind of like an old Maine farm house, like their neighbors, except the chimney was smaller and the windows were sliders and not the old style multi pane double-hungs. He thought too, of the acres of alders that had grown on patches of missed gravel where their seed had found sustenance and sprouted. How they’d found a contractor who was just starting in business, who later became a friend, to come in with his small bulldozer and plow down the alders in rows. How that same contractor would over the course of time bring in spoilage soil from various jobs and the land would be built up, but never enough for a garden. Trace recalled again in that warm morning sun the times he’d try to grow vegetables, or potatoes, even to the point of getting a small walk-behind tractor and how exasperated he’d be come fall. If the bugs didn’t get the meagre product of his labor, the deer would finish it off.
The buck had stepped forward now, warily dropping it’s head to occasionally take a crop or two then raising again as his father had before him. The does belonged to him. They were in his protective zone. His to procreate, to keep the lineage. Deer on this island were smaller, ingrown, protected. Yet, they were healthy if the scourge of Lyme disease were ignored. Poachers, though Trace never really considered himself one, by and large were now ignored, the population remaining under control. The few coyotes left from another friends trapping over the years played their part. His 30-30 had shot a lot of deer from this porch. Mostly afternoons. People were occupied that time of the day. Rifle shot could have been anything. Noise from the boatyard, vehicle backfiring, anything. No one had ever said a word. Perhaps, Trace thought, the occasional gift of deer meat, like the occasional gift of a fish or two, helped block the snap of gunshot.
Inch by inch, slow as if hardly to be measured, almost without thinking, by rote memory, he eased the gunstock in the direction of his shoulder, stopping from experience before the buck turned again to look in his direction. How many times had he done this. Eighty, hundred, more. Years when times were lean, when work was scarce. Other years when he and the family just plain wanted venison on the table. Perhaps for a special occasion, Thanksgiving, or Christmas, maybe for a family reunion. Trace hadn’t given this location much thought when they bought it. Only that it was a short ways out of town and it was cheap. $4500 for four acres. Never gave the hard work it would take a thought. But then he came to realize what they had. Hand dug and cleared the brook that bordered the property so at night with the window open he could hear the water tumbling toward the nearby ocean. Plenty of land for the two children to play in, build playhouses and go hide and seek in the woods, place to eventually put up a shed for his work. They relished the Eastern Sun as it streamed through their bedroom window in the spring and summer and fall. He’d been lucky. The place had been good to him and he to it.
The old gun was touching his shoulder now. In a half second he could pull the barrel up, steady the sight down on the buck’s foreshoulder, squeeze the trigger as he’d done those many times before. Trace didn’t move. Perhaps he couldn’t move. Perhaps he wanted to remember this picture. Keep it locked. No changes. Finally, he brought his boot up and slammed it on the porch. The buck, head thrown back, was the only one of the three to look up. Their eyes locked for what seemed like minutes. Trace lowered the old gun. Something he’d never done before. Their eyes remained locked. He slowly stood and opened the porch door, turned, and walked inside.
From my favorite cooking magazine, Saveur, Feb.17, 2009. Rascal House Whitefish Salad. Great on toasted bagels or as a cracker dip.
• R E C I P E •
Half small red onion or equiv. sweet onion finely chopped
1 lb smoked whitefish or trout, skinned, bones removed
Third cup mayo
Quarter cup sour cream
1 T. chopped dill
1 T. fresh lemon juice
1 hard boiled egg, finely chopped
1 rib celery, finely chopped
Fresh ground pepper to taste
1. Place the red onions, if used, in a bowl and cover with cold water. (Skip if using sweet onion, reds make dish prettier.) Let red onions soak to mellow their bite, about 15 mins. Strain and set aside.
2. Use a fork to flake the fish into a bowl. Add other ingredients except pepper. Stir to combine then season with the pepper. Serve immediately. Can be refrigerated for up to 4 days .