Easter Shot

“Shoot it, shoot it!” Mother quietly urged through her frozen smile as she excitedly bobbed about – up, down, and sideways. My stepfather Clinton stood nearby grinning broadly. He’s from the hills of Kentucky, by way of World War II in Germany, and he has been around guns for as long as he can remember. “Why, when I was your age, I shot squirrels with a 22 rifle for our supper,” he once said.

How did this day start? I dressed in new Easter Sunday clothes. I’m wearing a rather flamboyant polyester blue suit created by Mother, which features a contrasting light plaid front.  She’s an ambitious seamstress out of necessity. ”Just to be different,” she said about her unusual design. I donned a white shirt, slicked my thick brown hair over to one side with a low part, and freshly polished my shoes to complete my Easter Sunday outfit.

We’re living in Denver in the mid-1950s close to Speer Boulevard and 17^th Street. I sometimes play in Cherry Creek following a big rainstorm marveling at the mini sand dunes created by the passing storm. 

I don’t recall what church we went to that Easter Sunday. It is now near midday, we are at a water ditch south of Denver. Could this be the High Line Canal? We’re here so I can shoot Clinton’s 410 gauge shotgun. This is the same gun that I recall Mother and Clinton using one time when we drove the gravel roads among the fields south of Denver at night and poached a pheasant by first blinding and freezing it motionless in the spotlight of our 1953 green and cream Custom Ford sedan. Mother tucked the dead pheasant inside her blouse in case a game warden came along.

My final shot of the day was a close-up blast at a small rabbit. While our original intent was target practice, when the little critter wandered into our path, the hunting instincts of Mother and Clinton took over. Excitedly hopping about, Mother urged, “Shoot it, shoot it!” I shot it. A mass of bloody fur lay on the ground 10 feet away.

I didn’t feel thrilled. “Is this what it’s all about?” I must have wondered. Were they elated on the drive home? Did we fry and eat the rabbit for dinner? Did I help Clinton skin it, cut it open, pull its guts out, cut its head and paws off, and cut it into the serving size pieces for dinner? I don’t remember those details.

I do remember this day as the last time I shot an animal. Dressed in my Easter Sunday best, I blasted a small rabbit at near point-blank range with a shotgun. It was an Easter shot I never forgot.

Revision #1

“Shoot it, shoot it!” Mother hissed, a frozen smile on her face as she excitedly bobbed about – up, down, and sideways. My stepfather Clinton stood nearby grinning, “Why, when I was your age, I shot squirrels with a 22 rifle for our supper.” He’s from the hills of Kentucky, by way of World War II in Germany, and he has been around guns for as long as he can remember. 

How did this day start? I'm wearing new Easter Sunday clothes, a flamboyant polyester blue suit sewn by Mother, which features a contrasting light plaid front.  She’s an ambitious seamstress. ”Just to be different,” she said about her unusual design. I'm wearing a new white shirt, my thick brown hair is slicked over to one side, freshly polished shoes complete my Easter Sunday outfit.

We’re living in Denver in the mid-1950s,  close to Speer Boulevard and 17^th Street. I sometimes go to Cherry Creek near downtown Denver after thunderous rainstorms and play among the mini sand dunes left by the big storms that sweep through the then unchanneled natural flowing creek. 

I don’t recall what church we went to that Easter Sunday. It is now near midday, we are at a water ditch south of Denver. Could this be the High Line Canal? We’re here so I can shoot Clinton’s 410 gauge shotgun. This is the same gun that I recall Mother and Clinton using one time when we drove the gravel roads among the fields south of Denver at night and poached a pheasant by first freezing it motionless in the spotlight of our 1953 green and cream Custom Ford sedan. Mother tucked the dead pheasant inside her blouse in case a game warden came along.

With my final shot of the day, I blasted a small rabbit. While our original intent was target practice, when the little critter wandered into view, the hunting instincts of Mother and Clinton took over. Excitedly hopping about, Mother whispered, “Shoot it, shoot it!” I shot it. A mass of bloody fur lay on the ground 10 feet away.

I didn’t feel thrilled. “Is this what it’s all about?” I must have wondered. Were they chatting happily on the drive home? Did we fry and eat the rabbit for dinner? Did I help Clinton skin it, cut it open, pull its guts out, cut its head and paws off, and cut it into the serving size pieces for dinner? Or, was the little critter blown apart so badly that we left it lay? I don’t remember those details.

I do remember this day as the last time I shot an animal. Dressed in my Easter Sunday best, blasting a small rabbit at near point-blank range with a shotgun. Yukk!  It was an Easter shot I never forgot.