Duck Hunting Quotes

As the taxi entered the intersection, the two drivers in the attorney general’s entourage slammed on the brakes. Both Suburbans fishtailed out of control. Ducking in the back seat, Blake could smell the burning rubber from tires skidding on the asphalt and hear the pedestrians screaming and car horns sounding off in rebuke.

The duck swallows the worm, the fox kills the duck, the men shoot the fox, and the devil hunts the men.

I’ll leave you here to finish your, er…conversation.” As he withdrew from the room, however, it seemed that he couldn’t keep from ducking his head back in and asking Marcus cryptically, “Once a week, did you say?” “Close the door behind you,” Marcus said icily, and Hunt obeyed with a smothered sound that sounded suspiciously like laughter.

Philosophy without criticism is like hunting deer without a shotgun, so, if you want people to like you, avoid robust philosophical debate.

The Second Amendment is not about duck hunting, and I know I’m not going to make very many friends saying this, but it’s about our right, all of our right to be able to protect ourselves from all of you guys up there.

He's hunting newbloods not to protect his throne but to hurt you. To find you. To make you come back to him." His fist clenches on his thigh. "Maven wants you more than anything else on this earth." Would that Maven were here now, so I could rip out his horrible, haunting eyes. "Well, he can't have me." I realize the consequences of this, and so does Cal. "Not even if it stops the killing? Not for the newbloods?" Tears bite my eyes. "I won't go back. For anyone." I expect his judgment, but instead he smiles and ducks his head. Ashamed of his own reaction, as I am of mine.

we’d go to his apartment and play Kaboom! and Tank instead of fooling around. I guess to some people that might have been weird, but I got my rocks off watching someone be amazing at Duck Hunt. Whatever.

Wildlife, we are constantly told, would run loose across our towns and cities were it not for the sport hunters to control their population, as birds would blanket the skies without the culling services of Ducks Unlimited and other groups. Yet here they are breeding wild animals, year after year replenishing the stock, all for the sole purpose of selling and killing them, deer and bears and elephants so many products being readied for the market. Animals such as deer, we are told, have no predators in many areas, and therefore need systematic culling. Yet when attempts are made to reintroduce natural predators such as wolves and coyotes into these very areas, sport hunters themselves are the first to resist it. Weaker animals in the wild, we hear, will only die miserable deaths by starvation and exposure without sport hunters to control their population. Yet it's the bigger, stronger animals they're killing and wounding--the very opposite of natural selection--often with bows and pistols that only compound and prolong the victim's suffering.

Whether hunting is right or wrong, a spiritual experience, or an outlet for the killer instinct, one thing it is not is a sport. Sport is when individuals or teams compete against each other under equal circumstances to determine who is better at a given game or endeavor. Hunting will be a sport when deer, elk, bears, and ducks are... given 12-gauge shotguns. Bet we'd see a lot fewer drunk yahoos (live ones, anyway) in the woods if that happened.

You remember how homesick I used to get, and what long talks we used to have coming from school? We've someway always felt alike about things." "Yes, that's it; we've liked the same things and we've liked them together, without anybody else knowing. And we've had good times, hunting for Christmas trees and going for ducks and making our plum wine together every year. We've never either of us had any other close friend. And now---

The nymphs remained. When they finished their terms of service, others arrived to take their place. Sometimes there were four, sometimes six or seven. They trembled when I passed, ducking and calling me mistress, but it meant nothing. I had been put in my place. At a word and a whim from my father all my vaunted power blew away. Not even my father: any river-god had the right to fill my island, and I could not stop him. The nymphs wafted around me. Their smothered laughter drifted down the halls. At least, I told myself, it was not their brothers, who would have bragged and fought and hunted down my wolves. But of course that was never a real danger. Sons were not punished.

My life had stood--a Loaded Gun-- In Corners--till a Day The Owner passed--identified-- And carried Me away-- And now We roam in Sovereign Woods-- And now We hunt the Doe-- And every time I speak for Him-- The Mountains straight reply-- And do I smile, such cordial light Upon the Valley glow-- It is as a Vesuvian face Had let its pleasure through-- And when at Night--Our good Day done-- I guard My Master's Head-- 'Tis better than the Eider-Duck's Deep Pillow--to have shared-- To foe of His--I'm deadly foe-- None stir the second time-- On whom I lay a Yellow Eye-- Or an emphatic Thumb-- Though I than He--may longer live He longer must--than I-- For I have but the power to kill, Without--the power to die--

Warm breath brushed over my ear as he leaned in. “Am I perfect, drādah?” I choked. Ducking away from him, I rushed back to the worktable. Focusing with single-minded determination, I opened the book to its table of contents and tried desperately to remember what I was supposed to be researching. Zylas’s quiet, husky laugh rolled through the room.

...fiction writing is like duck hunting. You go to the right place at the right time with the right dog. You get into the water before dawn, wearing a little protective gear, then you stand behind some reeds and wait for the story to present itself...You choose the place and the day. You pick the gun and the dog. You have the desire to blow the duck apart for reasons that are entirely your own. But you have to be willing to accept not what you wanted to have happen, but what happens... By the time you get out of the marsh, you will have written a novel so devoid of ducks it will shock you.

A man could shoot thirty ducks if it pleased him, and then shoot thirty more the next day, and it was perfectly legal. His hunting partner was likely to be the county sheriff.

She put her hand on his shoulder and gave a soft squeeze. She did not know what else to do. First her mother, then her father and Fanen, and finally Hilfred—they were all gone. Mauvin was slipping away as well. The boy who loved his sword more than Wintertide presents, sweet chocolate cake, or swimming on a hot day refused to touch it anymore. The eldest son of Count Pickering, who had once challenged the sun to a duel because it had rained on the day of a hunt, spent his days watching ducks.

If it looked like a duck, and quacked like a duck, then guess what? It was probably a goddamned werewolf.

Okay, let’s pretend to be friends. Just two friends having dinner.” “That doesn’t work in the South. A male friend cannot have dinner with a female friend if the male friend has a wife. It just doesn’t work down here.” “Why not?” “Because men don’t have female friends. No way. I don’t know of a single man in the entire South who is married and has a female friend. I think it goes back to the Civil War.” “I think it goes back to the Dark Ages. Why are Southern women so jealous?” “Because that’s the way we’ve trained them. They learned from us. If my wife met a male friend for lunch or dinner, I’d tear his head off and file for divorce. She learned it from me.” “That makes absolutely no sense.” “Of course it doesn’t.” “Your wife has no male friends?” “None that I know of. If you learn of any, let me know.” “And you have no female friends?” “Why would I want female friends? They can’t talk about football, or duck hunting, or politics, or lawsuits, or anything that I want to talk about. They talk about kids, clothes, recipes, coupons, furniture, stuff I know nothing about. No, I don’t have any female friends. Don’t want any.” “That’s what I love about the South. The people are so tolerant.” “Thank you.

Although my law practice pays my hotel bill, I consider it no more my career than a hundred other things: sailing, drinking, walking the streets, writing my 'Inquirey', starting at walls hunting ducks and 'coons,reading, playing politics, and whatnot. I'm interested in any number of things, and enthusiastic about nothing.

Are you prepared then, to shoot a human being?" he asked, trying not to let Jenny sense his own internal unease. "It's not the same as shooting a duck or gazelle." Jenny's violet eyes met his straight on. "If that human being was about to harm any one of us, I'd feel worse about shooting the duck. It, at least, would have done nothing to deserve a bullet.

So why the hell do you want me to duck under a fucking ticket counter and hide while you turn into a cowboy on me all of a sudden? Why now, when it really counts?” - Lily Hunt

Phil and Jase hunt more than anyone else in the family and take hunting more seriously than the others, so Miss Kay totally understands how I feel once duck season starts. She has said more than once, “I sure hope I don’t die during duck season because none of the men in the family would come to my funeral!” I have to say, she has good reason to be concerned.

No one is born pompous. To attain that state requires a certain amount of planning and effort. Presumably you could achieve it by a variety of means, but one sure way is to attend an old prep school that’s a little past its prime; while there, exhibit some facility in a field sport that you will never have cause to play again; room with a fellow whose name is over the library door; and along the way, gain familiarity with a pastime that requires travel and specialized apparel—such as duck hunting or downhill skiing. Follow these simple steps and you are sure to gain the necessary self-assurance to expound authoritatively on wine, politics, and the lives of the less fortunate—and to generally go on and on about anything else.

Why do you want to know?” The shrug again. “Just wondering.” “Really. You’ve skipped your lawn tennis or duck hunting or whiskey drinking or whatever else people of your sort do all day, only to come all the way out to the island to ask me about the piano piece. Because you were just wondering.” I pushed away from the door. “Coming here to kiss me would have been more believable.” “Well, it was second on my list.” “I’m not intimidated by you,” I said, blunt. “If you’re hoping I’ll turn out to be some pathetic, blubbering little rag-girl who begs you not to ruin her, you’re in for a surprise.” “That’s good.” Lord Armand met my eyes. “I like surprises.” We gazed at each other, he on the bed and me by the door, neither of us giving quarter. It seemed to me that the room was growing even more dim, that time was repeating the same ploy it had pulled in Jesse’s cottage, drawing out long and slow. The storm outside railed against the castle walls, drowning the air within. It layered darkness through Armand’s eyes, the once-vivid blue now deep as the ocean at night. Beyond my window the rain fell and fell, fat clouds weeping as if they’d never stop. “Nice bracelet,” Armand said softly. “Did you steal it?” I shook my head. “You gave it to me.” “Did I?” “As far as everyone else if concerned, yes. You did.” “Hmm. And what do I get in return for agreeing to be your…benefactor?” “The answer to your question.” “No kiss?” he asked, even softer. “No.” His lips quirked. “All right, then, waif. I accept your terms. We’ll try the kiss later.

Duck Dynasty viewers think they're the experts on hunting, but actually they're the hunted ones, just another dumb demographic to be captured, laughed at and force-fed commercials for Geico and Home Depot by the Smart People in New York and L.A.

From the line, watching, three things are striking: (a) what on TV is a brisk crack is here a whooming roar that apparently is what a shotgun really sounds like; (b) trapshooting looks comparatively easy, because now the stocky older guy who's replaced the trim bearded guy at the rail is also blowing these little fluorescent plates away one after the other, so that a steady rain of lumpy orange crud is falling into the Nadir's wake; (c) a clay pigeon, when shot, undergoes a frighteningly familiar-looking midflight peripeteia -- erupting material, changing vector, and plummeting seaward in a corkscrewy way that all eerily recalls footage of the 1986 Challenger disaster. All the shooters who precede me seem to fire with a kind of casual scorn, and all get eight out of ten or above. But it turns out that, of these six guys, three have military-combat backgrounds, another two are L. L. Bean-model-type brothers who spend weeks every year hunting various fast-flying species with their "Papa" in southern Canada, and the last has got not only his own earmuffs, plus his own shotgun in a special crushed-velvet-lined case, but also his own trapshooting range in his backyard (31) in North Carolina. When it's finally my turn, the earmuffs they give me have somebody else's ear-oil on them and don't fit my head very well. The gun itself is shockingly heavy and stinks of what I'm told is cordite, small pubic spirals of which are still exiting the barrel from the Korea-vet who preceded me and is tied for first with 10/10. The two brothers are the only entrants even near my age; both got scores of 9/10 and are now appraising me coolly from identical prep-school-slouch positions against the starboard rail. The Greek NCOs seem extremely bored. I am handed the heavy gun and told to "be bracing a hip" against the aft rail and then to place the stock of the weapon against, no, not the shoulder of my hold-the-gun arm but the shoulder of my pull-the-trigger arm. (My initial error in this latter regard results in a severely distorted aim that makes the Greek by the catapult do a rather neat drop-and-roll.) Let's not spend a lot of time drawing this whole incident out. Let me simply say that, yes, my own trapshooting score was noticeably lower than the other entrants' scores, then simply make a few disinterested observations for the benefit of any novice contemplating trapshooting from a 7NC Megaship, and then we'll move on: (1) A certain level of displayed ineptitude with a firearm will cause everyone who knows anything about firearms to converge on you all at the same time with cautions and advice and handy tips. (2) A lot of the advice in (1) boils down to exhortations to "lead" the launched pigeon, but nobody explains whether this means that the gun's barrel should move across the sky with the pigeon or should instead sort of lie in static ambush along some point in the pigeon's projected path. (3) Whatever a "hair trigger" is, a shotgun does not have one. (4) If you've never fired a gun before, the urge to close your eyes at the precise moment of concussion is, for all practical purposes, irresistible. (5) The well-known "kick" of a fired shotgun is no misnomer; it knocks you back several steps with your arms pinwheeling wildly for balance, which when you're holding a still-loaded gun results in mass screaming and ducking and then on the next shot a conspicuous thinning of the crowd in the 9-Aft gallery above. Finally, (6), know that an unshot discus's movement against the vast lapis lazuli dome of the open ocean's sky is sun-like -- i.e., orange and parabolic and right-to-left -- and that its disappearance into the sea is edge-first and splashless and sad.

A very simple but particularly useful technique for finding the cause of a problem is simply to explain it to someone else. The other person should look over your shoulder at the screen, and nod his or her head constantly (like a rubber duck bobbing up and down in a bathtub). They do not need to say a word; the simple act of explaining, step by step, what the code is supposed to do often causes the problem to leap off the screen and announce itself.[7] [7] Why "rubber ducking"? While an undergraduate at Imperial College in London, Dave did a lot of work with a research assistant named Greg Pugh, one of the best developers Dave has known. For several months Greg carried around a small yellow rubber duck, which he'd place on his terminal while coding. It was a while before Dave had the courage to ask....

Kristen? Do you think it’s weird Tucker showed up on the anniversary of the accident? I mean, it is, right?” She waited for me to continue, stirring her ice around her glass. “Tucker literally fell into my lap. And do you know what kind of dog he is? A Nova Scotia duck tolling retriever.” I ticked the long name off with a five-finger tap on the countertop. “A hunting dog, Kristen. Ducks.” Kristen knew better than anyone the significance of that. Duck hunting had been Brandon’s favorite sport. He’d fly out to South Dakota every year for it with Josh.

A choking dry-ice smog of disappointment, pooling in the drops and troughs of suddenly uncertain ground. Mudyards, wit here and there the smoking wrecks of ideologies, their wheels and radios gone. River of litter rustling in a swollen course below the sky's black drag and in the ditches mustard gas, a mulch of sodden colouring books, imploded television sets. These are the fretful margins of twentieth century, the boomtowns ragged edge, out past the sink estates, the human landfill, where the wheelchair access paving quakes, gives way like sphagnum moss beneath our feet. It’s 1999, less like date than like a number we restore to in emergencies. pre-packaged in its national front hunting. It’s millennial mummy-wraps. The zeitgeist yawns, as echoing and hollow as the Greenwich dome. It’s April 10th; we find ourselves in red lion square....caught in the crosshairs of geography and time like sitting ducks, held always by surface tension of the instant, by the sensory dazzle. Constant play of light on neural ripples. Fluttering attention pinned to where and when and who we are. The honey-trap of our personal circumstance, of our familiar bodies restless in these chairs.

Answers to the Twenty Questions People Ask Us Most 6. Missy, who’s the better shot: you or Jase? Missy: The quick and obvious answer is Jase. He is well known for his accuracy (even though Si claims he shoots all the ducks). However, I love to share this story: On the last day of duck season 2012, Jase took Mia and me on a late-afternoon duck hunt. Mia was shooting BBs at the decoys and Jase and I were waiting for the last run of ducks to come through for the year when two ducks came flying over from right to left. We both fired when they got in front of us. He aimed for the front one, and I aimed for the back one, and the back one fell. Jase missed. It was a glorious hunt.

Look, isn't this beautiful? So simple. Just one stroke, and there you are. A flower, a fish, a grasshopper. Look at this duck, how angry it looks; or these mountains in the mist. And you see how he's drawn the mist? As if it were nothing, just an emptiness. And these chicks, see them? So soft you want to stroke them. Look, his ink is like down, his ink is soft...

My tradition of shaving on the final day of hunting season lasted until Duck Dynasty started. Now I keep the beard year-round because we’re filming episodes all the time. The last time I completely shaved my face, my daughter, Mia, was about five years old. I had to go to the barbershop to get my beard shaved off because it was so thick and long. When I walked in, the look on the barber’s face was priceless. We both knew I was fixing to get my money’s worth. When I came home, I walked in the door and Mia started crying. She even took off running! She didn’t know who I was! She wouldn’t speak to me for about a week out of fear. Finally, she realized it really was me. That was the last time my face was ever completely smooth.

On those occasions when I missed - I think more often than not - he would watch the duck fly away, turn to me and give me a look of such uncompromising pity and scorn that I would feel compelled to apologize and make excuses. "The wind moved the barrel," or "A drop of water hit my eye when I shot." Of course he did not believe me but would turn back, sitting there waiting for the next shot so I could absolve myself.

In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries many Amazonian Indians, the Yanomamo among them, abandoned their farm villages, which had made them sitting ducks for European diseases and slave trading. They hid out in the forest, preserving their freedom by moving from place to place; in what Balée calls “agricultural regression,” these hunted peoples necessarily gave up farming and kept body and soul together by foraging.

One of our most dangerous missions before hunting season is de-snaking our blinds. Because of the location of most of our blinds, they’re a hot spot for cottonmouth moccasins and other venomous snakes. During one cleaning we killed a couple of cottonmouths and a black widow spider. Phil walked out onto the shooting porch and said, “I think we got it.” As I looked at Phil, I saw a cottonmouth hanging from a button willow only inches from his head. After prompting my dad to duck, I shot the snake over his head.

After a day filled with talking, laughing, reminiscing and making future plans, Evie had returned to Eversby Priory in high spirits. She was full of news to share with her husband... including the fact that the protagonist of Daisy's current novel in progress had been partly inspired by him. "I had the idea when the subject of your husband came up at a dinner party a few months ago, Evie," Daisy had explained, dabbing at a tiny stain left by a strawberry that had fallen onto her bodice. "Someone remarked that Kingston was still the handsomest man in England, and how unfair it was that he never ages. And Lillian said he must be a vampire, and everyone laughed. It started me thinking about that old novel The Vampyre, published about fifty years ago. I decided to write something similar, only a romantic version." Lillian had shaken her head at the notion. "I told Daisy no one would want to read about a vampire lover. Blood... teeth..." She grimaced and shivered. "He enslaves women with his charismatic power," Daisy protested. "He's also a rich, handsome duke- just like Evie's husband." Annabelle spoke then, her blue eyes twinkling. "In light of all that, one could forgive a bad habit or two." Lillian gave her a skeptical glance. "Annabelle, could you really overlook a husband who went around sucking the life out of people?" After pondering the question, Annabelle asked Daisy, "How rich is he?" She ducked with a smothered laugh as Lillian pelted her with a biscuit. Laughing at her friends' antics, Evie had asked Daisy, "What's the title?" "The Duke's Deadly Embrace." "I suggested The Duke Was a Pain in the Neck," Lillian had said, "but Daisy thought it lacked romance.

Gulls churr; ducks cluck. Bulls plus bucks run thru buckrush; thus dun burrs clutch fur tufts. Ursus cubs plus Lupus pups hunt skunks. Curs skulk (such mutts lurk: ruff ruff). Gnus munch kudzu. Lush shrubs bud; thus church nuns pluck uncut mums. Bugs hum - buzz, buzz - dull susurrus gusts murmur hushful, humdrum murmurs; hush, hush. Dusk suns blush. Surf lulls us. Such scuds hurl up cumulus suds (Sturm und Druck) - furls unfurl: rush, rush; curls uncurl: gush, gush. Such tumult upturns unsunk hulls; thus gulfs crush us, - gulp! - dunk us; burst lungs succumb.

Vladimir, released from prison in St. Petersburg, was given five days in St. Petersburg and four in Moscow to prepare for his exile. He traveled alone across the Urals, taking with him a thousand roubles and a trunk filled with a hundred books. His three years in the quiet backwater Siberian village of Shushenskoe near the Mongolian border were among the happiest of his life. The river Shush flowed nearby and was filled with fish, the woods teemed with bears, squirrels and sables. Vladimir rented rooms, went swimming twice a day, acquired a dog and a gun and went hunting for duck and snipe.

I’ve taken Mia hunting twice and she was like most little girls--she was afraid of the spiders and whatever else was crawling in the blind! The first time, it was only Mia and I, and it was a special day. I gave her a BB gun, and she shot the ducks after I’d already knocked them into the water. I think it took her about fifty BBs before she finally connected, but she had a blast. I didn’t know some friends of mine were hunting close by. Later, they told me they heard us shooting and kept hearing a strange sound like a BB gun. They said when she finally connected, they heard us screaming and hollering.

My relationship with my brothers really hasn’t changed much in adulthood. We’re still best friends and go hunting and fishing together as much as we can. Of course, we don’t physically fight anymore; one of us might end up in the hospital if we did. Willie’s my boss, but he learned a long time ago to leave me alone and let me do my job. He knows deep down I take a lot of pride in making the duck calls and ensuring that every one of them sounds perfect. Sure, we have our disagreements from time to time, but he’s still my brother and one of my best friends. I mean, we’re brothers. What’s he going to do, fire me?

Like Alan, Jep turned his life around after overcoming the struggles of alcohol and drugs. He came to work for Duck Commander and found his niche as a videographer. He films the footage for our Duckmen videos and works with Willie on the Buck Commander videos. Jep is with us on nearly every hunt, filming the action from a distance. He knows exactly what we’re looking for in the videos and films it, downloads it, edits it, and sends it to the duplicator, who produces and distributes our DVDs. Having worked with the crew of Duck Dynasty over the last few years, I’ve noticed that most people who work in the film industry are a little bit weird. And Jep, my youngest son, is a little strange. It’s his personality-he’s easygoing, likable, and a lot more reserved than his brothers. But he’s the only one who will come up to me and give me a bear hug. He’ll just walk up and say, “Daddy, I need a hug.” The good news for Jep is that as far as the Duck Commander crowd goes, one thing is for sure: weirdos are in! We covet weirdos; they can do things we can’t because they’re so strange. You have to have two or three weirdos in your company to make it work. It’s truly been a blessing to watch Jep grow and mature and become a loving husband and father. He and his wife, Jessica, have four beautiful children.

Every once in a bestseller list, you come across a truly exceptional craftsman, a wordsmith so adept at cutting, shaping, and honing strings of words that you find yourself holding your breath while those words pass from page to eye to brain. You know the feeling: you inhale, hold it, then slowly let it out, like one about to take down a bull moose with a Winchester .30-06. You force your mind to the task, scope out the area, take penetrating aim, and . . . read. But instead of dropping the quarry, you find you’ve become the hunted, the target. The projectile has somehow boomeranged and with its heat-sensing abilities (you have raised a sweat) darts straight towards you. Duck! And turn the page lest it drill between your eyes.

All of a sudden, he drew his hand away, and Lillian whimpered in protest. Cursing, Marcus tucked her body beneath his and pulled her face into his shoulder just as the door opened. In a moment of frozen silence breached only by her ragged breaths, Lillian peered out from the concealing shelter of Marcus’s body. She saw with a start of fright that someone was standing there. It was Simon Hunt. A ledger book and a few folders secured with black ribbon were clasped in his hands. Blank-faced, Hunt lowered his gaze to the couple on the floor. To his credit, he managed to retain his composure, though it must have been difficult. The Earl of Westcliff, known to his acquaintances as an eternal proponent of moderation and self-restraint, was the last man Hunt would have expected to be rolling on the study floor with a woman clad in her nightgown. “Pardon, my lord,” Hunt said in a carefully controlled voice. “I did not anticipate that you would be… meeting… with someone at this hour.” Marcus skewered him with a savage stare. “You might try knocking next time.” “You’re right, of course.” Hunt opened his mouth to add something, appeared to think better of it, and cleared his throat roughly. “I’ll leave you here to finish your, er… conversation.” As he withdrew from the room, however, it seemed that he couldn’t keep from ducking his head back in and asking Marcus cryptically, “Once a week, did you say?” “Close the door behind you,” Marcus said icily, and Hunt obeyed with a smothered sound that sounded suspiciously like laughter.

I'll never forget that time, when we first came here, and our horse had the colic, and I ran over to your place—your father was away, and you came home with me and showed father how to let the wind out of the horse. You were only a little girl then, but you knew ever so much more about farm work than poor father. You remember how homesick I used to get, and what long talks we used to have coming from school? We've someway always felt alike about things.” “Yes, that's it; we've liked the same things and we've liked them together, without anybody else knowing. And we've had good times, hunting for Christmas trees and going for ducks and making our plum wine together every year. We've never either of us had any other close friend. And now”—Alexandra wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron—

What in the world happened?” Phil asked me. “Did you flip your truck?” “It’s a long story,” I said. “Let’s go duck-hunting.” We ended up having one of our best duck hunts of the season. When we returned to Phil’s house, I filled up about twenty bottles of water. My busted radiator leaked the entire way home, and I had to stop every couple of miles to fill it up with water. There was a body shop close to our house, so I pulled in there before going home. “Well, whatcha think?” I asked the mechanic. “Well, we can fix it,” he said. “I can get you a radiator.” “What’s it going to cost me?” I asked. “Well, what are you going to do with the deer?” he said. “I can get you a radiator for the deer.” About that time, the mechanic’s assistant walked up to my truck. “What are you going to do with the rack of horns?” the assistant asked me. “Hey, if you can fix my door so it will close, you can have the horns,” I told him. There’s nothing quite like good, old-fashioned redneck bartering. Unfortunately, I didn’t get off so easy with the damage to Missy’s car. In all the excitement of the day, I’d completely forgotten to tell her that I’d wrecked her car. When I got home, she told me somebody pulled in the driveway and sideswiped it. I couldn’t tell a lie. “You remember how you scolded me about forgetting to turn out the carport light?” I said. “Yeah,” she said. “Well, this is what happens when you start worrying about small things like that,” I said. A big argument ensued, but Missy took her car to the body shop, and it cost us several hundred dollars to fix it. Two days after we picked up her car, I was driving it to Phil’s house. Wouldn’t you know it? Another deer jumped in front of me in the road. I totaled Missy’s car. We had to buy her a new car, and my truck never drove the same after it was wrecked, either. I sold it for—you guessed it—a thousand bucks.

Some incidents of facial profiling have been more inconvenient than others. I’ll never forget walking through airport security when I was flying to give a speech to a Christian men’s group in Montana. The Department of Homeland Security screeners obviously didn’t recognize me as “Jase the Duckman” from Duck Dynasty, and I felt like I was one wrong answer away from being led to an interrogation room in a pair of handcuffs! Hunting season had recently ended, so my hair and beard were in full bloom! The security screeners saw a Bible in my bag, and I guess they figured I was a Christian nut because of my long hair and bushy beard. Somehow, I made it through the metal detector and an additional pat-down, and I guess they couldn’t find a justifiable reason to detain me. But as I was getting my belongings back together, I accidentally bumped into a woman. She screamed! It must have been an involuntary reflex. It was a natural response, because she thought I was going to attack her. Once she finally settled down, I made my way to the gate and sat down to compose myself. After a few minutes, a young boy walked up and asked me for my autograph. Finally, I thought to myself. Somebody recognizes me from Duck Dynasty. Not everyone here believes I’m the Unabomber! Man, I could have used the kid about twenty minutes earlier, when I was trying to get through security! I looked over at the boy’s mother, and she was smiling from ear to ear. I realized they were very big fans. I signed my name on a piece of paper and handed it to the kid. “Can I ask you a question?” he said. “Sure, buddy,” I said. “Ask me anything you want.” “How much does Geico pay y’all?” he asked. My jaw dropped as I looked at the kid. “Wait a minute, man,” I said. “I’m not a caveman!” “What do you mean?” the boy asked. “I’m Jase the Duckman,” I said. “You know--from Duck Dynasty? Quack, quack?” It didn’t take me long to realize the boy had no idea what I was talking about. In a matter of minutes, I went from being a potential terrorist to being a caveman selling insurance.

Has being on Duck Dynasty made you more comfortable in the public eye? Jess: I never thought I’d get up and speak in front of thousands of people. The show has made us braver. I’m willing to show the world who we are, to tell our story, and to use this opportunity God has given us to share His love and His Word with other people. Anyway, it’s all from Him, and we know we are blessed. Jep: I want to be a great role model, and so I’m willing to get up and tell my story, even the hard parts, if it will help others. I also want to help people get back to the old ways with hunting and how much joy it is to provide for your family. I don’t ever want to lose that and be some kind of a rich guy who has it made. Also, I never want to move away from Louisiana. I want my kids to grow up with their grandparents, cousins, and uncles and aunts. I learned so much from my granny, and I want my kids to have those relationships and teachable moments too. There’s something about being in a smaller town; the pace of life here is so different, but in a good way.

After centuries with an empty womb, my mother bore both my sister and me within a span of five years. My father was fading by then—he was centuries older than my mother. But Fionn did not consider my mother a worthy successor. The crown should go to the eldest child, he said—to my sister, Helena. It was time, he thought, for a new generation to lead. It did not sit well with my mother, or with many of those in her court—especially her general, Pelias. He agreed with my mother that Helena was too young to inherit our father’s throne. But my mother was still in her prime. Still ripe with power, and it was clear that she’d been blessed by the gods themselves, since she had been gifted children at long last. So it was just as it had been before: those behind the throne worked to upend it. The image shifted to some sort of marsh—a bog. Fionn rode a horse between the islands of grass, bow at the ready as he ducked beneath trees in bloom. My parents often went hunting in the vast slice of land the Daglan had kept for their private game park, where they had crafted terrible monsters to serve as worthy prey. It was there that he met his death.

In 2008, an Australian company commissioned a study to find out exactly how much people fear public speaking. The survey of more than one thousand people found that 23 percent feared public speaking more than death itself! As Jerry Seinfeld once said, most people attending a funeral would rather be in the casket than delivering the eulogy! I can relate to those people because I feared speaking in front of a class or group of people more than anything else when I was a kid. In fact, I dropped speech in high school because when I signed up for it I thought it was a grammar class for an English credit. When I found out it actually required giving an oral presentation, I didn’t want any part of it! After hearing the overview of the class on the first day, I got out of my seat and walked toward the door; the teacher asked me where I was going. We had a brief meeting in the hall, in which she informed me that nobody ever dropped her class. After a meeting with the principal, I dropped the class, but on the condition that I might be called upon in the near future to use my hunting and fishing skills. I thought the principal was joking--until I was called upon later that year during duck season to pick ducks during recess! I looked at it as a fair trade.

The first time I took Reed hunting was when he was six years old. I took him on the last day of duck season, and we pulled right up to the water. I gave him a BB gun, and I had my shotgun. Our property was a haven for wood ducks, so that’s what I wanted to shoot so he could see what made this spot so special. Wouldn’t you know it? The first two ducks that flew in our sights were a mallard drake and hen. We were on a bank instead of in a blind, which was unusual, but the ducks floated down and lit about ten feet in front of us. More than anything, I showed Reed the power of a duck call, because the water in front of us was only about two inches deep. I couldn’t believe the ducks were sitting there. “I’m going to count to three,” I whispered to Reed. “Get your BB gun. When I get to three, you fire. “One, two, three!” I said. Reed shot his BB gun, and I fired my shotgun at the same time. The drake never knew what hit him, and Reed immediately looked down at his BB gun. It was like he was thinking, What is this thing? I don’t think he even realized I killed the duck with my shotgun. Reed was so excited that I don’t believe he realized that I had shot, despite the fact of the booming sound. He looked back at me, and I told him, “Boy, you put a good shot on him, son.

Reed was involved in some of our most famous duck hunts; he even has a blind named after him. It’s called the Reed Robertson Hole. One year, we were having a really bad duck season. It was hot and there always seemed to be southwest winds, which aren’t ideal conditions on Phil’s property. One Sunday, the forecast called for more southwest winds, so nobody wanted to go hunting. I wasn’t going to pass up a morning in the duck blind, so I decided to take Reed with me. My expectations were so low that I was really only taking him to see the sunrise. I was convinced we wouldn’t see a single duck. Well, it got to be daylight and nothing happened. But we were still spending quality time together, and I was talking to him about God and the outdoors. I looked up and saw two birds. I literally thought it was two crows flying overhead. But then I realized it was two mallard drakes. I called them and they made two passes over our blind before backpedaling right in front of us. They seemed to stop in motion about ten feet in front of us. “Shoot!” I said. Reed raised his gun and shot three times in less than three seconds. Apparently, he still believed his shotgun was an AK-47. He went boom! Boom! Boom! By the time Reed was gone, I raised my gun and shot both of them. He looked at me and was like, “What happened?” He looked at his gun and thought something was wrong with it. “Son, you got excited and fired too quickly,” I said. “You’ve got to get on the duck.” As soon as I looked up, I saw ten teals circling toward us. They came right into our decoys. I decided to give Reed the first shot again. “Cut ‘em,” I said. Reed raised his gun and fired again. Boom! Boom! Boom! He shot one and then I shot another one. “Hey, you’re on the board,” I said. A while later, about seventy-five teals made three passes over us. I was going to let them light so Reed could get a good shot. About half of them lit and the other half came right toward us. “Cut ’em,” I said. I raised my gun and shot two of them. I heard Reed fire three times but didn’t see anything on the water. “I think I got three of them that time,” he said. “Son, don’t be making up stories,” I told him. I was looking right where he shot and didn’t see anything. But then I looked to the right and realized he’d actually shot four. He hit three on one side and a stray pellet hit one in the back. “Son, you have arrived,” I said. We wound up killing our limit that day, when I didn’t expect us to see any ducks at all. Phil and everybody else made a big deal about it because we hadn’t seen many ducks in days. It was the most ducks we’d ever shot out of that blind, and we’ve never mauled them like that again there. Because I shared the experience with my son, it was one of my most special and memorable hunts. I learned a valuable lesson that day: you never know when the ducks are going to show up. That is why I go every day the season is open.

About the time Phil set out to film the first Duckmen of Louisiana video in 1987, there had been a really bad ice storm in West Monroe, which was kind of rare. It was so cold that a lot of the water on our property froze, so there was nowhere for the ducks to go. We climbed into our trucks and headed south to find the ducks. When we arrived at Lake Maurepas in South Louisiana, our guide took us to a hunting camp that was located about eight miles into the swamp. As we made our way to the camp near sunset, there were so many ducks flying overhead that duck feces started hitting the boat like it was a hailstorm--that’s what we call a poop storm! The sound of all those ducks was like a roar. The ice storm had pushed all the ducks south. It was the most ducks I’d ever seen. The next morning, we called in a group of about three thousand ducks! They funneled into our decoys like a cyclone. It took them over thirty minutes to land. Hundreds of ducks landed in front of us and swam to the edge of our hole, and then more would land in the vacated areas. We sat in stunned silence during the entire event. Finally, Phil whispered to us to be careful because we might kill more ducks than we needed with stray shot, since there were so many of them and they were so close together. My dad thought he saw a rare duck and without warning broke the silence with a gun blast. The roar of the ducks getting up was deafening. We only shot once per hunter and had our limit. It would have never happened if we hadn’t been completely concealed in our blind. It was one of the most amazing sights I’ve ever seen.

Suddenly, I caught a glimpse of something moving behind me. When I turned, I saw two coyotes standing in an ambush positon. They were watching my brother Jep, who was working as our cameraman and was positioned to the right of us. The coyotes saw Jep moving, but because he was so camouflaged, they apparently didn’t realize he was a human. Our guide in Nebraska had warned us that he’d seen several coyotes jump from the top of the bluffs to the ducks below for a quick meal. The landowner was having a lot of problems with the coyotes, which were suspected of killing some of his farm animals. He even feared a few of them might have rabies. Evidently, the coyotes heard us blowing our duck calls and believed we were actual ducks. Now they were ready for their next meal. We had accidentally called in two predators using our duck calls and in essence became the hunted instead of the hunters! The two coyotes were licking their chops and were about to attack the only unarmed member of our hunting party! It was like a scene out of a bad horror film called Killer Coyotes. I looked at Jep and realized he was oblivious to what was going on behind him. I jumped out of our makeshift blind and ran toward the coyotes. One of the coyotes took off running, but the other one ran about twenty feet and stopped. It turned around and started growling at me. It looked at me like, “Hey, you want some of me?” I raised my shotgun and shot it dead. I had planned on shooting only ducks, but it’s a bad move when a coyote decides it wants to fight a human. Once it stood its ground and said, “You or me,” I wasn’t going to take a threat from a wild scavenger. It was a prime example of what happens when animals become overpopulated and lose their fear of humans. The lesson learned: don’t bring claws and teeth to a gunfight.

I’ll never forget the time I went duck-hunting with my buddy Mike Williams; you’ll read a lot about our adventures and shenanigans in this book. Mike and I were hunting blue-winged teal ducks, which tend to move en masse, so typically you’ll either shoot your limit or not see a duck. In other words, there is a lot of idle time involved with teal hunting, so we usually bring along our fishing poles. After a hunt with Mike one morning, in which we had not seen a single teal, I hooked a four-pound bass. Almost simultaneously, one lone blue-winged teal flew over our heads. As I was reeling in the bass, I reached for my shotgun, raised it with only my left hand, and shot the duck. Now, I’m right-handed but left-eye dominant. It was the first duck I ever shot left-handed, but it would be the first of many. I eventually made the switch to shooting left-handed permanently. It was the hardest obstacle I’ve ever had to overcome in hunting, but it made me a better shot because I’m left-eye dominant. When Mike and I went back to my dad’s house and told him what happened, Phil didn’t believe us, even though we had the teal and bass as evidence. He’d told us about a similar feat many times before, when his friend Hookin’ Bull Thompson pulled in a fish with one hand and shot a duck with the other. I had heard the story many time, but only then did I realize it had now been duplicated. No matter how many times we told Phil about what I did, he didn’t believe us. He thought we made the entire story up because of the countless times he’d bragged about witnessing his buddy’s epic feat. Now, Mike is one of the most honest people you’ll meet, so he couldn’t believe Phil thought we were lying to him. “I’m going to sign an affidavit about what you did,” Mike told me. “Maybe then he’ll believe us.” “Oh, drop it,” I said. “That’s just how my family rolls.

We killed them all when we came here. The people came and burned their land The forests where they used to feed We burned the trees that gave them shade And burned to bush, to scrub, to heath We made it easier to hunt. We changed the land, and they were gone. Today our beasts and dreams are small As species fall to time and us But back before the black folk came Before the white folk’s fleet arrived Before we built our cities here Before the casual genocide, This was the land where nightmares loped And hopped and ran and crawled and slid. And then we did the things we did, And thus we died the things we died. We have not seen Diprotodon A wombat bigger than a room Or run from Dromornithidae Gigantic demon ducks of doom All motor legs and ripping beaks A flock of geese from hell’s dark maw We’ve lost carnivorous kangaroo A bouncy furrier T Rex And Thylacoleo Carnifex the rat-king-devil-lion-thing the dropbear fantasy made flesh. Quinkana, the land crocodile Five metres long and fast as fright Wonambi, the enormous snake Who waited by the water-holes and took the ones who came to drink who were not watchful, clever, bright. Our Thylacines were tiger-wolves until we drove them off the map Then Megalania: seven meters of venomous enormous lizard... and more, and more. The ones whose bones we’ve never seen. The megafauna haunt our dreams. This was their land before mankind Just fifty thousand years ago. Time is a beast that eats and eats gives nothing back but ash and bones And one day someone else will come to excavate a heap of stones And wonder, What were people like? Their teeth weren’t sharp. Their feet were slow. They walked Australia long ago before Time took them into tales We’re transients. The land remains. Until its outlines wash away. While night falls down like dropbears don’t to swallow up Australia Day.

Korie: Phil and Willie are so much alike. We went to a marriage seminar at our church one time, and Phil and Kay and Jase and Missy were there as well. Each of the couples took a personality test to see if their personalities were compatible. We all laughed because Phil and Willie scored high in the characteristics for having a dominant personality. They were almost identical in a lot of areas, but somewhat different in that Willie was high in the social category as well. I think Willie got that part of his personality from his mother. It’s funny because people look at the Robertsons and think Jase and Phil are just alike, and they are certainly similar in their love for ducks. But when we took the personality test, we saw that Jase’s personality is much more like his mother’s. So I guess it makes sense that Phil and Jase get along so well in the duck blind. They made a good team, just like Phil and Kay do at home. Kay has always said that Willie is a lot like Phil and even calls him “Phil Jr.” at times. While I wouldn’t go that far, I definitely saw the similarities. They both have strong, charismatic personalities. They are both big-picture guys with big ideas and deep beliefs. Whatever either of them is going in life, he does it all the way, and they are both very opinionated, which can sometimes be a challenge. Phil and Willie haven’t always been as close as they are now. As they grew, they recognized the attributes they have in common and learned to value one another’s differences and strengths. Willie says it couldn’t have happened until after he was thirty, though. He needed to grow up and mature, and Phil has gotten more relaxed as he’s gotten older. Willie loves to hunt with his dad and brothers, but there have been times when he’s had a hard time sitting in Phil’s blind. You can only have one leader in the duck blind, only one man who lines up the men and yells, “Cut ‘em!” when it’s time to shoot. Willie and Phil have both always been leaders, whether it’s in the blind or in business.

The thing I really like about Jase is that he’s as obsessed with ducks as I am. I rarely took my boys hunting with me when they were very young. In fact, I never took them when I was still an outlaw. “Not this time, boys, we might be running from the game warden,” I’d tell them. But after I repented and came to Jesus Christ, I started taking my sons hunting with me, beginning with Alan. Before we moved to where we live now, it was a pretty long haul from town to the Ouachita River bottoms. Alan got carsick nearly every time I took him hunting, but he didn’t think I knew. We stopped at the same gas station every time, and he’d walk around back and lose his breakfast before he climbed back into the truck. I was proud of him for never complaining. I took Jase hunting for the first time when he was five. He was shooting Pa’s heavy Belgium-made Browning twelve-gauge shotgun, which he could barely even hold up. It kicked like a mule! The first time Jase shot the gun, it kicked him to the back of the blind and flipped him over a bench. “Did I get him?” Jase asked. I knew right then that I had another hunter in the family, and Jase is still the most skilled hunter of all my boys. I trained Jase to take over the company by teaching him the nuances of duck calls and fowl hunting, and he is still the person in charge of making sure every duck call sounds like a duck. Not only did Jase design the first gadwall drake call to hit the market, he also invented the first triple-reed duck caller. Jase and I live to hunt ducks. We track ducks during the season through a nationwide network of hunters, asking how many ducks are in their areas and what movements are expected. Then we check conditions of wind and weather fronts that might influence duck movement. We talk it all over during the day and again each morning, before the day’s hunt, as we prepare to leave for the blind. When Kay and I began to ponder becoming less active in the Duck Commander business, we offered its management to Jase, who had been most deeply involved in the company. But he had no desire to get into management. Jase likes building duck calls and doesn’t really enjoy the business aspects of the company, like making sales calls or dealing with clients and sponsors. Like me, Jase is most comfortable when he’s in a duck blind and doesn’t care for the details that come with running a company. Jase only wants to build duck calls, shoot ducks, and spend time with his family (he and his wife, Missy, have three kids).

I was raised in the backwoods of Montana. I can hit a duck on the wing.” Maybe. Probably. I’d never shot a duck in my life; I prefer hunting on all fours. “Where I come from, a gun is a weapon, not a TV prop, and if all the bad guys are dead, our side of the story is the only one that gets told.

Are you Mr. Bronson? We've come to teach you your manners.” Zachary flashed a grin at Holly. “I didn't realize when we struck our bargain that I was getting two of you.” Cautiously Rose reached up for her mother's gloved hand. “Is this where we're going to live, Mama? Is there a room for me?” Zachary sat on his haunches and stared into the little girl's face with a smile. “I believe a room right next to your mother's has been prepared for you,” he told her. His gaze fell to the mass of sparkling objects in Rose's hands. “What is that, Miss Rose?” “My button string.” The child let some of the length fall to the ground, displaying a line of carefully strung buttons… picture buttons etched with flowers, fruit or butterflies, ones made of molded black glass and a few of painted enamel and paper. “This one is my perfume button,” Rose said proudly, fingering a large one with velvet backing. She lifted it to her nose and inhaled deeply. “Mama puts her perfume on it for me, to make it smell nice.” As Rose extended it toward him, Zachary ducked his head and detected a faint flowery fragrance that he recognized instantly. “Yes,” he said softly, glancing up at Lady Holly's blushing face. “That smells just like your mama.” “Rose,” Holly said, clearly perturbed, “come with me—ladies do not remain talking on the drive-” “I don't have any buttons like that,” Rose told Zachary, ignoring her mother's words as she stared at one of the large solid gold buttons that adorned his coat. Gazing in the direction of the child's dainty finger, Zachary saw that a miniature hunting landscape was engraved on the surface of his top button. He had never looked closely enough to notice before. “Allow me the honor of adding to your collection, Miss Rose,” he said, reaching inside his coat to extract a small silver folding knife. Deftly he cut the threads holding the button to his coat and handed the object to the excited little girl. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Bronson,” Rose exclaimed. “Thank you!

He went duck hunting one time, and did real well at it. Then Papa bought some ducks, not wild ducks but, you know, farm ducks. And it got Don Carlos all mixed up. Since the ducks were always around the yard with nobody shooting at them he knew he wasn’t supposed to kill them, but he had to do something. So one morning last spring, when the ground was still soft, he took all the ducks and buried them.

She had never had such delicious food... tender cockerel that had been simmered with tiny onions in red wine... duck confit expertly roasted until it was melting-soft beneath crisp oiled skin... rascasse fish served in thick truffled sauce... then, of course, there were the desserts... thick slices of cake soaked in liqueur and heaped with meringue, and puddings layered with nuts and glaceed fruit. As Simon witnessed Annabelle's agonized choice of what to order for dessert each night, he assured her gravely that generals had gone to war with far less deliberation than she gave to the choice between the pear tart or the vanilla souffle.

My friend was an odd duck, and duck hunting was a favourite pastime of many.

Once the command is learned, stop giving him the praise. The dog must learn to do the command for the sake of the work. Watch a good worker bring in the duck, you will see that the doing is the reward. Save the praise for in front of the fireplace, when the work is over.

through any structure without detection by his prey. He was a flawless assassin. It was just before five local time when Steven settled into the plush leather seating of the first-class compartment. The Deutsche Bahn Intercity Express, or ICE, was a high-speed train connecting major cities across Germany with other major European destinations. The trip to Frankfurt would take about four hours, giving him time to spend some rare personal time with his team. Slash was the first to find him. The men shook hands and sat down. Typically, these two longtime friends would chest bump in a hearty bro-mance sort of way, but it would be out of place for Europe. “Hey, buddy,” said Steven. “Switzerland is our new home away from home.” “It appears so, although the terrain isn’t that different from our place in Tennessee,” said Slash. “I see lots of fishin’ and huntin’ opportunities out there.” Slash grew up on his parents’ farm atop the Cumberland Plateau of Tennessee about halfway between Nashville and Knoxville. His parents were retired and spent their days farming while raising ducks, rabbits and some livestock. While other kids spent their free time on PlayStation, Slash grew up in the woods, learning survival skills. During his time with the SEAL Teams, he earned a reputation as an expert in close-quarters combat, especially using a variety of knives—hence the nickname Slash. “Beats the heck out of the desert, doesn’t it?” asked Steven. After his service ended, Slash tried a few different security outfits like Blackwater, protecting the Saudi royal family or standing guard outside some safe house in Oman. “I’m not saying the desert won’t call us back someday, but I’ll take the Swiss cheese and German chocolate over shawarma and falafel every friggin’ day!” “Hell yeah,” said Slash. “When are you comin’ down for some ham and beans, along with some butter-soaked cornbread? My folks really wanna meet you.” “I need to, buddy,” replied Steven. “This summer will be nuts for me. Hey, when does deer hunting season open?” “Late September for crossbow and around Thanksgiving otherwise,” replied Slash. Before the guys could set a date, their partners Paul Hittle and Raymond Bower approached their seats. Hittle, code name Bugs, was a former medic with Army Special Forces who left the Green Berets for a well-paying job with DynCorp. DynCorp was a private

I was really enjoying this summer, you know. Today seems Hel-bent on ruining it for both of us.” Hunt ducked his head. “You’d almost think this was planned by the gods. They probably have a special task force: How to Fuck Over Bryce and Hunt in One Day.

But when the Redcoats began their withdrawal back to Boston, the officer noted that the Americans ambushed them from houses and from behind walls and hedges. Some of the rebels would ride horses to get ahead of the troops, find a hiding spot, and take a shot—then repeat the maneuver to fire again. The officer conceded, "These fellows were generally good marks-men, and many of them used long guns made for Duck-Shooting."21 This attested to the shooting skills of the colonists and indicated that private arms designed for hunting were in common use.

Ducks mate for life, Clara knew. That’s why duck hunting season was particularly cruel. Every now and then in the fall you’d see a lone duck, quacking. Calling. Waiting for its spouse. And for the rest of its life it would wait.

Day Thirty-Four Handsome hunting heron, standing in the weir, our lives are lived apart yet our bodies are so near; as you wade across the water seeking fish to eat, I cannot help but wonder: do you ever get cold feet? Serenely splendid heron, staring into river, the wind that blows your feathers is causing me to shiver; the setting sun is sinking, the ducks are flying home, I cannot help but wonder: do you ever feel alone?

someone was asking me something. It was Bucky. —What’s that? I asked. —Have you ever been hunting down south, Katey? —I’ve never been hunting in any direction. —It’s good sport. You should join us next year. I turned to Wallace. —Do you shoot there every year? —Most years. A few weekends in the . . . fall and spring. —Then why do the ducks come back? Everyone laughed but Wyss. She clarified on my behalf. —They grow a field of corn and flood it. That’s what attracts the birds. So in that sense, it’s actually not that “sporting.” —Well, isn’t that the way that Bucky attracted you? For a moment, everyone laughed but Wyss. Then Wyss started laughing and everyone laughed but Bucky.

The idea of duck hunting is to get up about the time that people who are having fun go to bed and get dressed in dirty flannels, itchy thermal underwear, muddy hip boots, clammy rain ponchos, and various other layers of insulation and waterproofing, then clamber, trudge, wade, paddle, stumble, flounder, and drag yourself miles into a swamp while carrying coolers, shell boxes, lunch buckets, flashlights, hand warmers, Buck knives, camp stoves, toilet paper, a couple of dogs, and forty or fifty imitation ducks, then sit in a wet hole concealed by brush cuttings and pine boughs until it’s dark again and you can go home. Meanwhile the weather will either be incredibly good, in which case the ducks will be flying in the clear sky thousands of feet above you, or incredibly bad, in which case the ducks will be landing right in front of you but you won’t be able to see them. Not that any actual ducks are required for this activity, and often none are sighted. Sometimes it’s worse when they are. The terrible thing about duck hunting is that everyone you’re with can see you shoot and see what you’re shooting at, and it is almost impossible to come up with a likely excuse for blasting a decoy in half.

One summer we did that for maybe a month, after a Nintendo Duck Hunt challenge where I accidentally let fly the controller gun and busted the screen. Maggot took credit for that deed so I wouldn’t get sent home and skinned alive. Mrs. Peggot pretended to take his word for it, even though she heard the whole thing. Probably everybody has had some golden patch of life like that, where everything was going to be okay thanks to the people that had your back, and sadly you wasted it, by being ticked off over some ignorant thing like a busted TV.

Sport and sportsmanship, like collecting, are words capable of diverse interpretation. Smiting a diminutive white ball and riding after it in a small vehicle to see where it went (golf is such good exercise) is sport of a sort; so is sitting in a stick hut on a marsh making oral sexual advances to passing ducks.

These last three and a half months, you’ve had two masters. I’ve had to share you with your anger, your pride, your fear, your insecurities—emotions that have ruled you since your mother died. For all your pretense of independence, you’ve never truly been free.” Ah— there was a flash of anger. But quickly smothered. Confusion, then, and struggle. To understand? To accept? “You’ve not spoken to your father your whole adult life, and yet still he’s haunting you. Driving you. The voice inside your head, am I right?”—and yes, by the widening of Brandon’s eyes, he was—“that told you to hate yourself, bury your feelings, hide your shame. That stopped you from trusting again, from opening up and loving again. That told you not to waste time with frivolities like pleasure. That pushed you ever on, no matter the cost.” Brandon ducked his head again—or tried to, at least, cheeks and ears flaming, something hunted and dangerous lurking in his eyes. Jonathan met it head-on. “You never controlled that voice, Brandon; it controlled you. So of course you couldn’t lay down your control at my feet. It wasn’t yours to give.

She looked at me, dead serious, and put a hand on Stuntman Mike’s head. “He’s a hunting dog.” “I’m pretty sure that’s an insult to hunting dogs everywhere.” I dug for my cell and pulled up a picture of my buddy’s Lab with a duck in his mouth. “This is a hunting dog.

Matthew Hopkins: Witchfinder General (1645 – 1647) by Stewart Stafford ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live’ – Exodus, Nor allow legalised killing too cheaply, Twenty shillings of blood money per witch, A charlatan’s extortion for ‘cleansing.’ Witchcraft, the capital crime of the age, Lawyer Hopkins, parasitising laws, Self-appointed Witchfinder General, A reign of terror brought to God-fearing doors. Evildoing’s hunter was its embodiment; A Judas purse wed brutality’s handmaiden, With Stearne, stoked Essex witch hunt mania, Puritanical zeal’s sadistic cruelty. His victims were cast into dungeon pits; Bloodied and broken in outcast desperation; Disease helped some cheat the hangman; The only fortune anyone deemed fair. Extracting confessions through torture’s pain; Their skin pricked to find Satan’s mark, Victims, forced to run until collapse, Sleepless starvation hastened their bleak end. Then to the wicked ducking stool gauntlet, Lowered into muddy ditches or icy water, A survivor’s noose or drowned exoneration? None met the Witchfinder’s imperious eyes. “I, John Lowes, a minister of God, Was martyred so. Hopkins, thou pestilent knave! Bade me to run, held aloft by mocking hands, Funeral rites as I dug mine own grave.” Sensing his gaslit flames turn back on him, Hopkins went to ground with his ill-gotten gains, Slowly he faded, from infamous to obscure, Scars linger on 300 unmarked graves. Some say that Hopkins was executed as a witch, Or faced a tubercular end in his village, Where he is buried, no one knows or cares, Hexed in a barren field for karmic tillage. Rat-catcher to an imagined pestilence, Communities, not covens, he did churn, A toxic chalice for New World lips, Fanning Salem’s pernicious turn. © 2024, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.

On the hills and in the valleys and along swampy shores, hunters hunt wolves, deer, and wild ducks. Let us hate them, not because they kill but because they enjoy themselves. May our facial expression consist of a wan smile, like that of someone who's about to cry, a far-away gaze, like that of someone who doesn't want to see, and a disdain in all its features, as when someone despises life and lives only to despise it. And may our disdain be for those who work and struggle, and our hatred for those who hope and trust.

his attention to jerk up in a quick second. He stopped and searched around trying to spot the source. There, beyond a patch of Elderberry, something fat and filthy waddled down a muddy path. His heart pounded and jumped at the sight. This was it. Tensing his muscles, he bent low, stalking after the animal. He glanced at Mara, and sent her a victorious grin. It was a big, burly boar. He followed after the tromping creative until it reached the stream and grunted at a wallow surrounded by a circle of mossy rocks, finally settling into the mud. This was his first chance at hunting a boar. But when he really got a good look at the fat beast a jolt of fear shot through him. Those are some massive tusks, he thought. But by now Mara had already nocked an arrow. Their plan all along had been to weaken the boar at range and switch to spears and daggers to stop its advance. Seemed like a bloody stupid plan now staring at the powerful creature. Part of the plan always included dragging the boar back to Mother’s kitchen for a fine roast. And seeing Father’s proud eyes as he said, “You’re a fine hunter, son.” An unlikely dream. At Mara’s questioning look he quickly nocked an arrow and nodded at her. She turned back to face the boar, but her eyes remained wary and fearful. This would be a tricky shot. He leaned to the side and felt the tension strain his arms as he pulled the string back, aimed, and released the arrow straight at the boar. It was a good shot, but the arrow caught a thicket's branch and droned off past the creature. Damned! How could he miss? The boar jerked its head up and glared at Talis. He barely had a second to think before the beast sloshed in the stream, bounding towards him. He ducked as Mara’s arrow flew past him and slammed into the boar's chest. Why was he just stupidly standing instead of

I poked my head through the bushes, and saw that the little bunch I was after had joined a great flock of teal, which was on a sand bar in the middle of the stream. They were all huddled together, some standing on the bar, and others in the water right by it, and I aimed for the thickest part of the flock. At the report they sprang into the air, and I leaped to my feet to give them the second barrel, when, from under the bank right beneath me, two shoveller or spoon-bill ducks rose, with great quacking, and, as they were right in line, I took them instead, knocking both over. When I had fished out the two shovellers, I waded over to the sand bar and picked up eleven teal, making thirteen ducks with the two barrels.

While Dad was a tough disciplinarian, I knew he loved me too. He isn’t much for hugs, but I hug him often. I’m the only one of my brothers to hug him and call him “Dad.” And even though he didn’t like to come to my school activities or my basketball games, he did take me hunting, starting when I was small. Mom would bundle me up to fight off the damp Louisiana cold that sinks deep into your bones, and Dad would take me along to the duck blind. He built a little step so I could see out, and as soon as I could, I started taking shots. I’ll never forget shooting my first duck. Unfortunately, it was illegal, and we ended up with a gun being pointed back at me.

Later that day, after we talked more and things were starting to settle down, Dad said, “I’m going to put you on house arrest. You cannot leave this house for three months. You’re going to study the Bible with me, and you’re going to duck hunt every single day.” “All right, Dad. I think I can do that.” During the months I spent at Mom and Dad’s, I hunted, fished, and studied the Bible every day with Dad. I began to realize that all this time, I had been living off of my dad’s faith. I’d never had my own relationship with God. For the first time, I started to find my own faith. As I looked at God’s Word with fresh eyes, I realized that repenting and turning to God meant I was saved and forgiven. Jesus’ blood covered my sins and redeemed me from the path of destruction I was on. I couldn’t ever have been good enough on my own. Back when I was in the middle of that crazy time of drugging and drinking, I remember feeling guilty once in a while and knowing I needed God. But then the thoughts would come. I’m not good enough. Or I’m just not quite ready. I think that’s the number one excuse because you’ll never be perfect, and you’ll never be ready. Getting right with God and getting rid of the bad stuff in your life takes him. You have to take it one step at a time. It’s not easy, I’m not perfect, and I still struggle.

When hunting season came around, though, Dad’s priority shifted from making duck calls to going out to hunt every single day. I joined him when I could or hunted with my brothers or my buddies. Jessica had gone hunting some with her dad. I’d been out with her dad a couple of times, and he had a beautiful deer stand with a heater. It was elegant and finished well and looked like a carpenter had built it. Dad’s old deer stand wasn’t near as nice. He’d built it twenty feet up in a big tree with a fork in the middle, and it was a ramshackle structure that I don’t think had a level spot in it. There was a big, rickety old ladder attached. When Jessica came deer hunting with me, I had to talk her into climbing the ladder. “Is this safe?” “Oh, yeah,” I reassured her. She spotted some old rotten felt that Dad had used to insulate the blind; it had seen better times. She examined the mold and fungus covering the felt and asked, “What all is on that thing?” “Oh, it’s nothing,” I said. “Don’t worry about that.” Then she saw the spiders and started yelping. “Ssshhh,” I whispered. “We’re deer hunting.” She tried to be quiet; I’ll give her credit. But the spiders sent her over the edge. “I can’t handle it,” she whispered back. “Go on back to the truck. I won’t be long,” I said, helping her get back down the ladder. Another time she went along with me to hunt snakes. We try to shoot as many cottonmouths on the property as possible, and I was walking away from the four-wheeler when I heard Jess say, “There’s a snake.” I turned around, and she’d climbed up and was standing on the seat. I was more freaked out than she was because I got a good look at the snake, and it was a big one. I shot it, but that time it was a little too close to her for comfort, and I don’t think Jess realized the danger she was in.

Eventually, I talked to Dad and Willie about my plan to go work on the oil rigs. Both told me to stay with the family at Duck Commander. “That would be a mistake,” Dad said. “Stay with us. You won’t believe what’s going to happen in two or three years. Be patient.” He had faith in the business, and he felt it was just a matter of time until we hit it big. “We’re all going to do well,” he’d say. Did I mention he’s one of the most optimistic people you’ll ever meet? Every day we go hunting (and he hunts every single day of duck season), he’ll sit back, laugh, and say, “Boys, this is going to be the best day of your life. You’ll be telling your grandchildren about this day!” Willie felt the same. “You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do,” he said. “But let me tell you this, I’m fixin’ to turn this thing around, and I want you to be here for it.” I decided to stay because Jess and I knew it was more important to be with family than to make more money. I continued working just about every job at Duck Commander. I still loved shipping and packaging, and I watched the entire run of X-files episodes when I worked in that department. Then I started making the reeds, the job Uncle Si does on the show.

Jep, what about the beard? Is it temporary or permanent? Jep: My dad has had his beard for more than twenty-five years, and he’s never going to shave it off. The last time I saw his face was in high school. My beard? I’ve thought about shaving it at some point. But the last time I did, about six years ago, I thought I looked so silly. My beard used to be seasonal. I’d grow in a beard for hunting season and then shave it off although I always got real bad razor burn on the side of my jaw and my neck. My beard was splotchy at first and then finally filled in. Beards are good camouflage because ducks have sharp eyes. Also, the beard really does keep me warm out on the water or the four-wheeler when it’s cold, damp, and windy. If you don’t have a beard, you have to wear something to cover your face. Here’s my advice: you boys, just grow a beard. Now the long hair, I could lose that. It’s pretty uncomfortable in these Louisiana summers.

That term of endearment brought back old, old memories. Robin’s mind flickered with images of herself as a tiny child, sitting in the Lazenbury’s kitchen, eating Chips Ahoy cookies and drinking apple juice, reading the comics out of the Sunday paper or watching ReBoot, Pirates of Dark Water, or Darkwing Duck on the wood-cabinet Magnavox.

Some of the men were dressed like Peter and wore red plaid hunting jackets or bulky tan Carhartt jackets or lined flannel shirts, and all of those men were wearing jeans and work boots. Some of the men wore ski jackets and hiking boots and the sort of many-pocketed army green pants that made you want to get out of your seat and rappel. Some of the men wore wide-wale corduroy pants and duck boots and cable0knit sweaters and scarves. It was a regular United Nations of white American manhood. But all the men, no matter what they were wearing, were slouching in their chairs, with their legs so wide open that it seemed as though there must be something severely wrong with their testicles.

Why the long face? Aren’t you having fun?” “I hate hunting. I can handle ducks, but not deer. I mean, I don’t want to pass judgment—I just wish my husband didn’t shoot deer.” “Oh, Mel, don’t worry. I’ve been hunting with your husband—the deer are completely safe.” “Melinda, we’ll have venison all winter. You’ll love it,” Jack said. “Don’t worry, Mel,” Paul whispered. “He’ll never get a thing. They can smell him coming.” Some

I’ve just been to see Audrey,” Beatrix said breathlessly, entering the private upstairs parlor and closing the door. “Poor Mr. Phelan isn’t well, and--well, I’ll tell you about that in a minute, but--here’s a letter from Captain Phelan!” Prudence smiled and took the letter. “Thank you, Bea. Now, about the officers I met last night…there was a dark-haired lieutenant who asked me to dance, and he--” “Aren’t you going to open it?” Beatrix asked, watching in dismay as Prudence laid the letter on a side table. Prudence gave her a quizzical smile. “My, you’re impatient today. You want me to open it this very moment?” ”Yes.” Beatrix promptly sat in a chair upholstered with flower-printed fabric. “But I want to tell you about the lieutenant.” “I don’t give a monkey about the lieutenant, I want to hear about Captain Phelan.” Prudence gave a low chuckle. “I haven’t seen you this excited since you stole that fox that Lord Campdon imported from France last year.” “I didn’t steal him, I rescued him. Importing a fox for a hunt…I call that very unsporting.” Beatrix gestured to the letter. “Open it!” Prudence broke the seal, skimmed the letter, and shook her head in amused disbelief. “Now he’s writing about mules.” She rolled her eyes and gave Beatrix the letter. Miss Prudence Mercer Stony Cross Hampshire, England 7 November 1854 Dear Prudence, Regardless of the reports that describe the British soldier as unflinching, I assure you that when riflemen are under fire, we most certainly duck, bob, and run for cover. Per your advice, I have added a sidestep and a dodge to my repertoire, with excellent results. To my mind, the old fable has been disproved: there are times in life when one definitely wants to be the hare, not the tortoise. We fought at the southern port of Balaklava on the twenty-fourth of October. Light Brigade was ordered to charge directly into a battery of Russian guns for no comprehensible reason. Five cavalry regiments were mowed down without support. Two hundred men and nearly four hundred horses lost in twenty minutes. More fighting on the fifth of November, at Inkerman. We went to rescue soldiers stranded on the field before the Russians could reach them. Albert went out with me under a storm of shot and shell, and helped to identify the wounded so we could carry them out of range of the guns. My closest friend in the regiment was killed. Please thank your friend Prudence for her advice for Albert. His biting is less frequent, and he never goes for me, although he’s taken a few nips at visitors to the tent. May and October, the best-smelling months? I’ll make a case for December: evergreen, frost, wood smoke, cinnamon. As for your favorite song…were you aware that “Over the Hills and Far Away” is the official music of the Rifle Brigade? It seems nearly everyone here has fallen prey to some kind of illness except for me. I’ve had no symptoms of cholera nor any of the other diseases that have swept through both divisions. I feel I should at least feign some kind of digestive problem for the sake of decency. Regarding the donkey feud: while I have sympathy for Caird and his mare of easy virtue, I feel compelled to point out that the birth of a mule is not at all a bad outcome. Mules are more surefooted than horses, generally healthier, and best of all, they have very expressive ears. And they’re not unduly stubborn, as long they’re managed well. If you wonder at my apparent fondness for mules, I should probably explain that as a boy, I had a pet mule named Hector, after the mule mentioned in the Iliad. I wouldn’t presume to ask you to wait for me, Pru, but I will ask that you write to me again. I’ve read your last letter more times than I can count. Somehow you’re more real to me now, two thousand miles away, than you ever were before. Ever yours, Christopher P.S. Sketch of Albert included

Kahnawake August 1704 Temperature 75 degrees By summer, Kahnawake children had stopped wearing clothing. Mercy could not get over the sight of hundreds of naked children playing tag, or hide-and-seek, or competing in footraces. The boys--naked!--went into the woods to shoot squirrels and rabbits and partridge. They used bow and arrow, since their fathers did not like them using guns yet. Even the six- and seven-year-olds had excellent aim. Joseph didn’t go entirely bare, being a little too old, but wore a breechclout, a small square of deerskin in back and another square in front, laced on a slender cord. The boys played constantly. They were stalking, shooting, running, chasing, aiming, fishing, swimming--they never sat down. The men, however, mainly rested. They liked to smoke and talk, and when they were showing a son or nephew or captive how to feather an arrow or find ducks, they did it slowly and sometimes forgot about it in the middle. A Puritan must rise before dawn and never take his ease. Puritans believed in working hard. But for an Indian man, working hard was something to do for an hour or a week. After he killed the moose or fought the battle, an Indian took his ease. Hunting men and animals were dangerous; he deserved rest afterward, and besides, he had to prepare himself to do it again. A Deerfield man didn’t risk much plowing a field. A Kahnawake man risked everything going into a cave to rouse a sleeping bear.

One of the biggest adjustments for Missy during the early part of our marriage was her husband’s being away from home so much. During duck-hunting season, I was gone from about four o’clock in the morning until dark. One of the great things about Missy is her independence, and she immediately realized that I needed my space. She knew I wasn’t going to find another woman in the woods. She knew I wasn’t doing anything wrong. She realized it was good, clean fun, and that’s why she has always encouraged me to do it. In all the years we’ve been together, she has never raised her voice or complained about my hunting or fishing. Of course, Missy had to get over her initial fears about the dangers of hunting. I gave her a set of rules early in our marriage. I told her, “Look, if I go hunting before daylight, you can expect me back at dark. I might come back at noon, but don’t panic unless it’s an hour after dark and I’m not home yet. If I go frog-hunting or scouting for ducks at night, don’t expect me back until daylight. If it’s an hour after daylight and I’m not home yet, then you might ought to call somebody.” I told her there was some risk involved with hunting, but I didn’t want her calling every hour wondering where I was and what I was doing.

Since I’m an outdoors type of guy, it didn’t take me long to become frustrated at seminary. I hate being cooped up in a room with no windows (it’s the same problem I currently have with the duck call shop), especially during hunting season! I actually learned how to sleep with my eyes open in some of the more boring lectures. To break up the monotony, I ended up becoming the class clown and troublemaker. I constantly argued with instructors and fellow classmates. My main point of conflict was that I felt sometimes we studied the Bible as a legal document instead of a letter from God. I’m still convinced my point of view was correct, but I did a terrible job of communicating it. In fact, I nearly started several fights with my classmates. Our classes lasted from eight o’clock in the morning to four o’clock in the afternoon, five days a week. During duck season, I got up very early to hunt before going to class, and then I went back to the blind as soon as classes were over. By the end of the school day, I was itching to get out of there! Well, one day this guy asked a question at four P.M. Then he asked a follow-up question after the bell rang. “Hey, why don’t you shut up?” I told him. Well, three guys met me in the parking lot after school. They were trying to rebuke me in a godly way for being rude. I responded with a misuse of Galatians 2:9: “How about I give you my right hand of fellowship?” Fortunately, they overlooked my anger, we resolved our differences in a Christian manner, and there were no fisticuffs.

Failing another actual, live person, you can follow the rubber duck strategy described by Andrew Hunt and David Thomas.[12] Talk to an inanimate object on your desk to explain the problem to yourself. It’s only a problem if the rubber duck starts to talk back.

As he sat down at the cool Formica table to eat his cereal, he heard Sadie, his curly-coated retriever, awake and ready to go, excited by the prospect of a light on in the house before sunrise. He sat listening to the periodic ringing of the chain-link of her kennel run as she jumped up and hit it with her front paws. Born and bred for just such a morning as this, Sadie recognized a good duck hunt at its first visible or audible indication.

ourselves with is an opportunity to create the cultural climate that we want. We can create a climate of compassion or one of fear, depending on what we do with our mistakes and our judgments of ourselves and others. Because I wanted to create a climate of compassion in the microcosm of my couplehood, I hunted in my memory for the tools with which to accomplish this. I remembered what Dr. Marshall Rosenberg said: “All judgments are the tragic expressions of pain and unmet needs.” Perhaps this might even apply to my oh so right, sophisticated, clinical judgments? So I started to look for the pain in my body. Oh, there it is! Outrage! And what is the universal human need underneath the outrage? The need for respect, gentleness and safety. What else is in there?—because I know that anger never comes alone. There is always hurt or fear or something under it. Now I can feel it: Devastating hurt. A need for reassurance that I am valued. -§ I may be the detonator but I am never the dynamite. I may be the trigger for another’s pain but the cause is their unmet needs. -§ As I lay there giving myself empathy, (i.e. paying attention to, and feeling into, what my reaction was all about) I start to feel a relieving shift in my body. The shift came as I allowed my awareness of my feelings to lead me into a reconnection with the life force within me. As soon as I am fully in touch with my true need, like the need to feel valued, I immediately feel the beautiful strength of it. (This is much different than staying up in my head meditating on images of the ‘lack’ or the hunger to feel valued. This only produces more fear and pain.) I began to wonder if my friend was experiencing the same thing—hurt, and the need for reassurance that she is valued. I know that if I had tried to play lifeguard earlier, attempting to save her from drowning in her distress, it would have been a double drowning. I know that the undertow of my own unconscious reactions from my unhealed past would have prevented me from really being present. I had been drowning and needed to get myself to shore first before trying to throw her a line. Or as a wise man from the Middle East once said, -§ When I am in pain I want to wait till I am clear what I want back from you before I speak. -§ “Get the dirt out of your eye first, so you can see clearly to help someone else do the same.” After giving myself empathy, I was moved by compassion to go to my friend and see if I could offer her the understanding that would restore our connection. I am glad that I waited until my desire to connect with her came from my need to understand and reconnect, instead of from fear of abandonment, or guilt about abandoning her. I am glad I remembered the first commandment of nurturing relationships: Me first and only. I waited until my giving came simply from my heart, without any fear, shame, or guilt. Once this shift happens, the energy I give from is the same joy and innocence a child has when it feeds bread to a hungry duck. “When I heard you call me a jackass a while ago, were you feeling angry and hurt because you were needing reassurance that your need to be heard mattered?” Her eyes started to fill with tears and a faint outline of a smile started to creep across her lips as she said “It’s about time, jackass.” “Yes, I’m guessing that was painful for you, and you would have liked this quality of listening earlier.” I said. “Yes” she said, the tears now flowing freely. “But I am also relieved that you waited till you were really in a position to do so instead of trying to give me empathy

The very fates seemed arrayed against the President’s party. Death claimed eight Democratic Senators during the 65th Congress, thinning their already sparse majority. Perhaps the cruelest blow of all was the accidental shotgun killing of Wisconsin’s Paul O. Husting on a duck-hunting trip in October 1917. Husting, the first Democrat sent to the Senate from Wisconsin in more than twenty years, had been elected in 1914; in the normal course of events his seat would not have been contested again until 1920. Democratic retention of this one seat would have meant a Democratic Senate in 1919–20, which might have had quite different consequences for the passage of the Versailles Treaty and the history of the postwar world. But it was not to be.

I'm telling you: it's the rule book of all rule books when it comes to duck hunting. Unborn babies don't have as much protection in this country!

Sardelle didn’t mention that the wanted posters and people hunting for her were also a problem, since she knew he had to deal with military matters first, but she certainly intended to do something about that organization hunting her. “Aren’t colonels supposed to report to generals and not the other way around, sir?” Duck asked. “Probably, but I have an unorthodox method of dealing with the command structure.” Every single one of his troops snorted.

The messengers I sent were two boys barely older than Reuben whom I chose not only because they would be able to make the journey with the speed of gazelles but also because they were so fresh-faced and young that the sight of them might persuade Esau that my intentions in returning were peaceful. I told them that when they saw him they must be sure to address him with great courtesy and deference. His servant Jacob, they were to say, had been living for the past twenty years with Laban and was returning home now in hope that he might find favor in his brother’s eyes. They must be sure to say that I was his servant Jacob. Would he give his cavernous, wet toothed smile at that? Or would it send a murderous growl rumbling out of his red beard? Maybe he was the same Esau who had smothered me with kisses even when I had bought the moon and stars from him for a pot of beans. Or maybe my treachery had festered in him all these years like an arrowhead so that when he finally got his hands on me, he would break my back over his knees like a dry stick. It took the two boys the better part of a week to return. They had seen Esau. He had just come back from the hunt with six quail hung from his belt, they said, and the bloody brush of a fox like a plume in his headband. When they gave him their message, he let out such a roar that they thought their hour had come. Then he took one of them in the crook of each arm and almost crushed the breath out of them against his chest. “Tell him I will come meet him,” he said. They told me his whole body shook as if from fever. “I will start out tomorrow,” he said. “Tell him I will bring a hundred men with me. Tell him,” he said, “that I will bring four hundred men with me.” He started laughing and clapping his hands at that. He clapped them together with his palms cupped to make it like the pounding of drums. His men clapped too. He had to shout to make himself heard over the din of it. “Tell him I have never forgotten him!” he cried. “Never! Never!” They said his eyes were bloodshot and teary. There was spittle on his lips. They said when he reached out to grab them again, they ducked and ran. They thought he had gone mad.

In the years to come, Emily and the team would paint a pastoral scene, complete with cows and ducks, so a visiting chef known for hunting much of the protein at his restaurant could choose his entrée by shooting it with a Nerf gun during his kitchen tour.

This is it for you, lad,” I heard an illager say. “Probably not,” I said as I shot my crossbow at a far off mast. “You missed, smart aleck,” the pirate laughed. “Wasn’t going for you,” I said. The arrow ricocheted off the mast, and headed for us. I ducked in the nick of time, and the arrow hit my attacker right in the forehead. “Directly, I mean,

Few things taste better or deliver a more unalloyed experience than wild game we have killed, cleaned, and cooked ourselves (especially grouse, woodcock, teal, wood ducks - birds that simply cannot be domesticated, pen reared, or artificially farmed in any way, shape, or form.) Yet we also realize that, depending on one's degree of personal sensitivity, capacity for ironic reflection, or susceptibility to guilt, there is always that signal moment, when the dog delivers a dead bird to hand, that can occasion a haunting, unresolvable mix of "self-satisfaction and self-reproach," as Texas-born novelist William Humphrey says in Open Season: Sporting Adventures (1986), because "you hold in your hand the creature you both love and love to kill.