No Had A Reason

The Fall evening proved to be very similar to those preceding it—warm with a light breeze. For those from the south, it was t-shirt and bluejeans weather. I was around 11 years old while my great-grandfather neared 80. Papa Hays was about 6’2 and 180 pounds at this point in life. We were walking down the hallway that led to the back bedroom where the .22 semi-automatic rifle and the 12 gauge single-shot shotgun hung on an old wooden gun rack on the wall, and I was persistently begging him to go squirrel hunting with me and carry that old shotgun. Papa Hays was the man that taught me how to shoot a gun and how to keep the sights trained on the gray fur of a squirrel while slowly squeezing the trigger. Although he would walk out behind his barn every afternoon as I hunted, he would never carry his own gun nor shoot the one I carried.  I had had enough! I wanted him to take a gun and hunt with me.

I made my final plea as we stood in the back bedroom. Silence filled the airwaves. I awaited Papa Hay’s reply and became entertained by the dust particles dancing across the fading sunbeams that spilled into the bedroom window from a western sinking sun. After a few moments that seemed like an eternity, he looked down at me, took a deep breath, and conceded defeat to my persistence. He said, “Alright boy, if you want me to go that bad, I will take this old 12 gauge and one shell.” His words were music to my ear. Papa Hays was gonna be my real hunting buddy this evening.

Out of the back bedroom, through the kitchen, through the washroom, and out the back screen door we walked. I was so excited in this moment. When we are kids, we get excited about the little things. I wish I got excited more about the little things like when I was a kid.

We usually started our hunting trips behind the garage. You could stand behind the garage and overlook a big hollow of hardwood trees without having to cross a fence or even walk in high grass. Papa Hays started walking to the right of the garage and informed me that we were going to “Walk up the hollow a little piece.” I didn’t care—I was hunting with Papa Hays today! We stayed in the edge of the pasture and walked along the wood line for 300-400 yards. Once we got even to the spot he wanted to hunt, we left the pasture and walked into the woods.

After crunching leaves and limbs underfoot for 50 yards, we sat down on the ground and leaned up against a medium sized oak tree and let the woods reset. We both rested our guns in our laps and sat in silence while hoping the woods would quickly do the same. Much to my surprise, I heard a commotion and saw falling bark from a pine tree that was no more than 10 yards away. I knew what caused this type of evidence and my heart began to race. I stood up and told Papa Hays to do the same. Not needing prompting nor permission, I shouldered that old .22 and began lobbing rounds up that pine and toward those two gray squirrels which were chasing each other round and round the top of that huge pine tree.

After watching me rattle-off 10 unsuccessful shots, Papa Hays had taken all he could take. He lifted that old 12 gauge single shot antique up, seated it against that old bony shoulder, put the bead where he wanted it, and squeezed the trigger—kaboom! I was looking up at the top of the tree as he shot. I saw smoke leave the barrel, bark fly off the trunk of the tree, pine needles begin descending, but the squirrels were unaffected. I immediately turned to tell him that he had missed. I could not have imagined what I would see. Papa Hays was sprawled out on his back flat on the ground. My first thought: “Oh, no! Papa’s gone and shot himself!” I started hollering at him and asking if he was shot. He replied, “No, son. I am not shot, but I could use a hand getting up off the ground.” I laid down my gun and quickly helped him back to his feet. Once Papa got back on his feet and picked up his old shotgun, he said, “I think it is time for me to head back to the house.” Seeing him on the ground had taken all the hunt out of me, so I left those two squirrels for another day.

I learned something that afternoon—giants can fall. I had looked up to and almost idolized my great-grandfather since I could remember. He told the best stories, knew the answers to all my questions, and would let me whittle sticks with his pocket knife. I believe he knew that his hunting days were over and that his balance and loss of strength would likely come to bear if he pushed it. Likely, his awareness of his declining strength and balance motivated his gentle “not today’s” to my hunting invitations. However, I just wanted what I wanted, so I persisted through all his gentle declines. I would have never knowingly put him in a situation where he would fall. I do not know who was more embarrassed—him or me. Sometimes we have to fall to learn a lesson. Sometimes others have to fall before we can learn. I am not saying that I have not persisted beyond what is reasonably required of situations since this day, but I can say that I am much more aware of the potential consequences of unwavering persistence than when I was in that back bedroom begging for something I never wanted.