In the spring, when my little girl was tiny and life was new, we sat in the wicker porch swing behind our house on Magnolia Drive, marked the passing of the clouds and imagined. We watched hummingbirds dart and bumblebees lumber, shared the nectar in the white and yellow blossoms on the honeysuckle vines that overflowed the fence behind. The sun was warm, the breeze was cool and life was sweet.
Outside time was good early on because it always gave us common ground, a sound connection right away. We were cold or hot or windblown together. Now, much farther along, that’s become much more important it seems.
What excites us varies with age and the more jaded our tastes the higher the threshold, unless something universally engaging is in play, and one of those somethings is not very far around the corner.
As much as the dog days of summer in the Deep South wear on us and modern air conditioning gathers our praise, at heart we are creatures of a sub-tropical climate.
South of the 35th parallel, our souls expect not only to see sunshine, but to feel it, to taste it like morning coffee and wallow in it like thick, deep blankets before an open fire.
Outwardly we may sweat and sigh but, deep within, part of our core is at peace because, uncomfortable or not, we’re home. Like clean sheets on a backyard line, our spirits are cleared of nits and small hobgoblins and snap clean, fresh and renewed.
Come spring, the very beginning of our hottest season, when we greet a March morning in the dark and watch the stars wink out and the sky turn purple from black, we are in our element. When we can see the eastern horizon warm to orange like a stove eye under the coffee pot back at camp or, from deep in the woods where tall timber obscures all but the heavens straight above, simply see darkness recede and give way to dim, then to the light of day, we know we are standing in the place we’re meant to be. When we watch the blooms on the dogwood and budding leaves on oak and gum soak it in as red birds and crows and, if we’re lucky, even a turkey or two speak out in joy at its arrival, our human connection to nature is not so much made as reaffirmed. It’s been there all along. A walk in the dark in a new season has brought us close again.
I don’t know if it’s separation from nature that leads to generalized anxiety and panic or not, but I do know a reconnection thereto helps it go away. It makes it go away. Hearing the birds and feeling the breeze makes the panic be quiet and helps it to go away.
Springtime hunting is mostly confined to pursuits of the wild turkey, the difficulty of whose collection depends entirely upon hunters following a set of self-imposed rules. Much, though not all, of deer hunting is predicated upon provisions to last the year. Limits are high and the season is generous. Though the wild turkey is one of the best-tasting creatures found on land, nothing about a wild turkey hunt should resemble a meat-gathering. The point of a wild turkey hunt is not the conclusion, but the entire pursuit of the game. It’s one that puts the dedicated closely into contact with nature, just as it should be. Zapping a turkey with a rifle from afar is no challenge. Neither is enticing one into a pile of bait. Undertaking to hunt him on his own ground is a matter of honor and self-discipline. Only that way may all the rewards be realized and, to do so, they do not depend on a game-ending shot.
Turkey hunting days start early and often finish late, but little girls don’t suffer the burdens of conscience that plague their elders so mid-day naps are easy for them to come by and, in places where the sun is warm and breezes are cool, life is still sweet indeed. I may entice my now-grown-up girl to accompany me a time or two this spring. Whether we see or hear anything will be immaterial. As with all of man’s interaction with nature, its the simple pursuit that counts.
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Quality, in-depth journalism is essential to a healthy community. The Dispatch brings you the most complete reporting and insightful commentary in the Golden Triangle, but we need your help to continue our efforts. In the past week, our reporters have posted 24 articles to cdispatch.com. Please consider subscribing to our website for only $2.30 per week to help support local journalism and our community.
