Three Hours Through the Blizzard

My most viscerally remembered connection to Dad was his sharing a handful of peanuts from the penny vending machine at the gas station with me and Bob. Another was sitting close to him listening to our favorite radio programs and waiting for Mom to call us to supper. Such a happy feeling. Also, watching him tinkering for thousands of hours made me want to grow up to be like him. I dreaded hunting rabbits with Daddy. I purposely missed all my shots. Daddy always followed up. Red blood on the white snow and the sight of the rabbit still quivering sickened me. Iris was also an excellent markswoman, hitting beer bottles on a fence rail with a .22 at fifty paces—a real Annie Oakley. Bob was a good shot, too. He caught the hunting bug, I didn’t. Worst punishment: A razor strap spanking (one or two swats—never more) for walking home from school all alone, in a “Blizzard of the Century.” I took the shortcut and trudged though Ferry’s Woods ravine in three-foot-deep snow. Took me three hours. Mother was hysterical when I finally arrived home quite proud of myself. The razor-strap hung on a nail on the back porch next to Daddy’s canvas hunting vest (with all those little pockets for the bullets.) We saw that strap every time we went out. Smart move.