Back when I was living in the North Country backwoods of upstate NY, I dated North Country guys. That's not necessarily a bad thing, it's just that dates with North Country guys are often a little bit different than dates with more citified men. I don't prefer one over the other and I'm not criticizing either. They're just different.
This gentleman was sugary sweet, devastatingly handsome, patient and oozed kindness from every pore. The relationship was doomed from the start, because we had NOTHING in common. All he told me about our date was, "Dress warm, wear boots, I've got snowshoes for you." We drove to his parents cabin in the middle of the Tug Hill region (which is snowy and frozen, to say the least), strapped snowshoes to my feet (which thrilled me, because I love winter hikes) . . . and handed me a freakin' 12-gauge shotgun.
"You can carry this one," and beamed with generosity, as though he'd just handed me an original Picasso.
Until that day, I had never been around guns. There are no hunters in my family, and the only exposure I'd ever had to them was what I'd seen on the evening news - and what I saw was never pleasant. I'll admit, guns scare the crap out of me, so I was rather unnerved when he placed it in my hands. But I accepted it, slung it across my back, and followed him along the trails. The hike was silent, which was good, because as I mentioned, we didn't have a whole lot to talk about and it gave me a chance to realize that maybe he and I weren't really meant to have a second date.
He took me to his family's shooting range out back behind the cabin, consisting of a row of a dozen targets nailed to a crudely-built shelf. He held my hip with one hand, and lifted the gun to my eye to assist me with my aim. Once I was postitioned properly, he stepped back and shouted simply, "Shoot!"
And I shot. And the kick from that 12-gauge knocked me flat on my ass.
When the ringing in my ears quieted, I stood up and presented him a cold, weak smile, thinking to myself, "Yeah, this is greeeeat fun." I felt a little uneasy and began to question my trust in him. My shoulder was throbbing and I knew I'd have a bruise.
"I'm sorry. Let's try that again," he said sweetly as he brushed the snow out of my hair. He sure did have pretty blue eyes. I forgave him. I couldn't help but trust him.
He postitioned himself behind me, wrapped one arm around my waist and braced his shoulder behind mine. His hand guided my aim and once I had locked my target, he wrapped both arms around my waist and held me securely. "Shoot!" he shouted again.
I aimed carefully, shot and hit my target dead center. If he wasn't impressed, he was a hell of a good actor because he congratulated me time and time again for being a great shot. I fired a few more times and he convinced me that I was a natural. I felt a bit of pride as we left the shooting range and continued on our hike. I reckoned perhaps I was being a bit harsh on him and entertained the possibility of a second date. Although, I hoped we could leave the guns out of our next adventure.
I was lost in thought (as frequently happens when I hike) and almost tripped over him when he crouched, aimed and shot in one swift, graceful movement. I jumped at the firing echo and glanced nervously among the trees to determine at what he was shooting. And then I saw it. The dead bunny. And I cried like a baby.
"It's bleeding! You just killed a harmless little BUNNY! You're a *BLEEPING* MONSTER!"
He looked up at me as though I was utterly insane.
"Heather, we're HUNTING. You kill things when you hunt."
At this point I was sobbing uncontrollably, attempting to run toward the bunny, which, in snowshoes, is damn near impossible. I immediately faceplanted and began a pathetic snow-covered crawl toward the animal.
"You never told me you were going to kill defenseless little woodland creatures! You're TERRIBLE! I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU KILLED A BUNNY! THIS IS SUPPOSED TO BE A DATE! PEOPLE AREN'T SUPPOSED TO KILL THINGS ON DATES!"
He walked past me, picked the rabbit up by its hind feet and held it up.
"It's not suffering. It was a clean shot. This will be delicious."
He walked over to me and apologized for upsetting me so terribly. He told me he assumed I knew what we were going to be doing and wiped the tears from my cheek. And because he was so painfully sweet and sincere, I took his hand in mine and let him dislodge me from the snowbank.
"Can I take your picture, Heather?"
"Yeah, I guess so."
"Here. Hold this."
He handed me the dead bunny and I started to cry a little bit again.
"No! Don't cry!" He quickly snapped the picture before the waterworks started again.
"It bled on me," I moaned, and pointed at the spot on the toe of my boot.
"It's ok. We'll take care of that. Everything is going to be ok."
He put his arm around my shoulders, gave a hearty squeeze and beckoned me to follow him back to camp. I think that's the moment we both understood that our relationship was going to end with that first date, and it did. Inside the cabin, he started a fire and made me a cup of hot cocoa. I felt comforted, but quietly mourned the death of that poor little bunny. I apologized for calling him a 'bleeping monster,' and he forgave me with a wink. I liked him quite a lot. I adored his patience and kindness, but you can't build relationships on two admired qualities, alone. We were far too different from one another to find a common path. We understood this, and we both ventured forth on different roads.
I hear he still lives in the North Country backwoods. He still hunts. His eyes are still sparkly blue, and he's got a dozen or so kids running around his ankles. I'm told he's happy and still very sweet. In retrospect, the date wasn't all that bad (except for the dead bunny part). I learned something new from a patient, compassionate person (and when we learn, that's the best we can hope for!) I shot a gun. I shot a BIG gun, and I aimed well. If I'd not gone along for the hike that day, it would be one less thing I could add to my "I've Done This" list.
And while I still am bothered by the lifeless rabbit I held in my hands that chilly January day, wishing I could bring it back to life (oh, more than anything). I now wish I'd been able to appreciate the artistry he displayed in that moment of the hunt. His grace was balletic, poetic. I now wish (oh, more than anything) I'd taken a moment to study his beauty. For all of our differences, and beyond his physical beauty, there was so much more to him that I could have, should have appreciated.
I believe we all have an undeniable need to be remarkable in some way. I had an opportunity to witness his remarkability that day, and I regretfully missed it. Ahhh, the blindness of youth. I was all of 18 that year.