The questionnaire arrived in the mail.
It required little time to complete.
Yes, I did hunt swans.
No, I didn’t get one.
And that may be a good thing.
Had I been successful, my wife joked she was going to tell my grandchildren that grandpa killed a swan.
My ineptitude at bagging one of the majestic birds saved me the scorn of a couple of little girls who are a bit suspect of me anyway.
“Grandpa doesn’t know Jesus,” the youngest recently told my wife.
“Oh yes he does,” Barb replied.
I’m sure, however, that my grandchildren remain doubtful of my salvation.
I seldom go to church, rarely read the Bible and no longer hold a regular job.
But they should realize, as surely as I didn’t shoot a swan last fall, I do know Jesus.
Matter of fact he was sitting next to me in the marsh. He always is. He’s there when I’m successful and he’s there when I miss three easy shots in a row.
He’s there when I cuss the dog for not sitting still and he’s there when I crack a beer at the end of the day.
I don’t expect him to make the hunt any easier or the dog more obedient.
I’ve simply come to expect him to be there. For as long as I can remember he has been.
He’s the reason I didn’t bag a swan although the questionnaire didn’t ask why. He’ll also be responsible for my success one day or my never-ending failure.
Only 25 percent of the hunters who held a swan permit in 2006 actually bagged one. I know they weren’t the only camo-clad hunters hiding in the cattails acquainted with Jesus.
If successful wing-shooting was that easy there would be a lot more waterfowlers seeking salvation in the marsh.
And surely the informational pamphlet that accompanied my swan permit would have included “get to know Jesus” along with recommended shooting distances and shot size.
My grandchildren should know that while they’re much more likely to find me in the field come Sunday morning than in a pew, or reading the solunar tables instead of 1 Corinthians, I do know Jesus.
Maybe next fall the two of us will bag a swan. Either way, I certainly won’t be out there alone.
And if I’m successful, I hope Barb won’t tell the girls. Explaining my faith to them could turn out to be a lot easier than explaining why I shot a swan.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Because of bats I live where I do
In an age of saving whales and reintroducing wolves, it should have come as no surprise, but the story about a group of fourth-graders in Bozeman selling baked goods to raise money to adopt a bat did just that.
Now I’m about as animal friendly as they come. As a kid I kept skunks and opposums as pets, caught snakes and snapping turtles just to get a closer look at them, and raised mice and gerbils until they began to take over the house.
I hunt, but years ago quit killing anything I wouldn’t eat. I’ll swerve to miss a jackrabbit crossing the road and have been known to brake for salamanders.
Bats, however, remain on the periphery of my goodwill toward critters.
And they deserve better.
Bats are responsible in large part for me living where I do.
When my wife and I began looking a real estate a couple years ago in the small northern Montana town of Malta we now call home our objective was a fixer-upper we could quickly remodel and use during hunting season.
Quickly being the key word. I didn’t want to spend all of my time working on a house, so we started out looking for something small and cheap.
Then my wife discovered an old, two-story stone house that had been vacant for a couple of years.
Too big and probably too expensive I told her. A similar fixer-upper in Bozeman, where we were then living, would sell for half a million dollars.
Of course this wasn’t Bozeman and that’s why we were here. And there was a catch -- the realtor asked if we were afraid of bats.
“They are dead though,” she reassured us.
Malta, it turned out, is home to the northernmost colony of migrating little brown bats.
About 30 of them, unable to find their way out, had died inside the house, their mummified corpses stuck to the windows and walls and nestled among the dust bunnies in the corners.
We fell in love with the house and were able to afford it, in part, I suspect, because it was littered with dead bats.
Two years later, the place is relatively bat-proof, although we hear them at times squeaking and rustling about in the rafters.
During the summer I catch the occasional bat that flies into the house through an open door, but can’t say I really relish the close encounters.
I’m told they eat mosquitoes, but at times up here, I swear they must be dining on something else.
I’d like to think I could live quite well without bats although I know I never will.
There appears to be little danger of running out of them, especially when there are fourth-graders out there selling baked goods on their behalf.
Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net
Now I’m about as animal friendly as they come. As a kid I kept skunks and opposums as pets, caught snakes and snapping turtles just to get a closer look at them, and raised mice and gerbils until they began to take over the house.
I hunt, but years ago quit killing anything I wouldn’t eat. I’ll swerve to miss a jackrabbit crossing the road and have been known to brake for salamanders.
Bats, however, remain on the periphery of my goodwill toward critters.
And they deserve better.
Bats are responsible in large part for me living where I do.
When my wife and I began looking a real estate a couple years ago in the small northern Montana town of Malta we now call home our objective was a fixer-upper we could quickly remodel and use during hunting season.
Quickly being the key word. I didn’t want to spend all of my time working on a house, so we started out looking for something small and cheap.
Then my wife discovered an old, two-story stone house that had been vacant for a couple of years.
Too big and probably too expensive I told her. A similar fixer-upper in Bozeman, where we were then living, would sell for half a million dollars.
Of course this wasn’t Bozeman and that’s why we were here. And there was a catch -- the realtor asked if we were afraid of bats.
“They are dead though,” she reassured us.
Malta, it turned out, is home to the northernmost colony of migrating little brown bats.
About 30 of them, unable to find their way out, had died inside the house, their mummified corpses stuck to the windows and walls and nestled among the dust bunnies in the corners.
We fell in love with the house and were able to afford it, in part, I suspect, because it was littered with dead bats.
Two years later, the place is relatively bat-proof, although we hear them at times squeaking and rustling about in the rafters.
During the summer I catch the occasional bat that flies into the house through an open door, but can’t say I really relish the close encounters.
I’m told they eat mosquitoes, but at times up here, I swear they must be dining on something else.
I’d like to think I could live quite well without bats although I know I never will.
There appears to be little danger of running out of them, especially when there are fourth-graders out there selling baked goods on their behalf.
Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net
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