in order to be “jest like yer deddy” (the redneck father’s daughter), one must grow up glued to their father’s side.
my father was a redneck and i was glued to his side. which means i’ve done a whole lotta redneck bull hockey and tom foolery in the name of spending time with dear old dad.
i spent a lot of my october and november weekends sitting on an upturned five gallon bucket watching my breath fog while waiting for the sun to come up so i’d have enough light to read whatever book my dad bought me to keep me quiet.
and he needed me to be quiet because he was dove hunting and i was seldom ever not in his line of sight, so i’d tag along and he’d indulge me and buy me stories even though i had no interest in the hunt.
i’m sure there’s an irony in my loving my dad so much i’d sit in the cold just to watch him kill things, but that’s not the point of this.
anyway. the sun would come up, i’d be placed a good ten feet behind all these men and their guns, my dad would make sure my earplugs were secure and my nose wasn’t too cold, and then they’d open fire.
once a bird was shot, they’d go and get it. i can’t remember what they did with them. that part doesn’t matter.
but what i do remember is after the safeties were on and the shotgun barrels were pointed skyward, my dad would “let” me run out and get the birds for him.
i say “let” because when i was a kid i thought bird fetching was a very important and serious job.
he died a few months ago and our relationship got complicated in the way they’re bound to do when daughters realize pain is something they inherit from their fathers.
when i was writing his eulogy i was thinking of happy childhood thoughts and i remembered the “hunting trips.” and how big and important i felt being the one who went to get the birds.
he’d shoot. i’d fetch. he’d tell me to sit. and we’d do it over and over and over again. and that’s when the revelation came.
i was the fucking bird dog.
