I don't know if today is the last Saturday of the season or not, but there is an over abundance of gunfire in my back yard this morning. It is almost as bad as opening day. I remember opening day. I went for an early morning walk and some people stopped to ask me directions and I was afraid to stop moving long enough to help them for fear of being a "sitting duck". Must keep moving, must keep moving. That's what I kept repeating in my head. A moving target is harder to hit, right?So for the entire moth of October, I have been hearing gunfire and swamp boats, all day every day. They wake me up every morning. And it really grates on my last nerve to hear it. I'm not kidding you. It irritates the you know what right out of me. So the other day I was digging down deep within my soul to determine what exactly it is about the duck hunt that bothers me so much. Is it the fact that some days I feel like I live in a war zone? No. Is it the fact that I live in a beautiful place surrounded by all kinds of beautiful birds who have a sanctuary right down the street from me and if the poor birds choose to fly over the wrong side of the fence, they are gunned down? No. So then, what is it, you ask? That bothers you so much. Well, to get you to really understand, I first must tell you the story of a grumpy old shirtless obsessive lawn mowing man. This is his story. It is my story too.
This is our 2nd duck hunting season in our new house. Before we moved here, we lived for 12 years in our old house. And right next door to us lived a grumpy old shirtless obsessive lawn mowing man. Exaggerate you say? No. No.
This man irritated me every single day for 12 years. He was retired, so he was home all day, and therefore had plenty of time to plan and plot ways to get on my last nerve. We had a little wall that ran down the length of our front yard, separating our lawn from his. It was the perfect height and width for little kids to climb and play on. But only if they didn't have grumpy old shirtless obsessive lawn mowing man living next door. "GET OFF THE WALL! GET OFF THE WALL!" We would hear if the kids even looked like they might try to scale the thing.
One year, he cut down every deciduous tree in his yard. All he had left were bushes and plants that kept their leaves all year long. We had a tree that was right on our side of the property line. I know that that tree was the bane of his existence (which secretly made me very happy). How do I know? Because I would stand at my kitchen window every fall day and watch his own personal battle with this tree. Every day he would be out there raking up the leaves that fell or blew on his side of the yard. But before he would start to rake them up he would take his rake, hold it up to the tree and try to shake off any leaves that were just barely holding on for dear life and might fall upon his yard later that day. One day, I looked out my window and he had a step ladder and a saw and was actually cutting branches off my tree.
That's what he did to make me crazy in the fall. What was his choice of irritation in the spring and summer? His lawn mower. But it wasn't just him, it was also the grumpy old shirt wearing obsessive lawn mowing man who lived across the street from him. They had this unspoken lawn mowing battle going on between them. The shirtless one (I call him this because he never wears a shirt when he mows his lawn. And he is like 75 years old.) mows his lawn on a perfect diagonal. The shirt wearing one makes 2 passes on his lawn, once going horizontally the next pass vertical. Therefore making a perfect grid pattern. If those things are not enough to get on your nerves when you are lucky if your lawn gets mowed before the grass reaches knee level, they mow like every third day. And it cracks me up to watch it. I will hear one of them start their mower up and like clockwork, within 15-20 minutes, the other one is out there mowing his lawn. The one not to be outdone by the other.
We've covered fall, spring and summer. What about winter, you ask? What about winter....Well, one Christmas I decided that we needed to make an effort to befriend the neighbors we had that we didn't know very well. So I made a little gift bag to take around to them. For Family Home Evening we had a lesson about how we should love our neighbors (even the grumpy old shirtless kind who might behead you if you touch the wall). The kids were all excited and so we bundled up and set out, gifts in hand. We rang grumpy old shirtless man's doorbell and waited for him to answer. I was hoping his wife would answer. But alas, she did not, and there he stood looking at us with his grumpy old man look. We said a chorus of "MERRY CHRISTMAS!" One of the kids handed him the gift bag which he would not take until they shoved it into his hands. He looked down at it with his grumpy old man look and then with his grumpy old man voice said, "What's this?" We said, "It's just a little gift from us to wish you a Merry Christmas". He shoved the bag back at us said, "WE DON'T WANT IT!" and slammed the door in our faces. WELL MERRY FREAKIN' CHRISTMAS TO YOU TOO! That's what I felt like screaming, after the initial shock wore off. My kids were so young, they about cried. They had no idea what had just happened.
What exactly does this have to do with ducks? What this has to do with ducks is this. Mr. Grump, he is a duck hunter. And he has a swamp boat. And he would do something with it, clean it or fix it or just start it up for fun and let it run forever. All the time. Right next to my bedroom window. At 6:00 in the morning. If the swamp boats are so loud that they wake me up in this house when they are miles and miles away, how loud do you think that thing was outside my bedroom window? At 6 am? Deafening.
This is what bothers me about Duck Hunting Season. I know, with all my heart, when I hear those swamp boats off in the distance. I know, without a doubt in my mind, that in my brand new home and personal sanctuary, that right out behind me sitting in his boat, is grumpy old shirtless obsessive lawn mowing man. And in my heart of hearts I know, impossible as it might be, I know that he knows I am here. And he knows that I can hear him. And he knows that it bothers me. And that is what makes me crazy outta my head when I hear it. It's like now, forever for the whole rest of my life grumpy old shirtless obsessive lawn mowing man will forever haunt me, even after he leaves this earth. Every October. He will be there.
