Looking Up
Human memory is a fascinating thing.
I’m going to state two facts about my childhood. I am then going to state something that never happened.
Fact #1: My dad would take me and my younger brother, Alex, on bike rides. We rode in a two-seat trailer. Rides varied from playground trips to errands to long rides on meandering trails.
Fact #2: My dad hunted occasionally. He would often bring the game home for us to eat. Pheasants, ducks, and elk (biannually) were served after successful outings.
One day not long ago, we reminisced about times past. I was old enough at this point to recognize that my memory conflated the two facts. My mind did not serve me accurate recollections. I did not, however, think much of it. As my family and I retold visions from our childhood - mischief caused, road rash, blessed milestones - I brought up the bike rides.
With a warm sigh, I said, “Hey Dad, remember when you would take us on bike rides and hunt for magpies?”
“What?” he said, flabbergasted and concerned.
“Yeah, remember? Alex and I would be in the trailer and you shot magpies with your pistol and we brought them home for dinner.”
It would have been reasonable for him to politely excuse himself from the conversation. I’m surprised he didn’t. Instead, he replied with unequivocal candor, “I would never do that.”
I don’t recall where the conversation went from there, but as I reflect on the exchange, I find myself equally flummoxed at my suggestion stated without an inkling of consideration for the context. I want to break down the levels of absurdity with this scene.
No one rides their bike for exercise or fun with two children in tow, carrying a loaded pistol. Maybe someone has in the history of humanity, but it wasn’t my dad while he was out for a roll to Orange Park with his two young children. There was no weapon tucked into his biking shorts.
Should, for any reason, someone carry a weapon on a bike ride, they don’t FIRE the gun on the side of a road, on a bike trail, or in public. My dad didn’t blast off rounds riding on the pathway next to C-470.
Magpies are not for hunting. Never in my life have I heard of “magpie season.” They are abundant throughout North America but are not hunted for sport or food. To shoot a magpie is concerning on many levels.
Magpies are not for eating. They are dirty, dirty birds. Like their relative, the crow, they are smart, may band together in mobs, and live communally. They also have a wide-ranging diet that includes, among other things, carrion, beetles underneath cow dung, and garbage.
Should, for any reason, someone choose to hunt a magpie for food, they are not hauling the carcass on the remainder of their bike ride. The only way to bring a dead bird back on one of those bike rides would be to toss it in the trailer with the kids.
If any of the above ever occurred, I expect trouble with the law and social services would ensue. I’m happy to report that my dad has had no incidents with either agency to my knowledge.
Despite all of the above, there was a point in my life when I thought we hunted for magpies on bike rides. I don’t know which of the bullet points above is more absurd than the fact that a grown man made up such a ludicrous memory and thought it normal.
Upon reflection, I think it’s a subconscious incarnation of the admiration I carry for my father. Despite the absurdity, I can envision him cruising on his bike at a healthy clip, his boys in the back. A magpie takes flight from the bowling alley parking lot on the left. With a keen eye, Dad cocks his head and locks onto the target while drawing the loaded pistol from his exercise shorts in one motion. A practiced twirl of the revolver aids his cross-body aim. From thirty-five yards, he discharges a single shot, dropping the soaring Corvid from the sky in a flurry of feathers. No one reacts. He blows the smoke from the barrel and keeps pedaling to let the iron cool. We make our way to the fallen game to collect tonight’s fare.
Oh, the things we do for our children. And oh, how they look up to us.
