| Biographical Non-Fiction posted May 10, 2022 |
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Death comes calling.
Wrong Place, Wrong Time
by LisaMay
New Zealand, where I live, does not have a gun-obsessed culture like America, but many country folk do own guns for hunting or pest control purposes. Hunting game birds is popular here; last weekend was the opening of duck-shooting season. For many rural people it is a traditional activity to go and bag a few ducks on the first day of the season.
My ex-partner is a country boy, his family having lived for generations in the same district alongside similar families. For many years he has had the habit of hunting ducks on the first weekend of May every year, with a group of friends and their sons. I used to worry about it as alcohol was often consumed, but he assured me his group had safe practices and only drank after they’d bagged their limit.
I hate guns and blood sports, so my sympathy is with the ducks, and I don’t eat them. I live in the city, near the botanic garden; the duck population increases noticeably when many become refugees there for the duration of the season. Not such bird-brains after all!
My ex-partner and I ended our relationship many years ago rather acrimoniously, but the passage of time has dulled the sharp edges and we occasionally have lunch together when he comes to town. He phoned a week or so ago to ask a favour: he’d bought a tow bar for his car on the internet but it couldn’t be delivered to a rural address so he asked if it was okay to put my home address for delivery. No problem there. It eventually arrived and he came to collect it two days after the opening weekend of duck-shooting season.
He knows better than to give me a duck, but he sometimes brings one for my neighbours. I was expecting to see him in an upbeat mood, having enjoyed the traditional get together, but he was diminished with distress. The weekend had a tragic finale that his group of friends were notified about the following day. The 33-year-old son of one of them had been killed in a hit-and-run road accident while walking home from the duck-shooting farm to his own. It was a distance of only 100 yards, but it was along an unlit country road after midnight. He was dressed in his camouflage clothing. He’d had quite a few drinks, so his reactions would have been slow.
To lose the young man in such circumstances after a convivial day has had a major impact on the district’s close community. He was highly thought of, married with two little girls, coach of the local rugby team, and a fire brigade volunteer.
And my point is? I don’t know. What is to be gained from this? My only conclusion is to realise yet again how random life is. The fickle finger of fate points at you and it’s your turn to die, whatever species you are.
New Zealand, where I live, does not have a gun-obsessed culture like America, but many country folk do own guns for hunting or pest control purposes. Hunting game birds is popular here; last weekend was the opening of duck-shooting season. For many rural people it is a traditional activity to go and bag a few ducks on the first day of the season.
My ex-partner is a country boy, his family having lived for generations in the same district alongside similar families. For many years he has had the habit of hunting ducks on the first weekend of May every year, with a group of friends and their sons. I used to worry about it as alcohol was often consumed, but he assured me his group had safe practices and only drank after they’d bagged their limit.
I hate guns and blood sports, so my sympathy is with the ducks, and I don’t eat them. I live in the city, near the botanic garden; the duck population increases noticeably when many become refugees there for the duration of the season. Not such bird-brains after all!
My ex-partner and I ended our relationship many years ago rather acrimoniously, but the passage of time has dulled the sharp edges and we occasionally have lunch together when he comes to town. He phoned a week or so ago to ask a favour: he’d bought a tow bar for his car on the internet but it couldn’t be delivered to a rural address so he asked if it was okay to put my home address for delivery. No problem there. It eventually arrived and he came to collect it two days after the opening weekend of duck-shooting season.
He knows better than to give me a duck, but he sometimes brings one for my neighbours. I was expecting to see him in an upbeat mood, having enjoyed the traditional get together, but he was diminished with distress. The weekend had a tragic finale that his group of friends were notified about the following day. The 33-year-old son of one of them had been killed in a hit-and-run road accident while walking home from the duck-shooting farm to his own. It was a distance of only 100 yards, but it was along an unlit country road after midnight. He was dressed in his camouflage clothing. He’d had quite a few drinks, so his reactions would have been slow.
To lose the young man in such circumstances after a convivial day has had a major impact on the district’s close community. He was highly thought of, married with two little girls, coach of the local rugby team, and a fire brigade volunteer.
And my point is? I don’t know. What is to be gained from this? My only conclusion is to realise yet again how random life is. The fickle finger of fate points at you and it’s your turn to die, whatever species you are.
My ex-partner is a country boy, his family having lived for generations in the same district alongside similar families. For many years he has had the habit of hunting ducks on the first weekend of May every year, with a group of friends and their sons. I used to worry about it as alcohol was often consumed, but he assured me his group had safe practices and only drank after they’d bagged their limit.
I hate guns and blood sports, so my sympathy is with the ducks, and I don’t eat them. I live in the city, near the botanic garden; the duck population increases noticeably when many become refugees there for the duration of the season. Not such bird-brains after all!
My ex-partner and I ended our relationship many years ago rather acrimoniously, but the passage of time has dulled the sharp edges and we occasionally have lunch together when he comes to town. He phoned a week or so ago to ask a favour: he’d bought a tow bar for his car on the internet but it couldn’t be delivered to a rural address so he asked if it was okay to put my home address for delivery. No problem there. It eventually arrived and he came to collect it two days after the opening weekend of duck-shooting season.
He knows better than to give me a duck, but he sometimes brings one for my neighbours. I was expecting to see him in an upbeat mood, having enjoyed the traditional get together, but he was diminished with distress. The weekend had a tragic finale that his group of friends were notified about the following day. The 33-year-old son of one of them had been killed in a hit-and-run road accident while walking home from the duck-shooting farm to his own. It was a distance of only 100 yards, but it was along an unlit country road after midnight. He was dressed in his camouflage clothing. He’d had quite a few drinks, so his reactions would have been slow.
To lose the young man in such circumstances after a convivial day has had a major impact on the district’s close community. He was highly thought of, married with two little girls, coach of the local rugby team, and a fire brigade volunteer.
And my point is? I don’t know. What is to be gained from this? My only conclusion is to realise yet again how random life is. The fickle finger of fate points at you and it’s your turn to die, whatever species you are.
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