Hunting for Memories
Spending time with my uncle Nick was always a thrill. When I was 7 years old, one of our favorite things to do was to go hunting. We would go to a place called Crosby’s Farm. I’m not sure if Uncle Nick knew Crosby or not, but we had to climb a barbed wire fence to enter. He showed me how to climb near the post where it was sturdiest, and he unintentionally demonstrated what not to do by cutting his leg on the way over. Luckily, it was just a scratch.
We would arrive just after sunrise, and in the stillness of the morning, we could hear the distinctive sounds of mourning doves and red-winged blackbirds. Hunting for us meant setting up a cardboard target downfield and shooting at it with my BB gun or bow and arrow.
It was Nick who patiently taught me to shoot a bow and arrow, making sure the
