Part One: Leaves
Papa died in the spring of ’62 when I was 12 years old. Although there had been little interaction between us, he was still a needed figure in my life—a father. Mother wouldn’t, but I made allowances and excuses for his long absences. I would tell my classmates when he didn’t show up at a school event, “He’s at the Texas Championship with Mr. Reed’s dogs, and then he has to go to Oklahoma…,” knowing all along they knew why Papa wasn’t there.
His absences from my life hurt me while he was alive, but I always had hope. I tricked myself into believing it would change one day, though it never did. After he died, my hopes were dashed, and a hole was left unfilled, save a quiet but heavy ache.
Through family and friends, I, like Papa, found myself at Red Oak where life began to reveal itself to me. Without the guidance of a father, I began to build my life by gathering lessons from tiny clues fate sent to me from time to time. Little clues in the form of people and situations, clues that come to you like leaves in a whirlwind, blowing in what seems to be random clouds across the path of your life; each leaf, each person and event a part—a piece of the puzzle that would become my life.
I thought once that it would be grand if you could run and gather all the leaves, the clues, the lessons, ahead of time to know what lay in the future, but that seldom happened. That’s why life, for the most part, remains a mystery. You just get bits and pieces at a time, maybe that’s all we can handle.
The following is a chapter in my life where I was fortunate enough to grab a handful of those leaves at once, and see my life changed forever.
Each fall Mr. Reed spent several weeks selling young dogs to hunters around the state. Out of 50 or so pups whelped at Red Oak every year, Mr. Reed only kept one or two. The rest, though not his picks, were still well-bred pups and sought after by hunters far and wide.
By the first week of November in my third year at Red Oak, all the pups had been sold except for one. It was still available, not because he was inferior in any way, but quite the opposite. “Mike,” as I had named him, was the best of the lot, and priced as such. It was the price that held the hunters at bay, not the quality of the pup. Mr. Reed had wanted to keep him, but in the end decided to let him go. Had Mike not been marked so heavily, I’m sure he would have remained a Red Oak dog.
That Saturday morning began in an awkward fashion. When I arrived at the kennels, Mr. Reed was showing Mike to a prospective buyer, a Mr. Seville from New Orleans. I heard Mr. Reed tell the man, “Like I said on the phone, twelve-hundred dollars, and not a cent less.” I say the morning was awkward because at that same time a truck arrived at the kennel. From the truck stepped a man followed by a boy of about my age.
“Hello,” the man said to me. “I’m Bill Saunders and this is my son Charles. We’re here to see about buying a bird dog.”
“That seems like a lot for such a heavily marked dog,” Mr. Seville continued. “If he’s all you say he is, I guess he’s worth it, but he sure is heavily marked. You say he’ll retrieve, uh? I can’t use a dog that won’t retrieve. Damn, he’s marked up.” Mr. Seville just couldn’t or wouldn’t say a good word about Mike.
Mr. Reed and Mr. Seville were soon joined by Mr. Saunders and his son. The latter two hadn’t heard the price offered by Mr. Reed. Had they, they may have turned away on the spot. “Oh my, look at him Charles,” said Mr. Saunders. “He’s a beauty. Don’t you think so?”
I knew enough about Mr. Reed to know he didn’t like anyone casting poor comments about his dogs, for sale or not. Mr. Reed saw me arrive and spoke quickly. “Hook Emma up to the dog wagon and load Mike. I want I show him to Mr. Seville.”
“Oh?” Mr. Saunders then said, “Is he already sold?” Having never been introduced, he addressed his question to Mr. Seville. It was a crude introduction.
Mr. Seville answered sharply. “Well, he might be. But Reed here is asking an arm and a leg for this ticked up bag of bones. And if he doesn’t come down a dollar or two, he might just very well be available if you can afford him.”
Mr. Seville made that last remark while purposely glancing an eye at the old truck the two had arrived in. The gesture did not go unnoticed.
Without having known Mr. Reed, one would not have noticed his hand nervously wiping his mouth, or his gritting teeth. He responded to the man whose son was now standing tight to his father’s side.
Mr. Reed turned to the man and his son and spoke in a noticeably quiet and measured voice. “I’m Taylor Reed, Mr. Saunders. I’ve promised Mr. Seville I would show him the dog, but you come back tomorrow afternoon, after church and something may work out.”
With that word of introduction, the two walked back to their truck. Mr. Saunders’ arm hung loosely over the boy’s shoulder.
During the past two years, I had healed to a point where I seldom pained. I thought completely healed, but the silhouette of Mr. Saunders and his son walking down the lane opened that wound again. A black emotion reared up within me, and my heart sank into an abyss I had not known was there.
What could have been, and all the “what ifs” I had been able to put aside came rushing over me again, paralyzing me. I’m not sure exactly how long I stood there, but it must have been obvious.
Life does not wait for healing though. Mr. Reed must have recognized my countenance. “Lane!” Mr. Reed said curtly, “Hook Emma to the wagon and load Mike. Meet us at the house.”
“Damn, that’s a lazy boy.” Mr. Seville volunteered. “And don’t skin my dog up when you load him.”
Mr. Reed wiped his dry mouth again and gritted his teeth. I hooked up the wagon and drove to the house where Mr. Seville loaded his shiny gun and a new shooting jacket.