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Editor’s note: Columnist Bill Graves has taken a break from his normal outdoor trails to offer up this Christmas tale.
The boy had just turned 16 on the 16th of December, but what should have been a celebrated step toward manhood had passed with little fanfare. His mom had baked his favorite white cake with chocolate fudge frosting and there had been a few meager gifts from sisters and parents, but the usual celebration was mostly lacking. Now Christmas was less than a week away, and prospects for a Merry Yule with plenty of presents and their traditional sumptuous dinner were dismal.
Lee Rideout was the only son of Vince and Kate, and he had two sisters, Fran and Hazel. They lived happily on the old family farm that Lee’s grandfather, whom he was named after, had cleared, plowed, and toiled to establish during the late 1800s. With hens for eggs, a half-dozen cows for milk, cream, and home-churned butter, and a huge garden and a few apple trees that annually filled the root cellar, the Rideouts were fairly self-sufficient.
Staples such as flour, sugar, tea, and coffee could be bartered for at the local store and Kate’s sweet fresh butter was known throughout the countryside. Fresh meat in the form of partridge, ducks, venison, or bear was a walk away in the woods, and Vince was a topnotch hunter who kept the icebox and smokehouse well-supplied. Summer or winter, tasty trout could always be had from the nearby river and several neighborhood brooks. The Rideouts were a close-knit family with a comfortable small-town life typical of Maine in the early 1950s.
Then late one afternoon toward the end of August, that picturesque rural lifestyle came shattering apart. While clearing a piece of land and hauling out the trees for the sawmill, there was an accident. A large hardwood fell wrong and lodged among the limbs of another tree in a precarious position local woodsmen referred to as a widow maker. No novice to logging, Vince did everything right to free up the tree, but a supporting limb gave way unexpectedly, causing the heavy trunk to snap sideways. When Vince’s brother returned from the mill an hour later, he found a broken and badly injured man.
A crushed pelvis, a lower lumbar fracture, and a leg dislocated at the hip and broken in two places required extensive surgery and six weeks in the hospital. The man who returned home to finish recuperation in a full-length leg cast and a cumbersome, restrictive back brace was broken in body and spirit. All the kids pitched in to get the chores done and neighbors helped out as well, but being confined to bed most of the time, helpless, was devastating to Vince. When hunting season rolled around, his mood darkened further.
Lee overheard his father lament to a visiting friend that living through battle after battle in Korea without a scratch and then being struck down on your own land just didn’t seem right. All the savings went for hospital and doctor bills. Among other family possessions, Vince’s favorite deer rifle and his Winchester pump 12 were sold to make ends meet. Lee used the old .22 bolt action and the single shot .410 to bag a few birds and bunnies, but times were tough.
Late one night when Lee had awoken and crept downstairs for some water, he found his Dad also awake, and they talked for a while. Vince admitted to his son that feeling helpless was a cruel burden for a working man, but seeing his family do without was worse. What bothered him most about the meager Christmas coming up was the loss of a family tradition that Lee’s grandfather had started. While others dined on ham or turkey, the Rideouts always enjoyed roast Canada goose with chestnut stuffing.
Lee was only a year old when his grandfather had passed away, but he had seen the pictures and heard the stories. Grump’s pride and joy had been a Browning sweet 16 semi-auto shotgun, and he was a dead shot with it. Each December he managed to find and shoot a huge Canada goose for Christmas dinner. Although Grump and the old sweet 16 were long gone, the tradition was carried on by Lee’s father – until this year.
Lee went back to bed but couldn’t sleep. As temporary man of the house, there had to be something he could do to save Christmas. The only ice- free water was on the river, and Lee knew where his Dad’s old duck blind was located. He also knew how scarce geese were this time of year and how close one would have to be for him to kill it with a .410. But then Christmas was supposed to be a time of miracles and he just had to do something.
Well before first light Lee dressed warmly and quietly snuck out with the old .410. At the grain shed, he grabbed his Dad’s hip waders and three goose decoys, then headed cross country for the riverbank blind a mile away. Pink edged the horizon when Lee got to the blind. He quickly opened his jack knife to cut reeds and branches to conceal a few open spots on the windblown hideaway.
Currents around the end of the island moved, mixed, and mingled in a steady flow that kept the backwater eddy in front of the blind ice-free. Ducks and an occasional honker found the shallow, brush-protected basin a perfect spot to dip and dabble for food out of the current and wind.
Shooting time arrived and dragged into an hour with a handful of ducks trading up and down the river but no geese. Suddenly a pair of geese floated downstream from behind the island and paddled along the shoreline ice. The pair drank, fed, and slowly worked their way back up the river and out of sight, showing not a bit of interest in Lee’s decoys. Disappointment fell like a ton of bricks, quashing anticipation and hopes. As the warm morning sun cleared the tree line and shined on the blind, weariness from the early morning overcame Lee, and he leaned back, closing his eyes for a second.
Footsteps crunching closer through the still frosty marsh grass were the first indication someone else was around. “Hello the Blind,” a voice called, and then a figure in a green-checked jacket, wool pants, Jones-style hunting cap, and hip boots rolled down to the knees appeared beside the blind. An old, well-worn padded soft gun case hung from one shoulder and a warm smile adorned the weather-creased face.
“You’d be the Rideout boy, I expect,” the old hunter offered, “You favor your father a good bit.”
“Don’t look so surprised,” the old man went on, “I was gunnin’ this river long before your Daddy got started duck hunting, but once he began, we passed some time together. I been away from the area for a lot of years, but I’ve still got family here and it was important I spend one more holiday with ’em.
“I wanted to relive a bit of the past this morning, and wondered if this old blind was still standin’,” the old sport went on, “but I surely didn’t expect to find anyone else out the day before Christmas. We must be cut from the same bolt of cloth, son. Would you mind sharin’ your hideaway with an old hometown waterfowler?”
Lee invited the old man to join him and explained his desperate need for a goose and the circumstances leading up to this Christmas eve outing.
“I’m guessing you already know how scarce Canada honkers are this time of year, boy, but I’ve always been a lucky hunter, and strange things happen near Christmas. Maybe you and me will be a winnin’ team.”
The two generations of hunters passed the next half hour chatting, watching ducks come and go, and hoping – listening – scanning the sky.
Aged eyes not withstanding, it was the old sport that spotted the three distant specks in the clear sky far down river. “Best get set, laddie; I believe we got company coming.” And with that the old-timer unfastened the end strap on the shabby old gun case and lovingly picked out a worn but well-cared-for shotgun. Lee’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped open, the distinctive line of a humpback Belgian Browning were unmistakable. Sweet Sixteen was etched in elegant scrollwork on the receiver.
Before Lee could say what he was thinking, the aged gunner admonished, “Keep track of the geese, boy!” Thin, arthritic fingers pulled indigo-colored shells from a pocket and slid them into the magazine. Unlike the reds and greens of 12-gauge shells, 16s were always a unique shade of blue. A scarred and battered call came from under the jacket and to the veteran outdoorsman’s lips. In spite of the age and condition of call and caller, the sounds produced were like music.
As if on a string the trio of geese winged closer and began to answer the call. They circled, looked hard, talking back steadily, but these were big old honkers, gun wise and decoy shy. As the birds made another wide swing, the old man stopped calling for a second and spoke. “They’ll not come close enough for your gun, lad, and they’re getting real nervous. I’m not even sure my old scattergun will reach them.”
On the next pass, the end goose and the largest of the three seemed to slip a bit closer. In one smooth motion the man stood and the Sweet 16 shouldered smoothly. On the first shot the goose rocked in the air, the second round knocked out feathers and one leg dropped, yet the wounded goose kept flying away. A heartbeat after the third shot, the head dropped, wings went akimbo, and the huge honker plummeted to the water with a resounding smack.
“I’ll wade out and retrieve that goose, son; you sit and relax,” the aged shooter offered. Lee leaned back and closed his eyes so he could replay in his mind the scene of the big Canada folding and falling. As the goose hit the water, there was a sharp noise, and Lee jerked awake. He rubbed sleep from his eyes and shook his head. No one was in the blind with him, the old man was nowhere to be seen on the open marsh, and no goose rested in the water. Lee’s heart sank and tears came to his eyes; he’d fallen asleep. It had all been a dream.
Broken-hearted that a family tradition would be lost, Lee gathered his gear and began to leave the blind. Just as he was backing out the door, a glint of color in the far corner caught his eye. He stopped, stared, and then crawled across the floor, reaching into the crack, nearly covered by grass and mud, where a hint of blue was exposed. With just his fingertips, Lee pulled out a blue 16 gauge hull! He caught his breath and goose bumps covered his body.
Outside the blind, right by the door, lay the largest most beautiful Canada goose he had ever seen. Scanning the marsh grass and mud, Lee could see only one set of footprints to the blind – his. The Rideout family tradition of roast goose would endure, and what a story he had to share between father and son.
Then and now, Christmas miracles do happen.
Outdoor feature writer Bill Graves can be reached via e-mail at bgravesoutdoors@ainop.com
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