TEXAS | SEALY
Every waterfowler has a lifelong story. This is mine and only mine. My intent was to celebrate my sport with what I did, what I remembered, what I felt. My hope is that it elevates to a more profound statement in the end.
One morning,
I followed my father down a bar ditch between the rice fields near Hockley, Texas and sat still. Too young for a gun. Too poor for decoys. Just hoping a specklebelly, snow or blue would fly over low enough so my father could shoot his Remington Sportsman 48.
One morning,
I bought a Faulk’s duck call for $4.95 at the neighborhood Ace Hardware and blew it on the walk home.
One morning,
I shot my first duck — a hen shoveler, decoying into a small lake near Sealy, Texas.
One morning,
I entered a duck-calling contest, did not squeal and came in second.
One morning,
the law said I could not shoot a canvasback.
One morning,
the law said I could shoot two.
One morning,
I painted a duck stamp.
One morning,
I waded in the decoys and watched in slow motion as my Chick Major’s duck call insert dropped in the water.
One morning,
I hunted snow geese in dense fog on a rice field called “Yankee Stadium,” next to an old man wearing a P.E.T.A hat. (People. Eating. Tasty. Animals.)
One morning,
I hunted on a national wildlife refuge.
One morning,
I thanked a veteran with a hunt.
One morning,
I mastered the northwest wind.
One morning,
I watched an
