My Ma and Pa had other children before me, but they all became frail and died. Pa buried them beneath black-jack oaks where the soil was softer for digging. He carved a little wooden tombstone for each of them. Some had names while others didn’t. Then they stopped, afraid of losing more children. Pa almost went insane with loneliness, deciding they would try one more time. Surprise! They gave birth to me, Jody. When I was two, Pa was forced into the Civil War, leaving Ma and me at Grandma Hutto’s place while he was gone. He returned four years later to move back into his own home, grateful to be able to see us again. Ma had loved me like any Ma would do, but she had felt detached from me. I think she had given so much love to my deceased brothers and sisters that she couldn’t pull more for a skinny boney boy like me. But Pa understood me when I got older, always having a curiosity for wildlife and animals, for my desire to run off to the rippling waters of the creek and admire the sun and cool April breezes. He understood completely how I felt and I always appreciated him for that.
Now, my greatest friend was Flag, a young buck deer you’ll read about here in my blog. He and I loved to play and ram into each other, while also sitting in the shade to watch the sun set. It was hard for me to let go of Flag that fateful day. I had tried so hard to fix the corn harvest he had destroyed previously that spring. Pa—condemned to bed rest from rheumatism—had given me another chance to replant the harvest and build a fence so Flag wouldn’t reenter when the harvest grew and sprouted out of the soil. I hadn’t finished the north wall by the time the buds appeared, and Flag had returned during the night for a snack. I explained to Pa what happened. I remember him sternly telling me to go out into the woods to tie Flag to a tree and shoot my yearling. I started that way, but I doubted myself, I just couldn’t harm Flag. Not my Flag. It hit me, and I crumbled to the hard dirt floor of the woods. Flag nudged me in my shoulder. I wondered if he thought we were hunting—he liked hunting as much as the dogs—or that he understood he was being punished. I turned back home and told Pa I just couldn’t harm Flag. Pa didn’t yell, but he was upset in that bedroom and excused me to go to my room. I heard the devastating gunshot, which injured Flag in his leg. I bolted out, last hearing my mother complaining that she couldn’t shoot straight and didn’t want to injure the animal. I ran toward Flag as he tried to escape. He was looking at me with his bold yearling eyes, like he thought I had shot him. I got him to calm down but blood wouldn't stop pouring from his wound. Flag had fallen for a second time but didn’t get back up. I would’ve found it peaceful if it weren’t like this, not with my yearling injured in his flank. He looked at me quivering, then he laid still. I pounded the earth and as I was boiled with rage. If it had been a panther or bear, I would’ve grieved until I was old and gray. But it was different, because my own father had turned on me. Ma always hated Flag, so I accused her when she pulled the trigger. I miss my yearling. I never thought that I should love, person or animal, the way I had loved that fawn.
