It was the second or third weekend of duck season, a long time ago, so long ago that the take-home limit was five birds. I was in the seventh grade. My grandfather, dad, and I were hunkered down in a duck hide along a little tidal river in Bowdoinham.
We shivered and joked about how many restrictions we could stand – after all, we are two fathers and two sons – so surely that means we could stand four restrictions?
The three of us had been looking forward to this hunt since July, having spent all summer skeet shooting and shopping for the proper ammunition. When we ran out of bullets for clay pigeons, cost was an issue for us, so we simply threw the can as far as we could and counted the number of dents we made.
It was a beautiful morning, with lots of birds flying through the mist, but then the sun shone down. My grandfather was a little tired. Little did anybody know that this was his last hunt. My father asked me how I felt about staying at the hideout while he walked him home. A stupid question.
So they left, leaving me alone as the lone hunter in my hiding place.
There was a path in the woods behind us, connecting all the blinds along the river, and from the path we heard a voice say, “Hello, anyone there?”
“Here I am,” I replied, and a tall, angular man emerged from the bushes carrying a fine water spaniel and the kind of Browning automatic the whole family could only dream of.
“Are you here alone?”
“Yes.” I didn't explain any further. There was no need to at the time.
“Can I sit down for a bit?”
He sat down and we talked about the morning shooting and the possibility of the Canadian Redlegs, and he spoke to me as if he were my family or a family friend.
Then we heard the sound of wings behind us. We crouched down and watched as the little flock spun around, responding to the call in front of the blind. We stalked forward together and did what duck hunters do. Soon the dog was in the water and retrieving. It was a busy time, but the stranger knew I was watching him.
“You're trying to find out who I am, aren't you?”
It was as if he read my mind and I was forced to tell him the truth. I replied awkwardly, “You're from the government, aren't you?”
“Yes, son. My name is Ed Muskie, your senator,” he said, emphasizing the last two words, shaking hands, smiling, and praising his dog, who was now the true star of the hunt. Muskie made sure my dad returned, then got up to talk to the other hunters downstream. He was out of my sight, but not out of my consciousness.
The story is full of anachronisms: a 12-year-old boy hunting alone, strangers approaching him, even a gun.
Say what you want, but this is how lifelong voters are born.
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