Christmas and the Bliss Park Archer

This year one of my grandson’s got a bow and arrow for Christmas. He was pretty excited. Visions of Robin Hood danced in my head. There I was in the forest of Sherwood eating venison cooked on a spit and laughing at the ineptness of the Sheriff of Nottingham. As I sat by the fire with my merry men I remembered the Christmas I got my first bow and arrows. It was a glorious day.

The Christmas buildup had hit the “molasses lap”, that easing up to Christmas Eve which took so long to accomplish. It was a time that seemed to mire in molasses up to your knees that had cooled to a point that allowed almost no movement. The excitement was nearing a crescendo and it was just out of reach.

With five sisters and me in a one bedroom house with conservative parents we were pretty much a “one gift” operation. Each of us got a fair amount of input regarding the gift but there were no guarantees. And while locating and getting an early look at the gifts was possible it would seal the door on expectation and end speculation that the impossible might happen. I was always caught in a quandary over that one. The few times I gave in to the desire to know ended the magic too soon and so I decided not to give up hope in favor of knowledge.

On Christmas morning I was over the top when I saw the long narrow package. I opened it slowly. When there is just one package it is approached with respect and careful measure of enjoying the moment versus ending the expectation. Even knowing what it was did not change the visions of hunting in the woods or standing bare-chested facing the wind on a butte in the western sky of Montana.

The rush of satisfaction lifted me to new heights. I asked permission to go to Bliss Park, an oak filled recreation area about four blocks from my house. Permission granted but, “Don’t lose the arrows.”

“OK, mom, dad. See you later.”

I saddled my trusty steed, a Schwinn, and put my bow and quiver of arrows on my back. As I rode toward the park I could feel my vision sharpen and my stalking skills awaken. It would be a good day.

After arriving at the park and noting it was empty of other humans I surveyed the area for game. There was a plethora of squirrels. I lashed my ride to the hitching post and strung the bow, then began a stalk that would have made Straight Arrow proud. After seconds, perhaps even a minute I took my first shot at a squirrel about thirty feet up a tree. The arrow lodged in the crotch of the tree and would not touch earth for days. No problem I had more arrows, two to be exact. In less than ten minutes I had lost all three arrows and shattered my dream of bringing home buffalo robes for the entire family.

No matter, there would be more arrows. I could make them myself. What enterprising archer would let a small thing like that slow his enthusiasm for the hunt? Dealing with the pointing fingers of my parents would be another matter. But I could take it.