January 2016
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Today in Mississippi
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A final color show and postage-stamp bucks he entire episode dards, it was still a time of tranquility. brought to mind But I suppose like Faulkner and perexchanges I have read haps all young adults, unfamiliar envibetween William rons called. Years slipped by in city Faulkner and Sherwood life, New Orleans among them, but Anderson, both wellthe lure of my postage stamp kept known and influential writers. So tugging. I’ve been home now for more influential was Faulkner that he is than 30 years. And during those times regarded as a key figure in setting the away, most things changed. From the direction of literature for the 20th outdoors standpoint, one of the most century. Born in New Albany and pleasant changes was the expansion of later living in Oxford, Faulkner went white-tailed deer. Absent when I was a to New Orleans in his mid-twenties child, these were becoming somewhat to associate with estabcommon when I came lished artisans such as back. Today, they are Anderson. Faulkner downright regular, appearwrote and socialized and ing along country roads began to develop his and in backyard gardens. voice as a writer of short My 12 acres are no excepstories and novels. tion. While I paraphrase Thanks to Hurricane rather than quote in this Katrina, I inherited an next sentence, the advice open spot in the hardgiven by Anderson is woods behind my house. accurately portrayed. That spot was gradually Anderson told Faulkner reclaimed and made into a to go back to his postagefood plot. I put up a tree by Tony Kinton stamp world and write stand, and every hunting about what he knew. season since I have spent a Faulkner followed that guidance, and few hours in that stand. And I saw the real-life locals of his fictional deer. They would come to munch Yocknapatawpha County became acorns and eventually drift into the famous, perhaps infamous. It is plot. Always I found some viable rumored that if William Faulkner excuse not to shoot. Truth is, I simply walked into a barber shop in Oxford, didn’t want to! This year, however, all gossip immediately ground to a was different. I determined to take a halt for fear of those suppositions mature buck if one obliged. showing up in print. A week or so before the hunt, So how does the episode to which I weather conditions cooperated with referred above relate to Anderson and three mornings of freezing temperaFaulkner, and where am I going with tures. Within a very few days, leaves this discourse? Please allow me to began to dress appropriately. I had explain. feared the autumn spectacle would Compared to those grand expanses pass unnoticed and take a form of of agricultural properties and mounnothing more than dull brown, foltains and plains and prairies and lowed by a sudden release of showerwoodlands associated with hunting, I ing leaves, but on this particular day I live on a postage stamp. But I know was proven wrong. Looking from my that postage stamp thoroughly and back porch, I was greeted with woncan navigate the 12 acres almost by derment. Gold and orange and red feel. It is a long, narrow rectangle and yellow, sparkling in early-morning chopped off a square 40 with straight- light and inviting adventure. I would line borders. My house and sheds and sit in the stand come afternoon. a scattering of trees occupy the front To enhance the experience, I chose two acres. But the back remains in a tool that, like me, is old. An 1874 hardwoods, these surrounded on two Sharps rifle with black-powder carsides by more acres of hardwoods. tridges and lead bullets; the loads I I grew up in this area. A rather had fashioned myself. Faded jeans, a Spartan existence by today’s stangrey wool jacket and a felt hat were all
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Outdoors Today
Colors that I thought would not be this fall suddenly erupted with three consecutive frosty mornings. Photo: Tony Kinton
I needed to be comfortably warm. At something just short of 4 p.m., I gathered my gear and walked into the woods. Molly, my dog and constant companion, followed, but I knew she would tire of the regimen in due time and return to her favorite spot beneath an ornamental in the front yard. The walk was hardly 100 yards, but the color show was abundant. I climbed. Within 45 minutes after reaching my station, I heard squirrels begin to scold and scurry. Tired sunshine had begun to cast haunting shadows. And then a buck. He was small, a six-point that was obviously in his second year. But he was legal. I eased the Sharps up and looked through the sights. Immediately I knew I was not going to follow through. He went about his business of popping white-oak acorns. Then a second deer, creeping from a shallow depression and following the same route as his comrade. But this one was different. He possessed that
cautious swagger common to a mature buck, and his start-and-stop gait indicated practiced experience. A finger of light still poking through the trees glinted from impressive antlers. All was right this time. The Sharps erupted in a dazzling display of blackpowder smoke and the woods fell quiet. I approached this first postagestamp buck with deep reverence and reflection. I knelt, removed a tattered hat and gave thanks for the gift. As I turned to go and get a neighbor to assist in dragging the buck back to my shed, I once again noticed the colors, now muted in fading light but still vibrant. Molly barked as I entered the yard. Home was where I was and home was where I should be. Tony Kinton has been an active outdoors writer for 30 years. His newest book, “Rambling Through Pleasant Memories,” is now available. Order from Amazon.com or Kinton’s website: www.tonykinton.com.