In Search of Myself

The setting is virtually silent. Save a gentle gurgle where river water pours over a log jam and the cold rustle of January wind through cypress and disrobed willows, there is quiet. But that is good. There is far too little silence in this world.

I am looking for wood ducks. The drone of that tiny outboard that propelled my passage to this spot had caused a steady eruption of woodies. They burst from clear waters at every bend and tangle, their high-pitched squeal filling the air, those gaudy colors flashing in a winter sun. And now I am at Jennings Hole, the exact locale that marks my beginning as an outdoorsman.

And then there is the smell. It is pungent but pleasant. It comes from the mud and decaying debris left behind by high water, and its sting pushes me back to childhood. I recall stories of the Jennings Hole, tales that came from my dad of the days he lived on the bluff above the river and unearthed stumps and plowed mules in cotton patches that then filled the flat, rich earth. I don’t recall the first time he took me there; I was a young child. But it was important to him that I know, that the history and the river become a part of my being. This happened, completely.

However, I do recall that warm May morning he took me in a cypress boat to Jennings Hole and handed me a cane pole. There was a goose-quill bobber and diminutive hook and split shot on the line. The cricket had barely hit the water when a belligerent bluegill attacked. This battle was long, but the bream eventually plopped to the boat’s bottom. I was enthralled then and am now at the memory.

Reverie is disturbed by the hiss of wings. I blink away tears that I credit to the cold and see a woodie drake and duet of hens. I pull a battered A-5 to my shoulder and the drake splashes to the rippled surface. Even in this posture he is magnificent. Recall enters a second time.

I see my dad sitting close to me, his tan and tattered shell vest over a worn denim jacket. “He’s right there,” dad whispered as he pointed out a squirrel in a double-trunk pine on the bluff. The bluff and pine are still here, just as they were then. The .410 popped. The river and its surrounding had again worked their magic.

I sit here and admire the drake that I have just taken and realize that I was not seeking ducks this morning as much as I was seeking self. I found what I had gone after.

At times I think my blood is diluted with that river water, made richer by its flow. And while it may seem morbid, I don’t think I would mind if my ashes were scattered along the Pearl when that time comes. Seems only fitting, for a river, that river, runs through me.

Tony Kinton is a native Mississippian, where he grew up on a small farm. Hunting and fishing were regular parts of his life, and these pursuits produced much of the food found on his family’s table. Read more here…