My father was a man of few words. On an hour-long drive, he wouldn't say much of anything. Every now and then, however, while lost in thought, a rare story would leave his lips.
These were stories of his childhood, of growing up poor in Mexico, of his challenges coming to the United States.
Although my "ol' man" endured countless trials in his younger days, he always told these stories with a glint of nostalgia in his eyes. He always highlighted the good, despite the tribulations of being dirt-poor.
I always enjoyed the rare stories about him growing up "en el rancho," or on the ranch. One he especially liked to tell was about a kid who ate too many prickly pears…you can imagine the result.
When he was a kid growing up in Mexico, hunting was not something that people did for leisure. Where he lived, you hunted for food.
He and his brother, my tio, would use an old smooth-bore rifle, loaded with bearings, nails, and even rocks. They would wait for "blackbirds" to land in the cornfields and blast away.
Other times, they would head into "la sierra" for small game. Their success would supplement and provide a welcomed change from the monotonous meals at home, which mainly consisted of salsa de molcajete, tortillas, and sometimes beans. Meat of any kind was scarce but always welcomed — even if it was a crow or an occasional rabbit.
When my father arrived in the United States, the notion of hunting for recreation was somewhat strange, but he welcomed the new freedoms he had.
I was 6 when my dad first took me deer hunting with him. He had already been hunting for a few years and had taken a few bucks in California by the time I was allowed to venture into the woods with him. I remember how hard it was to keep up and stay quiet.
Years went by, and it eventually got easier to keep up with the ol' man. But one thing stayed the same: He didn't talk much. He almost never gave me direction or taught skills with words. He taught by showing, and I was expected to learn quickly.
Once, after an unsuccessful deer hunt when I was around 15 years old, we headed back to the truck for lunch. That day, he told no stories. We got to camp, dropped off our gear, and I got the stove going. I popped the cooler open and grabbed a couple of burritos wrapped in aluminum foil and threw them on the hot griddle.
As the smell of toasted tortilla filled my nostrils, I turned to the ol' man, who was sitting on a large rock. I watched him and wondered. Was he thinking back to those days in the cornfield with his muzzleloader? Or was he just reveling in the now?
I flipped the burritos a couple of times to warm them through before handing one to him. I grabbed the other and tried to cool it off by juggling it between my hands. Then I peeled the corner of the foil to reveal its encased treasure. Nothing tasted better after a hard day of hunting than a machaca con huevo burrito — Mexican dried beef and eggs wrapped in a flour tortilla.
We ate in silence. Only we didn't. We listened to the loud tapping of a woodpecker, hiding away its acorns for the winter. A large grey squirrel barked in the tree behind us. And the wind whistled through the pines.
As I grew older, I recognized my father's shortcomings and even struggled with resentment. When I became a father myself, I knew there were certain things I could improve on in raising my own child. I wanted to be able to talk to my daughter and have a good relationship with her. But as most fathers know, being a dad is not something that ever goes smoothly, and we all have our shortcomings, no matter how hard we try.
In becoming a father, I learned to appreciate the ol' man a little more. I am thankful for him, especially in my realization of how much I learned from his silence.
My ol' man did not give me words — he didn't know how to give them to me — but he did give me hunting. He hunted out of necessity in Mexico, and although there was no need for him to carry it on after moving here, he saw value in hunting as a way to connect with me.
On one of our last hunts for Gambel's quail, I watched him kick up a covey in the distance. With two shots he took a double with his old Remington Peerless. I smiled to myself and for a split second, I was taken back to the early days of following in his footsteps.
WHIIIIIIIIIR! My heart jumped! Three Gambel's rocketed from underneath a cholla in a flash of gray. I stood, rattled — a rookie mistake. Then two more birds went, and I pulled myself together and took aim at the lead bird.
I shot just over it and cursed under my breath. I got my bead back on the bird and connected with my last barrel — a puff of feathers in the sky. I walked over to retrieve the handsome quail lying on the pink gravel.
"I got one," I said loud enough so he could hear. I raised my quarry high above my head so he could see. He didn't say a word. Instead, he lifted his hand up and revealed his double was actually a triple. His first shot took down two birds, with his follow-up shot taking a third. I guess I am still learning.
We headed back to the truck about noon — in silence, of course. But we both had grins. Near the truck, I found some shade and set up the stove. We sipped our beers while the burritos warmed. In the nearby ravine, we heard a chorus of Gambel's quail calling. A hawk shrieked above. More silence from the ol' man.
I got up to turn the burritos over and, unexpectedly, he asked if he had ever told me the story about the boy from el rancho who ate too many prickly pears. I chuckled and told him that he had, but I would love to hear it again.