Hunter Green

My father hunted with my uncle. It’s all they ever talked about really. That and fishing and football. When I was younger, before the divorce, I was often forced to sit at the dinner table until I finished every last bite of the game my father had shot and brought home for dinner. “Why can’t I just have a bologna sandwich?” I would ask. I was sick of spitting out the shot. “Hunter Bartholomew Green!” my mother would say in exasperation with a nervous glance at my father. Then he would give me the lecture about the importance of providing for one’s family and how there was a long tradition of hunting in our family that I needed to respect and how years ago a gun meant having meat on the table and freedom from starvation. My uncle just smirked. Continue reading “Hunter Green”