It was never good when Dad went quiet.
It was a raw Saturday in November, sometime in the early 1980s. Like this past week, it had been raining for several days and a stiff north wind made it feel colder than it was. The gang of hooligans I grew up with thought it would be a great time to go rabbit hunting over in Lowndes County.
We didn’t have any dogs. We were just going to walk around likely spots and see if we could kick up a few. Teenagers: What do you expect? This was before coyotes colonized the Black Belt, so finding rabbits was really no problem. We did a lot of walking that day.
My cousin, Curtis Mott, suggested we go over to Big Swamp to a spot we had permission to hunt. Get those big ol’ swamp rabbits, he said. “Scooter” was the proud owner of a new pair of L.L. Bean rubber-bottomed hunting boots. The split leather tops went up to his knees. Just to be spiffy, he had bright red bootlaces.
Scooter waded through every mud hole and bog he could find, telling us how cool his new boots were. A couple of times he went in a little too far, and water sloshed over the tops. No problem, Scooter declared, the insulation in the boots would keep him warm.
After the hunt was over, we gathered up at my Uncle Harold and Aunt Minie’s house, just across Norwood Drive from my house. Most of the family was over there. Aunt Minie had made a big pot of her famous Brunswick stew.
We queued up and loaded our bowls and about half a dozen teenaged boys went into the den to chow down. There was a roaring fire in the fireplace. There was much jostling and elbowing in an effort to get the best spot. Dad and Unk were already settled on the sofa, watching the Auburn-Georgia game.
Scooter won the competition and pulled up the rocking chair and propped his feet up on the hearth, new boots and all.
Dad went quiet. It was never good when Dad went quiet. About three minutes later he tapped my foot with his foot and nodded over in Scooter’s direction. Steam was starting to come off his brand new rubber-bottomed, split leather-topped, red lace-tied boots. Scoot was oblivious, spooning stew in his mouth the beat the band.
I nudged Ray Roberts, Ray elbowed Buck Bryant. Buck threw a pecan across the room and hit Curt in the head, and the notification continued.
About then Scooter figured out something was wrong. He yelled, shot up out of the rocking chair and started clawing as his bootlaces. His tripled-knotted, soaked several times during the day and then dried out, bootlaces.
He was dancing a jig and starting to sob. He was also making no headway with untying his boots.
“Do something with him, the game’s back on,” Dad said to me in a disgusted tone.
We gang tackled Scooter in the middle of the den. Curt outs with his Uncle Henry folding knife.
We cut the laces off both boots and flung them off. Steam was coming from the inside and outside now.
Scooters legs were a bright red from the knees down. He continued to whimper.
Scooter limped up the steps to see if the womenfolk could render aid. We went to the kitchen for seconds on stew.