Illustration by Bob White.

This was the first time I had gazed upon him as an old man, for his beard was the sheen of a full white, bright moon and the skin on his hands was no longer taunt but lay in limp folds and flecked with brown liver spots. The same man I called "Pappy" and the same august man who branded into my consciousness, "Lord, just one more time," was withering. Time was no longer his friend, but a sworn enemy.

His wife had passed away several years ago and he lived alone, for they had no children. And I lived out of town and out of a suitcase. So it was while on a rare visit home that I stopped by for a visit.

I was amazed when he shook my hand, for he still had a grip. He pointed to a chair for me to sit. A chair that had been in their modest home for over 50 years. A home where I spent many a Friday night in anticipation of a Saturday morning duck hunt. No sleep and all nerves. Mallards on my mind. Greenheads in the teeth of a cold blow.

He asked me how I had been doing and said that he continued to keep up with me through my newspaper writings.

"I doubt if you're making much money, but I know you're having a fine time."

I laughed and told him that he was right on both charges. We continued to talk, but I sensed what was coming. I knew he wanted to go back to the swamp to shoot mallards as he had done before my birth and during my early youth. I had not the heart to tell him it was over where once it had been the high tide of his life. His entire being, as has been mine, was marked by the coming and the passing of duck seasons.

"I'd like to go back to the swamp before I get to old," he said with a slight chuckle to mask his heartache, for he could hardly muster a breath.

"I should've died in the swamp. I can still hunt my memories, but it ain't the same and don't ever let anybody tell you different. No, sir, it ain't the same as the real thing," he said blinking dreamily into the past.

He knew that he was yesterday's leaf.

"Do you remember?" he started and then faded to somewhere. But where? Only he knew or maybe he didn't. I hoped it was to a time when daylight had emerged from its birthing place and spread its steel-gray fingers over the swamp. That quiet time after the wood ducks had flown and before mallards stretched their morning wings. A time of life that passeth all understanding for those who don't know.

His time lapsed and he came back as if he had never gone away. "Sorry," he said but I do that quite often these days. Then he drew in his black eyebrows in an authoritative way and I knew what was to come had been given to much thought and memory.

"Did I ever tell you about a place in the swamp that I christened 'Bloody Hole?' It was the darndest place I ever found to shoot mallards."

He had told me this story many times and I always enjoyed listening to the narrative. "This happened many years before you were born. We could shoot 12 mallards in those days. 'Course the old timers wouldn't have wasted their time for so few birds. They remembered when there was no limit. They saw what I never saw and I saw what you'll never see and you've seen what generations to come will never see. Sad but true. But like I've always said: anything can happen and all things are possible."

I smiled and agreed.

"Oh, again to taste the prime of duck hunting," and again his eyebrows drew in slightly with some cerebral effort and thought, for there was a growing power in his mind. I felt an elation of spirit rising within him. A rapture of life.

"There had been a heavy fog that morning, and to be honest, I'd gotten lost. I somehow had missed a creek that would've taken me to where I had been killing mallards for two weeks. I knew daylight was on the make and I wanted to set-up and get ready before the fog thinned.

"I'd been lost several times in the swamp but this was the worst. I'd never been so disoriented. And I could get no speed from the motor since there was no visibility. I was like a blind hog rootin' for an acorn. I knew for certain I wasn't where I wanted to be.

"I became so flustered that I cut the motor off and took a ride on a slow current. He took a breath and dozed off.