SUMMER COLORS

by Jill Joines Christensen

It was 1979. We had just moved in together. He had bought a newspaper and was combing through the classifieds.

“What are you looking for?” I asked.

“Hunting leases.” He frowned and circled an ad. I waited. “I’m going to look at this one tomorrow," he said. I must have still looked blank, because he looked at me then and explained, "to hunt. I pay, they let me hunt."

"Can I go?"

"What? Oh. Sure."

The next morning, the Firebird's wide tires crunched on the gravel. He cut the engine and at first I heard nothing.

"Quiet," he said. "Let's get out and wait a minute."

It had poured rain overnight and where the gravel ran out the red clay began. We both looked at my slick-soled loafers and, introvert that he is, he just said, "Well."

And then I heard "it." You know the sound. The country. The woods. The air, wet road, trees. The green.

He grabbed me when I slipped on the clay and, with a sigh, slung me over his shoulder like nothing. "Tomorrow I get you some boots," he whispered, "Now be quiet."

We reached a sandy part of the road and he set me down easy. Ah, that's better, I thought, and leaned my head back, eyes closed, to enjoy the clean air.

I felt him move next to me and looked in time to see him chop his palm slightly toward the ground. Instinctively, I knew that meant not to move. Again he barely moved, but he clearly wanted me to look where he was looking. At first, I saw nothing. Then with a twitch of an ear, a brown deer with huge eyes leaped into motion and disappeared into the trees.

He turned and looked at my awed expression and I could see he was pleased at my reaction.

"Summer colors," he grinned.