I remember the day Robin was born. It
was a beautiful fall day, such as poets wax on about. The sun-splashed
hardwoods shouted their greeting to him in celebratory colors and the sunset
that evening was God?s affirmation that He was pleased with His handy-work.
His parents were as happy as they had a right to be, and when Robin?s big
sister held him for the first time, she could not quit smiling.
Sometime during his first year, I
inadvertently called him ?Bigs,? because of his solid muscular build. He was
not necessarily big for his age, but when he gave you a hug it felt like you
were hugging solid granite. The name stuck, and through the years Robin was
called ?Bigs,? though only by his elders, not even his younger brother was
allowed this privilege.
It was evident even at an early age
that he had been blessed with extraordinary hand-eye coordination. At first it
was little things, like throwing a ball that was always on target. Or casting
a fishing line with precision. When he played the game of trying to kick the
ball into your opponent?s net at the far end of the field; it was as if time
stood still as he raced full speed, pushing the ball ahead of him, dodging in
and out of defenders until that ball tickled the back of the net again and
again. His humble demeanor endeared him even to his opponents ? so much so,
they also cheered for him ? though not as loud as the rest of us.
Thus the stage was set for what
Robin?s father knew was the inevitable. And on his fifth birthday, Robin
received his first bow. It was something to see. There were no awkward
preliminaries. Robin simply held the bow as he had seen his father do hundreds
of times -- pulled, anchored, released, followed through, and grinned with
delight as he watched his arrow bury into the hay bale. He dutifully walked,
(no running and tripping into protruding nocks), to the bale, pulled his
arrows, grasping them as his father had shown him and dropped them point first
into his homemade back quiver. What for most of us required diligent practice
until the mechanics became second nature, Robin did with an ease that belied
the intensity of his focus. He just looked the arrow into the target, and it
always obeyed.
When Robin turned eight, his father
presented him with a new Osage longbow. I can still see the smile on his face
as he hugged his father with that longbow clenched tightly in one hand. Hand
made silhouettes of rabbits and squirrels were perforated over and over by
Robin?s arrows, and his favorite deer target was in constant need of repair.
It was rare to see him outside
without his bow and his constant companion, Chandler, his brother. They roamed
field and flood, stalking and ?killing many lions and deer,? in a single
outing. Milkweeds were enemy soldiers who bled white to prove your arrow true.
Goldenrod was decapitated with a well-placed shot, and then carried as a
trophy. Cabbage moths were hunted like so many miniature dragons, every one
taken saved the queen.
Robin?s first real kill was a perfect
heart shot on a woodchuck running flat out for his hole. Somehow his arrow
found that tiny spot behind the chuck?s elbow. His mother and I watched it all
from the dining room window ? the scrambling woodchuck, the blur of Robin?s
white fletched arrow, and the look on his face when he brought it to his
mother for inspection.
To say Robin was loved by all that
knew him would be an understatement. He led by example, and would always go
the extra mile to help a friend. But something?s in life are too perfect to
last, and so it was with Robin.
On February 24, 1991, at age ten and
one half, Robin died of an asthma attack. It happened quickly, and I watched
helplessly as he went away.
If anyone doubts this story, or
doubts that our bowhunting heritage isn?t worth fighting for -- or, questions
the need for an ethical vision focused on traditional values; remember, there
are other ?Robins? out there who go by the name of Billy, or Sue, or Tom.
On my honor as a bowhunter, the story
I have told you is true. I knew Robin Hood?you see?I am his father.