Photo by Beth Macdonald
Winner's Club
Creative Nonfiction
Mequon, Wisconsin, April 1960
Strings screech, hum, and sing with never intended song. Honey and black-varnished maple, like the color of dappled afternoon sun absent from our windowless garage attic, break over Dad’s knee. Splinters, like dead autumn leaves, fall to the floor.
“No one will ever play this again.” He holds wreckage of a mandolin aloft, as a victorious
hunter lifts his kill. Dust, the stuff of creation, coats his hands and pants. “You needed music lessons to play it. Who had time for that? Here, Dicky, toss this junk in the trash.”
“Dad, why did you wreck Mother’s mandolin?” Memories of sweet Christmas Eve
music battle with tears. My feet stick with the glue of uncertainty to the tongue-in-groove brown stained pine floor as I try to move toward this giant of a man, who could destroy in an instant.
Light from a naked 60-watt bulb, that hangs from red pine rafters, drapes Dad’s ten-
foot shadow over me. “Listen, son. A man I don’t like gave the mandolin to her. You’re in high school, too young to understand, but old enough to know what a man has to do. He must show he’s boss. Real men are winners. Wimps are losers. Who do you want to be?”
The weight of his question holds me rigid. “A man, I guess.”
“What’s that?” Dad booms.
“A real man.” My feet break free from indecision. Real men don’t cry. I step toward him.
“I want to be a winner like you, Dad.”
#
Mequon, Wisconsin, October 1960
“Dad,” I take one step into the living room.
“Yes, Dicky.”
I move closer. “Could I go deer hunting with Jimmy and his pals over Thanksgiving
weekend? I’ve never been to deer camp. Do we have a rifle I could use?”
He lays the morning edition of The Milwaukee Sentinel on the coffee table and lifts from
his tan leather lounge chair. “Come to the garage with me.”
We climb a creaky wood stepladder to stand on familiar brown stained pine boards in the
attic.
“Take this gun.” He pushes a hex-barrel rifle with a honey-varnished walnut stock toward
me. “This is a model 1892, lever action, 25-20 caliber Winchester. It’s not exactly a deer rifle. The bore is a bit small, more of a varmint gun, but it’ll do. Some goofball tried to hammer his initials into the gunmetal.”
Dad shakes his head. “Bullets go in here. Cock the lever to place a round in the chamber.
Release the safety and pull the trigger.”
The rifle is heavy with a weight of responsibility I will soon understand. “Do I need
shooting lessons?”
“Nah, I told you all you need to know.”
#
Hayward, Wisconsin, November 1960
Forest Road 73 is two tire ruts that run through endless white pines. I ride in the open bed of Jimmy’s red Ford pickup. Dad’s Winchester bounces on my lap. Morning sun peeks through frosted boughs, crystals of brilliance in frigid air. Last night’s snow dusted the woods. Tommy rides shotgun next to Jimmy. Pete, Billy, and Rudy sit beside me with camping equipment and essentials for deer camp.
I remember last evening’s Outdoor Wisconsin television show about the dangers of
riding in pickups with a loaded rifle. Easing my finger clear of the trigger, I snap the safety on. Nervous energy flows as I finger the gun’s disfiguring H K initials, an imperfect blunder. Who was HK? Was he a real man? Did HK wonder if he would kill?
We lurch out of ruts and stop at the bottom of a valley. Jimmy leaps from the cab.
“Everyone out. We’ll pitch camp after we hunt.”
“Okay guys,” Tommy yells with the volume of a drill sergeant. “Line up behind Jimmy.
I’ll hunt with him. Billy, you’re next, then Dicky. Pete and Rudy will bring up the rear.”
I fidget. “Hey Tommy, how will we hunt?”
“We’ll drop off each pair as we hike. One of you will sweep the woods to drive a buck
into the open. Your partner will wait in the clearing and have the first shot. We’ll keep a half-mile between pairs to minimize injury from stray bullets.”
I laugh, stomping my cold feet. Could a stray bullet kill or would it fall from the sky like
an annoying acorn that bounces off my head?
“Listen up guys,” Tommy continues. “Coach Lombardi says, ‘Winning isn’t everything,
it’s the only thing.’ Whoever bags the first buck will be the winner of deer camp.”
I lever a bullet into firing position, flick the safety on, and follow Billy. My Winchester
points away from Billy. Prairie grass changes to brush that grab my arms and pull the rifle toward him.
He slows. “Buck,” Jimmy whispers, “fan out.”
Billy moves right. I follow and snap the Winchester’s safety off. Twigs like woody
fingers pull my hand.
Bang! The varmint gun kicks upward. My bullet snaps a branch over Billy’s shoulder.
“What the hell!” He turns. “Are you trying to kill me?”
I stare at the broken branch at Billy’s feet, eject remaining ammo from my rifle into the
dirt, sit on the grass, and tremble.
#
Homestead High School, Mequon, Wisconsin, December 1960
“Mr. Wagner, I’d like a hallway pass to visit the music department.” I rub my hands.
His eyes rise from papers he’s grading to scan rows of desks, a sea of kids that crowd
the room. He turns to me. “Dicky, leaving homeroom to visit the music department is unusual. But, you’re a good student, so here’s your pass.”
I walk to the lower level. Paper turkeys, pilgrims, and pumpkins that adorned last week’s
corridors have been replaced with wintry holiday decorations. Silver stars and cotton puffs intended as snow promise change.
Music Department in gold letters on the glass door greets me. “Come in,” a vigorous
voice, commands. Dr. Evans scans my pass and rubs his white goatee. “What can I do for you, Dicky?”
“I want to take mandolin lessons.”
The Author
Richard Wilberg, MS, ACC is an unpublished author, musician, photographer, creativity coach, and former business executive. He writes personal essays, flash fiction, creative non-fiction, and self-development articles with a lap-top computer. His feet touch the ground in Madison, Wisconsin. See his work at www.rwilberg.com/blog.
Richard Wilberg, Madison, WI