The Island and the Tree

“You go to the island
I’ll go to the tree”

Sloshing into our little North Florida duck hole
Like so many times before
Stars pinprick the heavens
Gradually extinguished by dawn’s first light
Rime ice cracking under mud-laden boots
Frosty breaths swirl with each exhale
Like a vaporous wreath
Circling our heads

“You go to the island
I’ll go to the tree”
We whisper in the morning darkness
With A silent nod of assent
We part ways, needing no light, no guidance
We know the way
repeated many times before
We know our tasks, positions, and responsibilities

The Island
Just a small clump of trees
Amid a narrow creek channel
Offering perfect view downstream
Barren oak limbs, like aged, arthritic fingers,
Outline the slowly brightening purple and pink sky
Sitting on a stump, boots submerged in tannic waters
Ripples undulating outward
trying to control shivering legs
and eager expectations

The Tree
An ancient wide Cypress
Stalagmite-like roots reach up for air, for sustenance, for life
Tripping up the unsuspecting wanderer
Back centered on her broad trunk
Sensing the wisdom and security of her strong embrace
Offering protection from askew shots from the island
A mere forty yards away
Seems much farther in the ancient, echoed recesses of the swamp
Covering the lower hole- just a thirty-foot circular pond
Engineered by industrious beavers
A little opening in the meandering swamp channel

The songbirds awaken with their early-morning choruses
Filling the air with vibrant melodies, belying their small stature
Squirrels leap, chattering from limb to limb, clinging precariously
Like aerial acrobats from the traveling circus
It won’t be long now…
Mr. and Mrs. Wood duck, Aix Sponsa
The early birds in the duck domain
Always punctual, in the half-hour before sunrise
Within 15 minutes, you will know
They will be there….or not
Often heard before they are seen
Whistling wings and nasally high-pitched squeals as they dart overhead
Like miniature fighter jets
Maneuvering to other remote hidey holes
Then they come, flaring and sideslipping
Careening with uncanny precision
Through and around the oak limbs and buckbrush
Alighting with a sudden “plop-slide” in the morning darkness
Quickly disappearing into the mosaic of shoreline brush

And then you see them
First, their shimmering wake on the placid morning waters
Then the drake with his iridescent, dashing, swashbuckling plumage
The hen, with her elegant, demure Cleopatra eyes
Making a courtly couple with few their equal in the fauna world
They feed and preen and perch on a submerged fallen tree
And gracefully glide downstream, around the bend, out of sight

This is blue-collar duck hunting
Rubber boots, a 20-gauge quail gun, and a pocketful of shells
Shooting is close and fast, missing more often than not
And then it is all quiet, heart pounding in the aftermath
As you begin wading the shoreline, picking up ducks
Two or three make for a successful hunt

As a young teen
I met my uncle in his happy yellow kitchen in the morning darkness
Leggo my Eggo waffles and Nescafe coffee before heading down to the river
Christmas mornings
We often welcomed the dawn of the Christ child from our watery perch
Our very own sunrise chapel in the swamp
Home just before the family stirred in anticipation of the day’s festivities
Uncle Walker showed me the ways, the river, and the traditions
That I shared with my children
My son then shared these things with his close friend, Richard
In another North Florida swamp
The Legacy continues through the generations

This morning, I went to the river alone
I chose the tree, imagining my son sitting on the island
Scanning the early morning sky for ducks,
for the light breaking through the darkness
He has gone ahead into the great beyond
But he is waiting there, I know
We will be reunited with a silent nod, a broad grin, and a huge hug
“Do you want the island or the tree, Dad?”
“I’ll show you the way”
“Follow me”
There, together again
We will share the beginnings of a new day

Dedicated to my uncle, Silas Walker Blanton, on his 86^th Birthday, who first shared the river with me. And to my son, George L Taber V. (Quint), May 15, 1992- Aug 9, 2022, with whom I shared much.

Tab Taber is a Gold-Star Dad–father of SSG George L. Taber V, a Green Beret Medical Sergeant from 7th SFG who died during a violent storm on Mt. Yonah while in the Mountain phase of Ranger School in August 2022. Tab journals to process his grief and to recollect memories of his son. Occasionally he shares his written thoughts with The Havok Journal and on Instagram @gltiv. He retired from the Military (8 years Marines;15 years Army) in 2014 and now resides in NE Florida where he runs a 4th generation wholesale plant nursery. He can be reached at tabtaber7@gmail.com.

As the Voice of the Veteran Community, The Havok Journal seeks to publish a variety of perspectives on a number of sensitive subjects. Unless specifically noted otherwise, nothing we publish is an official point of view of The Havok Journal or any part of the U.S. government.