John B Jackson 1880-1911

John B. Jackson 1880-1911 Norma knew. Norma, my erstwhile friend of a thousand hunts; Only she knew the feel of my beading thumb, As we sought out promising locales, and Our clever quarry, from points near and far. From the salty marshes by the Pio Pico adobe, To the broad summit of Sycamore Canyon, We left tracks only the night ‘coons could find. So, did we learn anything in life, me and Norma? I once spied a tern furrowing in a breach. Norma was ready and loaded for the kill, As I drew a long bead, Held my breath, and pulled the trigger. She, my Winchester 1895, lever-action, Reduced that tern to feathers in an instant of smoke, With white pillow plumage in complete upheaval, Flying all about, and interspersed asunder! That single memory was on my mind, Before slipping eternally through the veil. I remember closing my eyes, and there she was! Appearing before me as a haunting ghost, As she was, on the day she saw me kill the tern, My disappointed mother, telling me I was cruel, Cruel and heartless and mean, For destroying “God’s creature.” So, it was on that same day I put Norma away, Lock, stock and barrel; stowed in silence, Under the rafters of my humble bed; I said a final goodbye and adios amiga, To my once ballistic sweetheart, And the love of my wild, youthful days. Never again did I kill any living creature, And found an inner wisdom I could never explain. But, truth be known, I wish I had Norma now. Here in this dark cold grave. I miss the tender touch of her cold trigger. The gentle pull of her icy hammer. And mostly, I miss the intoxicating power, Of her fiery, exploding steel. For together we traversed the canyons of Turnbull, And the rolling vernal pastures of Workman Mill, Tasting many a delicious quarry. It’s true, my friends, Norma knew. Only she knew the feel of my beading thumb.