It was late in April, and the white stuff on the ground outside the window was unsettlingly familiar, though I didn't actually believe it was what I knew it was. Snow. But this was Chicagoland, so why not? Cousin Larry, up in Wisconsin was snowed in, which meant we couldn't visit his horse ranch and meet the two new additions to their eight rescue-dog pack. Nor could we say hello to the horses, full-size and miniature, and the goats that called this place home. Larry's son Jason, back recently from Afghanistan, where he worked at clearing roadside bombs, was supposed to be here on leave. But that was suddenly cancelled when the government decided they might be able to do another war in Tripoli.

Things at Cousin Bill's were thriving. Bill had a new boat, bigger than the last one, that could sleep two, and a new bigger engine that he was rebuilding, meant for fishing Lake Michigan.

He had bagged a good buck in Wisconsin, and now proudly served spicy deer sausages he had created. Cousin Bill started out the deer season in Wisconsin. He normally sits and waits in a stand, along a path that deer frequent. Bill is a very thorough person; his hunting clothes are washed with special soap, which kills human odour, to insure that the deer won't get a whiff of him, before he gets a shot at one of them.

In the state of Wisconsin, Bill is allowed to use a high-power rifle. Since he doesn't live on the state of Wisconsin, he needs to buy a non-resident licence, which costs him in the neighbourhood of a hundred and sixty dollars.

Ultimately a deer comes walking along the trail. This is the moment Bill has been waiting for. Bill fires. He's got his deer.

Next time Bill is in his home state of Illinois out for another deer. His hunting licence costs him a fraction of what it does in Wisconsin. When I was growing up in the state of Illinois, there was no open season on deer; there just weren't enough of them to have one. But through intelligent management, some very good deer hunting was created. However, since the human population density is fairly great, high-power rifles are not permitted, only shotguns firing slugs, which have a more restricted range.

A deer did come along the trail on which Bill waited, but it was out of range. And another one not long after that, also showed itself, also out of range This time Bill was unlucky. There is always next year.

Bill's lovely wife Susan, was welcoming as ever. She was now back at work, as a third grade teacher, and loving it.

And there was their son Andrew, by this time, eight years old, and believe it or not, with two more first-prize fishing trophies he had won since the last time. Four wins in a row, against very tough competition, fishing rivals that were twelve and thirteen years old. The last win had come in the final five minutes of the competition. Susan had always warned him that he could lose, that the fun was in participating. But Andrew had defied the odds, and did it four times in a row. Could he do it five?

We're all pulling for him, but we are filled with trepidation. If he doesn't make it, how is he going to react? Will it hurt his self-confidence? But, being a young man of strength, he will probably take it all in his stride. As we all know, fish gobble up our egos, and leave us close to devastation. Now we all wait to see what happens next time around. Andrew continues to play the violin, performing for us much more complicated music than before.

© Sidney Du Broff 2011