My grandfather gave me a single-shot 12-gauge when I was 14. Lightweight, with a straight stock, it kicked like a mule, but I loved it deeply.

After a spell of missed grouse and rabbits with its full choke, I managed to hit a bunny, but the tight pattern tore it up badly. Quick to appraise the situation, Dad took matters into his own hands and sawed the barrel off with a hacksaw, filed the cut smooth and silver soldered a BB on the barrel for an aim point.

That changed things — the now open-bored shotgun threw a much wider 20- and 30-yard pattern, upping my number of hits dramatically. Grouse, though, flew away with impunity; I wasn’t much of a wing shot.

One afternoon it rained heavily, stopping as school dismissed. The previous two weeks it’d been dry and crunchy, grouse flushing at a distance, rabbits skittish. Grandad called Mom, informing her it would be an excellent evening to hunt.

When I burst in the door, as teenagers do, Mom greeted me with her traditional hug and smile, relaying Grandad’s message. Within minutes I was outfitted and opening the door. Mom called my name, stopping me. There she stood, apron on, spoon in her hand, pausing from her dinner preparations. She pushed a strand of hair from her face, leaving a slight trace of flour on her forehead and wished me luck.

Her dark eyes were shining with love and a trace of amusement.

This son of hers lived to hunt; he wasn’t that good at it, but he poured every ounce of his heart and soul into the quest; he was so enthusiastic and excited. Despite many disappointments and frustrations with his aim he never became discouraged, just bursting for another opportunity to get afield once again. Despite his bad leg, shorter and without calf muscles, he never complained, hunting until he could barely walk.

All mothers love their sons, but when a handicap is involved with all its complications and even anguish, perhaps that mother’s love is deeper than most.

“Good luck, son.”

I grinned and shot out the door. She stood for a moment watching me climb the hill like an eager puppy questing for adventure.

Reaching the old railroad grade I slowed and zigzagged back and forth. Blackberry and barberry bushes lined either side of the grade, perfect grouse habitat. Just before the grade entered an old cut a small movement caught my attention. As my eyes focused, a grouse appeared, walking slowly, neck stretched high. The shotgun was halfway up before the grouse flushed but it didn’t make it far before the shotgun roared, the grouse falling in a cloud of feathers.

Dumbfounded, it took several seconds before realizing I’d actually hit a grouse!

Rushing forward and eagerly picking up my trophy I stood awestruck, admiring the tasteful brown hues and delicate pattern of its feathers, the perfect fan of its tail. What a handsome bird. Elated, yes, but also strangely humbled. My arch nemesis had been conquered, but this incredible creature deserved some respect. Pausing, I bowed my head.

Back to the hunt, working now through the thornapples, goldenrod and brush. Several grouse flushed without offering a shot. Approaching a single apple tree and feigning nonchalance I stopped suddenly and raised the shotgun just in case a grouse was hidden beneath. There was!

The grouse burst skyward, the shotgun roared and down it came, a big, ruffed cock bird. Yahoo! Incredibly, unbelievably, I’d bagged the limit.

Rushing home, soaked to the waist, I exploded into the house, shouting; “I got the limit! I shot the limit!”

Dad was impressed. After all, he’d watched me miss many and knew my frustration. He shook my hand, said all the right things and made me feel 10 feet tall. My feet literally weren’t touching the floor.

Mom stood in the archway watching. There was her son, polio had eaten at his right leg’s usefulness, shrunk one lung but spared his life; others she knew hadn’t been so fortunate. With the aid of a steel brace he was able to get around amazingly well.

She smiled. He was so very happy this evening, obsessed by the outdoors, which seemingly had captured his soul, keeping him active, giving him purpose. Once he had been so shrunken and weak, his life uncertain. She trembled briefly, remembering that day when the doctor confirmed her worst nightmare fears. She’d blindly driven to her mother’s and opened the door, both stood staring numbly at each other, then compulsively rushed forward, embracing, shaking, sobbing, weeping together though nothing had been said.

The enormity of their pain had rendered words useless.

Our long struggle began, the virus devouring muscle bit by bit, mother constantly by my side, her compassionate eyes, gentle touch sustaining me.

Sixty-one years later I parked outside the nursing home, lifting out a beautifully marked, 28-inch rainbow trout, the bright-red, striking bands down its broad flanks. Mom was 99 years, 10 months old, in a wheelchair, weakening rapidly. When I lifted the trout from the cooler her mouth flew open at its size.

She looked up at me with that tender smile, her loving, sustaining eyes still filled with pride and understanding of her grown, little boys’ enthusiasms.

Oh, Mom, what am I to do, what am I to do without you?