The leaves were beginning to change:
it was hunting season. And I was
beginning to realize that the earlier
dilemma that had me drawing parallels
between the taking of human life and
the "harvesting" of animals was fading
from my mind. Way beyond draft age and
without close connections to anyone
fighting a war, I faced the prospect of
hunting again without that association.
But I wondered how I would feel, what
was left in me of that day in 1969 when
I stopped.

Would I anguish about pulling the trigger?

There was only one way to find out.

I started small, with squirrels, killing a half dozen with a borrowed .22, and to my surprise I felt little or no exhilaration or regret. No epiphany one way or the other. Then, after some catching up on my skills, I was taking every opportunity to get in the woods. Once again I was at home with the simple explanation of hunting I was raised with: that there is an order of things that makes it completely natural for me to shoot a squirrel, eat it for dinner--and even make squirrel "art" if I so desire. Top of the food chain and all that. The squirrel sure doesn't care about my justification for blowing his little brains out.