Paintbrushes and Shotguns

Water lily study, oil on linen, 4 x 5 in. by Daniel Ambrose

“Ahm a thinkin’ em er good looking maters,” Jeremiah said, spitting a wad of chewing tobacco over the porch railing, nearly missing a ripening tomato in the garden.

Studying the damp spot, I recall an old timer telling me recently how tobacco juice was good for keeping pests off the plants. Although, he had recommended a little more sterile method of delivery. He had suggested that I should take a— Boom!  An explosion shatters my reverie as a plume of water rockets violently out of the pond below us. The lily I painted earlier, falls from the air. The sound of the gunshot reverberates off the hills.

“Ah think I got im” Jeremiah declares, lowering the shotgun from his shoulder, “ah drew a bead on him and bam!”

Jeremiah came to fix a leak under the sink in the North Carolina studio. We casually mentioned there were several snakes in the pond and he said he could take care of that too. He wandered over to his truck and came back with a shotgun.

“Ahh only shoot poisonous ones,” he said afterward. “The good uns like black snakes I pick up and throw in the barn. Ahh had this 410 Mossberg since I was a boy . . . used to shoot squirrels, rabbits and such not . . . played havoc with the tweety birds. Just hunt for meat now, ahh don’t buy no beef,” he drawled.

The polished gunstock, gleams in the soft morning light streaming through the leafy canopy sheltering this quiet mountain hollow she and I sometimes call home. Jeremiah holds his gun, me, a paintbrush. A stream gurgles in the background, making its way over the rocks before splashing into the pond. Something is different. The blast has disturbed the peace of this place, its capacity for violence, a reminder of the world outside our haven. A troubling echo trails in the tranquil air; a smoky stain tarnishes the light.

I look down at my brush, still loaded with color, glance at the barrel of the empty gun, and then around at the verdant landscape bursting with life. Nature, living and dying, decay and rebirth . . .  there is infinite beauty in this process. We are all nature. Paintbrushes and shotguns, one loaded with pigments, the other ammo. Each primed for a purpose.

Both can effect change in the world.