These bleak November days always make me think of duck hunting. I don’t hunt anymore, but those many hours I spent standing in a blind with my dad, Tuck, at the edge of an ice-frilled lakeshore remain precious to me. I can still taste the weak coffee he preferred; I can feel the hot steel cup in my hand, inhaling coffee steam to extract every bit of warmth. I can hear the hiss of the wind tugging at the last tenacious leaves, and the rustle of the reeds, and I can see the cork decoys bobbing on the rippled water.
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This is a painting Tuck made back in the 1940s. The setting is Six Mile Lake in northern Minnesota. I’ve always liked the composition, the colors, and most of all to see the scene as my father saw it years before I was born.