Feature Story
Threshold of G o n e n e s s
T
he year was 1984. It was late in the fall and I was going down the driveway in my 1973 Ford pickup heading to north Missouri for a duck hunt. This was my fifth weekend in a row of being gone on a hunting trip and my excitement was building because the weather forecast was terrible, which would make duck hunting excellent. Standing on the back porch watching me disappear was Mrs. Urich. She was holding a young son in each hand. The third son was still in the oven half-baked and she was crying.
46
CONSERVATION FEDERATION
This was when my Little Voice popped up in the back of my head. We all have a Little Voice residing in our minds and whose primary responsibility is to save us from ourselves. My Little Voice was strongly encouraging me not to go on this duck hunt. Sadly, by this time in my life, I had turned ignoring the correct advice from my Little Voice into an art form. My Little Voice has repeatedly reminded me over the years, usually when gloating, that if I had just listened, we would have been frequent guests on the TV show Life Styles of the Rich and Famous. But I was focused on the duck hunt, so it was pedal to the metal.
