posted on January 11, 2010 11:16
“I don’t want to look down in the future and see the only form of hunting as a game option on a screen.”
“Get in that brush, boy. There’s gotta be a rabbit in it.”
I can remember those words like they were yesterday and the date, November 15, 1952. Opening day of upland season in Ohio and the eighth fall of my life. Way back then there were very few deer in a state head hunters are flocking to today. My Step Dad mentored me on rabbits, squirrel and pheasant. I started like many at that time, as the dog and worked my way up to the role of gun-toter.
My Step Dad was a journeyman carpenter by trade, self-employed, steady, honest and sincere. I know he passed on to me the love of hunting and fishing, and I hope some of his character traits. Always, on November 15th, I had a day off school for the opener, but at the time that was a part of the learning process – there were only three channels on the TV, all black and white, and not much else to keep a kid indoors. We were outdoors and we were consumptive users – we grew a garden and ate what came of it, we hunted and ate what we killed. Yep, we harvested the garden and killed the game.
I can remember like yesterday the first time I came to the end of a standing cornfield as a driver and witnessed what seemed like hundreds of pheasants take flight. Some today would trade sighting a dozen whitetail does for that experience. And obviously I remember the fall of my 11th year when I graduated to toter, and was presented with an Iver Johnson 16 Ga., single shot shotgun. But the learning process went on from there. We could hunt until 5 p.m. each day, and I was allowed to hunt alone with my beagle, so I’d jump off the school bus about 3 p.m., run in the house to change, grab the shotgun and my five shotgun shells, and dash across the street into the standing corn. If, when I needed more shells, I hadn’t added a combination of rabbits and pheasants adding up to three to the family table, I got a lecture. “Boy”—I’m sure if he were alive today at 65, I’d still be called Boy – “Those shells cost good money. Stop wasting them.”
I don’t remember him as a cuddly, warm and fuzzy Dad. I remember him as firm, honest and sincere when he demanded no more of me than he did of himself. I hope I passed some of that on to my children, and they to theirs. As you can see by the photo, my daughter and son-in-law are passing what I love on to my grandson. Austin, I hope you can read into these words how proud I am of you. I hope all the others know that Grandpa loves them through and through – back to rabbits, my kids all took that go forth and propagate seriously.
We have to pass on this outdoor life we love. We just have to. I don’t want to look down in the future and see the only form of hunting as a game option on a screen.
Grandpa