Maybe it was 1957, or 58, time dims some of the memories. Brother and I had gotten up early and unwrapped goodies, then dressed up warm and headed for the barn. The horses got a little extra feed that morn,and we returned to the house,with my glasses fogging up as soon as I walked in.
The Grands were driving up from B-more later on that day, but Mom told Pop that she needed the kitchen and to stay out of the way. Pop said we might go hunting for an hour or so,and I started to change into some brush pants and grabbed the old brown vest off the hook in the closet. Pop said,"How about carrying the pump today?" to me. I had been using the old H&R 16 singleshot that had been my first shotgun and Pop's before me, and the Remington 870 was practically new, shiny, and it was a repeater.So, I emptied the 16 ga shells out of my vest and restocked with some 12 ga high brass 5s or 6s.
Pop asked my brother, 3 years younger, if he wanted to go for the first time. Mom interjected that it was pretty cold,and Brother was getting over yet another cold,so he stayed in the warmth,while we whistled up Silver Venus Of Meadowview, Pop's Weimaraner and better than average bird dog. Around the house, she was called Babe, since Pop said Venus was a Babe.
Back then, Pop usually drove to another area, but while Howard County wasn't great pheasant country,it had some birds, and we could hear both cock birds cackle and quail call from our house. So, we headed across the road to Iager's corn field, and loaded up,me with the 870 and Pop with his treasured old Savage O/U.
A hundred yards into the cut corn, Babe got birdy as heck, and Pop reminded me that while I didn't have to cock the 870, I did have to take off the safety when a bird flew.
As we moved in,Pop also reminded me I had a full choke and to wait the bird out a bit. The bird kicked out in Pop's sector, and the shot was postscript. After that bird was added to Pop's vest, we worked over to the Parlette place without another bird. We worked through a little woods on a two track and stopped to answer Nature's call. As I zipped up, Pop said, "Mark" meaning a point or bird in sight. I snatched the 870 up and dropped in a round when all the quail in Howard County, it seemed, flushed. I forgot all about waiting out the shot,or that I had bigger shot than called for, and fired a salute rather than a real shot. Nothing fell, Pop hadn't a chance since they all went up in my segment. We did pick up two singles afterwards, but we is an honorific, Pop took them both...
A few hundreds yards further, and down a fence row loaded with blackberry vines and honeysuckle, Babe was telling us there was a bird close, and my grip tightened on the shotgun. As Babe locked into a point, Pop said, "This one's all yours" and stepped back as I walked in,conscious that this was a test of some kind.
I knew the road was behind us, nothing that would preclude a shot in front, and that Babe was locked into something serious, there was no waver to her.
Pheasant obscenities erupted as the ringneck did, a big old veteran cock outdone by Team McCracken. I waited it out, letting him rise and fly, swinging the bead up an imaginary line from tail to eye and firing as it passed his beak. No pheasant ever died faster, it was an instant turnoff,and Babe was but a few feet away as it hit the field edge with a soft but emphatic thump.
As Babe retrieved, Pop stood absolutely still. She brought the bird to him but he didn't reach out to take it. He said," Call her". I spoke her name, and she looked at me but returned her vision to Pop, as he stood there smiling. I called her again, she came over and I took the bird from her mouth as Pop would,said "Good dog", and then, "Hunt em up" just like Pop would have. She headed out, headed upwind for the next bird,and I looked at Pop. He was wiping his eyes. He said,"We should be heading back",in a voice that sounded a bit choked up, but stood there admiring the colors and size of that cock bird. It was a good one, not my first but certainly my biggest, a scarred old veteran rather than a soft spurred yearling. The tail was 2 feet long, and looked like it stretched on forever.
So,since the wind was wrong, we walked rather than hunted back, to Babe's disappointment, in harmony and few words. But as we got to the house, and as we unloaded, Pop said, "It looks like that pump likes you, go ahead and shoot it. Pat(Brother) can start in with the 16".
So,I walked into the house to show off the ringneck,and with two great Xmas presents,the 870 that's been my main shotgun for more than 40 years, and this memory.
Pop, Mom and the dogs are all gone now, but if there's a Just God,and I believe there is, his spirit and that of some mighty fine dogs get to work through some good cover in Heaven every now and then.
May you all be blessed this Holiday season...
The Grands were driving up from B-more later on that day, but Mom told Pop that she needed the kitchen and to stay out of the way. Pop said we might go hunting for an hour or so,and I started to change into some brush pants and grabbed the old brown vest off the hook in the closet. Pop said,"How about carrying the pump today?" to me. I had been using the old H&R 16 singleshot that had been my first shotgun and Pop's before me, and the Remington 870 was practically new, shiny, and it was a repeater.So, I emptied the 16 ga shells out of my vest and restocked with some 12 ga high brass 5s or 6s.
Pop asked my brother, 3 years younger, if he wanted to go for the first time. Mom interjected that it was pretty cold,and Brother was getting over yet another cold,so he stayed in the warmth,while we whistled up Silver Venus Of Meadowview, Pop's Weimaraner and better than average bird dog. Around the house, she was called Babe, since Pop said Venus was a Babe.
Back then, Pop usually drove to another area, but while Howard County wasn't great pheasant country,it had some birds, and we could hear both cock birds cackle and quail call from our house. So, we headed across the road to Iager's corn field, and loaded up,me with the 870 and Pop with his treasured old Savage O/U.
A hundred yards into the cut corn, Babe got birdy as heck, and Pop reminded me that while I didn't have to cock the 870, I did have to take off the safety when a bird flew.
As we moved in,Pop also reminded me I had a full choke and to wait the bird out a bit. The bird kicked out in Pop's sector, and the shot was postscript. After that bird was added to Pop's vest, we worked over to the Parlette place without another bird. We worked through a little woods on a two track and stopped to answer Nature's call. As I zipped up, Pop said, "Mark" meaning a point or bird in sight. I snatched the 870 up and dropped in a round when all the quail in Howard County, it seemed, flushed. I forgot all about waiting out the shot,or that I had bigger shot than called for, and fired a salute rather than a real shot. Nothing fell, Pop hadn't a chance since they all went up in my segment. We did pick up two singles afterwards, but we is an honorific, Pop took them both...
A few hundreds yards further, and down a fence row loaded with blackberry vines and honeysuckle, Babe was telling us there was a bird close, and my grip tightened on the shotgun. As Babe locked into a point, Pop said, "This one's all yours" and stepped back as I walked in,conscious that this was a test of some kind.
I knew the road was behind us, nothing that would preclude a shot in front, and that Babe was locked into something serious, there was no waver to her.
Pheasant obscenities erupted as the ringneck did, a big old veteran cock outdone by Team McCracken. I waited it out, letting him rise and fly, swinging the bead up an imaginary line from tail to eye and firing as it passed his beak. No pheasant ever died faster, it was an instant turnoff,and Babe was but a few feet away as it hit the field edge with a soft but emphatic thump.
As Babe retrieved, Pop stood absolutely still. She brought the bird to him but he didn't reach out to take it. He said," Call her". I spoke her name, and she looked at me but returned her vision to Pop, as he stood there smiling. I called her again, she came over and I took the bird from her mouth as Pop would,said "Good dog", and then, "Hunt em up" just like Pop would have. She headed out, headed upwind for the next bird,and I looked at Pop. He was wiping his eyes. He said,"We should be heading back",in a voice that sounded a bit choked up, but stood there admiring the colors and size of that cock bird. It was a good one, not my first but certainly my biggest, a scarred old veteran rather than a soft spurred yearling. The tail was 2 feet long, and looked like it stretched on forever.
So,since the wind was wrong, we walked rather than hunted back, to Babe's disappointment, in harmony and few words. But as we got to the house, and as we unloaded, Pop said, "It looks like that pump likes you, go ahead and shoot it. Pat(Brother) can start in with the 16".
So,I walked into the house to show off the ringneck,and with two great Xmas presents,the 870 that's been my main shotgun for more than 40 years, and this memory.
Pop, Mom and the dogs are all gone now, but if there's a Just God,and I believe there is, his spirit and that of some mighty fine dogs get to work through some good cover in Heaven every now and then.
May you all be blessed this Holiday season...
Thanks!