The Story Teller's Corner

Opening Day

                                                    by Collette

Growing up, my boys remember November as the month for hunting season. There was always a rush to get the soybeans harvested so “the men” could head north for pheasants. (Getting the beans was a priority so they did miss a few trips when the work was delayed because of the weather.) Their memories included walking until they dropped, tables ladened with food for the hunters, and good football games in the afternoon.

I, too, have hunting memories with some happening even before my husband and I married. All of his brothers and he learned to shoot with a little 410 their grandpa had used. It became mine until my boys were old enough to learn to shoot it. The first time I got to hunt with it was fraught with opportunities for me to go awry, but I get ahead of myself.

Initially, I had to learn to fire the gun. Many Sunday afternoons were spent shooting at clay pigeons in preparation for the hunt. (Actually it was a pretty cheap date for struggling college students.) I thought I was beginning to get pretty good at hitting the targets. I realize now it was a little like taking skiing lessons, and then getting turned loose on the slopes. The only way down was on an intermediate slope. (That was another time and another story.)

I discovered there was a big difference between leading a clay pigeon and a pheasant. Because the bird is so much bigger than the little disk, one would think it would be easier to hit. Nope, that’s not how it works. Knowing how close the bird is to you, how fast it is flying, which direction it is headed, the direction the wind is blowing, where all the hunters are standing, plus recovering from the shock of having the bird scare you when it suddenly jumps up- all must come into play in the instant before one shoots. I missed one important step in the process that could have been very bad. I nearly shot my soon to be father-in-law.

This was a worse scare than the bird gave me, so I decided to distance myself from him a little more. We were in a recently cut milo field and the walking was very rough. As I moved farther away from the hunters, I watched the ground and stalks so I didn’t trip. Suddenly I noticed something hitting the milo near me. I continued on, not paying attention, until I  realized it was shot falling all around me. I had walked a long way from the hunters, and my fiancée was shooting over my head so I didn’t get lost.

I must qualify all of this with the disclaimer that these men and my boys were excellent shots and extremely careful when they hunted. I was the unsafe person in this scenario. Since it was a lot of work walking the fields, I spent most of my time watching. Eventually over the years I stayed at the house with my husband’s aunts and cousins. I found other ways to fit into this side of the family because I brought fried chicken that first year and for many years afterwards. It was easy to have fun with this extended family and friends.

I still like to shoot, but understand my expertise is in the kitchen and not on the hunt. Although I am not sure anyone would have walked with me in the fields if they had known I almost shot my husband’s dad.