HUNTING MEMORIES

I ws brought up in a hunting family. In Pa, I was told that hunting is the second largest religion after Lutherans. As a kid, my fondest memories were opening days in small game season. When I was 12 years old and into my teens, I was part of an extended "hunting family" that counted among its members, my father, "the facilitator" of the group, many of my uncles and a select band of close friends that , through some shared virtue s that included the love of outdoors, these guys all gravitated toward each other and kept friendship bounds that continued through life.

Of course there were a minor few who, wanting entry into the group, would, by demonstration of bad sportsmanship or just careless procedures, got summarily bounced out and , later, became almost enemies of the fraternity members.
"Dont hunt with Minor Avenue Ted", said my Dad, even though Ted had a collection of tricked out cars that were any kids dream."Ted's a bad one, he shot a rabbit so cl.ose to P.enny (my dog) that Penny got some ricochet pellets in her ear. He doesnt give a **** about anything when hes shooting and hell kill someboddy someday" (The truth of this didnt come out like a Nostradamus quatraine but "Minor Ave Ted" did shoot part of his collection of toes off when he tripped in some briars and he had his finger on his trigger).

The lessons of safety, sprotsmanship, and "watch where youre shooting" were always served up like Art appreciation training in Catholic school. mostly with a conveyed dose of consequences to demonstrate how poor sportsmanship can lead to hazards. I, and the other acolytes were instructed and otherwise inroduced to the society of hunters. We remembered that all our hunter friedns were trustworthy and we would be perfectly safe around evryone even while we all carried artillery . We therfore wanted to emulate them.


The opening day ceremony was always one to treasure because it started at one of the society's houses at about 4:30 AM. We all met and ate a big breakfast and said a prayer that this hunting season would be memorable and safe. I still recall "Huckster Levandowski" who would lead the prayers and , even though hed often go on about irrelevancies like leaves and sunrise and Gods glory in the woods and fields, I still get a tear thinking about ole, long-dead Huck and his stupid prayer and my cousin Yash kicking me under the table.
After breakfast wed get into our respective vehicles after one of the group would check ammo and safety of guns in transport. My job, and the job of my cousins Billy and Yash , was to check on the dogs and make sure they were loaded in the nifty carrying cages that dad and uncle Stash built for their trucks. All the dogs were either setters or Springers, and all bred for companionability as well as nose. They got along famously, and unlike many packs of high strung German Short-hair pointers, they didnt growl or bark at eac other
"After all, they were English and Irish. no militarist hunting dogs need apply"

Back then, there were lots of places to open-day hunt. Miles of connecting fields all demarcated by thin strips of sassafras and cherry trees where all the game wound up at some time in the day.
Wed begin by letting the dogs just stay and sleep in their carriers because , first day morning , game animals forgot about what danger they were in for .
Usually wed get a limit of pheasants and rabbits and then there was no reason to go out later with the dogs , except to take them for a fieeld run. If we had our limit, it was usually by about 10 AM and then wed go back and have some coffee and sandwiches. After eating, wed leave the guns behind so we wouldnt be tempted to take one more bird. Wed run the dogs through the roughest territory of the hunting land. Wed tear through the raspberry and multiflora rose to see whether the dogs could get back in scent (although wed trained them all year, the actual hunting season made them especially alert and resourceful at negotiating the scrubs)

Wed go till about 3 and then drive back home to hang out the game and discuss hunts of old.Like neanderthals around the campfire, we kids would take in the stories of great hunts of the past. Once in a while our own names would come up in passing like"Hey did you see that shot Vladz made on that rabbit ?" They would all discuss my shot and agree that it was suitable to be remembered and suddenly I was in the pantheon. I was a contender with skill and safe practices.

Any disciplinary action served up on the junior members would , of course , be served up by that kids father, usually on the drive home. Then all next week, when we kids would discuss how we saw the hunt we would be reminded of the "major goof" that I or one of my collegues pulled. Usually it was about fields of fire and safety, although we werent spared from serious critcism about hot dogging with ashotgun.
"You want to keep hunting with us?"
"y-y-yeh, was the nervous reply'
"Then dont EVER try to carry your gun over a fence again, or youll be sitiing home this season"

Justice was swift but fair, and like the Amish whod been shunned, there was always the promise of forgiveness and welcome back into the fold when youd make a complete act of contrition in front of the "elders"

I never had that experience of mentoring my own son, and for that Im forever saddened, I was always "away" some where sampling, digging or blasting but I had noted that today, much hunting is done as cavalierlly as "pickup games of B-ball" , ya never know that the guy that youre going to be hunting with may be an antisocial creep who shouldnt have a pair of scissors, let alone a gun , in his hands.

Hunting was serious business with agoal, if we never had a shot all day and just got worn out in the open fields, that was a day that still made it into the book of memories for the sights and smells, the comraderie and passing the littany of tales that , those of us that still live, pass around at family and social get-tgethers