|
Jesse's Hunting > Hunting Articles > Articles > A ProStaffer Reminisces - "Thanks, Grandpa, For Everything"
A ProStaffer Reminisces - "Thanks, Grandpa, For Everything"
Brad Swadley - JHO ProStaff
- Dallas, TX
June 19, 2008
Raised as one of four children in rural Missouri, I was always outdoors looking for 
Photos from the past
Memories and a lifetime passion for the outdoors are the legacy of the author's grandfather. |
My paternal grandmother was a great cook and anything that was brought in from a days hunting or fishing was either frozen and put in the deep freeze out back or cooked for dinner that night. The joke around their house was that if it could walk or crawl through the yard, it was game for supper.
The earliest thing I remember about hunting was the sparrow my brother and I would launch the little gold spheres at. Grandpa would give us a nickel to help rid the rafters of the little birds. My Daisy BB gun would be my best friend, and we would spend hours it seemed in that old barn, looking for that elusive sparrow. Nothing made me prouder than to go into Grandpa and give him an update on the latest harvest of sparrows that had taken place. He would smile and reach in his pocket for the obligatory nickels with a grin on his face.
The old barn had a dirt floor that was always cool to the touch, some straw from years back was in the corner, wafting a musky smell throughout. There were two bare lights strung down the twenty foot main beam that ran the length of the barn and provided just enough light to see, and the old orange tractor in the corner which was a good rest when a precision shot was required. In later years, I noticed the old weather beaten barn had a slight lean to it, giving one the feeling that it was old and tired and ready to lay down for a nap. But it held, even through a windstorm that took out the old garage.
The thing that I miss most about growing up in Missouri while living here in Texas is the very distinct four seasons. Snow in the winter, showers in the spring, heat in the summer and cool in the fall. In the Ozarks, when fall comes calling, the trees begin to shed their dominant green summer color and start to wash themselves in the most beautiful colors that Mother Nature could provide. Oranges, browns, reds and other colors blend to make the countryside look like a painters palette as you traverse the countryside. Being known as a cave state, you can find natural springs and creeks on just about every property outside of the cities and small towns that dot the southwest corner.
Nathanial Boone, soon of the famous Daniel Boone, made the area his home place as well, just outside of the town of Ash Grove. About ten miles from Ash Grove was the little community I grew up in called Bois D’ Arc. Growing up in Bois D’ Arc, I never really quite understood the name until later in life. I knew them as hedge apples and hedge trees. But most everyone, notably bow hunters, know them as Bois D’ Arc trees. And there were several spread throughout the small farm that my grandparents lived on, mixed among the walnut, oak and blackjack trees that provided habitat for the animals and heat for us in the winter.
We took a lot of fishing trips, most of the time headed out with rods and reels in the old 1952 Ford Galaxy 500. A two door hardtop model, that car provided us with many memorable trips. Stockton Lake was a favorite place, where you could catch just about anything that lived in freshwater. Black bass, crappie, walleye and pike were some of the species that could be found there, just to name a few. Cat fishing wasn’t bad either, but I could never really get used to those nasty stink balls that were used.
On my grandparents property was a pond about one quarter acre in size. A high bank on one side with an old hedge tree poking its branches out over the water that provided some shade where perch and black bass could always be found. The other end came out to a flat where the crappie liked to hang out. Back in the days before video games and cell phones, you could usually find me out in the woods hunting or out on the pond fishing. Time was typically spent by myself except on the rare occasion my brother or a friend would join me. I would sit on the bank with a bobber and a mason jar full of grasshoppers that I had caught earlier in the day. Perch were plentiful and the bass were hungry. Just get the bobber and bait out past the green blanket of moss, and you were good to go. Catch and release was always fun, but occasionally we would fry some up and enjoy the fruits of our labor. To this day, nothing tastes better to me than fried perch or bass, even though walleye and crappie round out my top four favorites.
Grandpa would entertain us with stories of his youth and hunting and fishing adventures. Also, as we would look through the old black and white slides and faded color pictures that had been taken over the years, more stories and memories would come flowing and entertain us for hours.
In my early years, Grandpa always seemed to have a pair of beagles; the last ones that come to memory were called Butch and Judy. Those dogs loved to trail rabbits, and if you could sit still long enough, you could catch the sound of them trailing their favorite quarry through the timber and open fields. Black and white photos confirmed the taking of many rabbits and squirrels from that little farm over the years. I grew especially fond of it, and it was there I spent many hours deep in thought and pondering life’s mysteries.
Grandpa was always firm about one thing in particular; you shoot something, clean it and then eat it. Except for varmints of course, but even some of those made it into the frying pan. Grandpa hunted primarily with three guns that I remember: an old .22, which my nephew inherited when he passed away, an old Winchester Model 97 twelve gage and a Remington Model 788 in .22-250. I remember fondly of quail hunting with the old Winchester. You would flush a covey and unload the first round at a bird. You would cycle the worn down forearm and bang! The loose hammer assembly wouldn’t wait for the trigger to be pulled, unloading its contents even before you were aware of what was going on. After awhile, you get used to it, but the first few times made you stop and think about what was going on.
Another lessen instilled into me by my grandfather was that if you were going to shoot a squirrel with a .22, the best place was the eye. No meat loss and a good quick kill. So growing up, that was always my goal. And it helped me to become a more precise shooter. Also, it guides you to the point of making a good clean ethical kill on an animal.
While my Grandfather never really got to hunt with me, his mentoring and guidance through the stories and his actions always stuck with me. For every rabbit I tracked, for all the squirrels I brought home to eat, he was always with me in spirit. No matter what life holds ahead for me, it has been a great journey and my Grandpa was one of my best teachers. We buried him several years back with a pouch of his favorite Red Man tucked by his side, only able to relive the memories through the old slides and photos he and my Grandmother left behind.
Last year I was fortunate enough to go to South Africa on a safari that I have chronicled in other journal entries. During the time I was there, I always felt a guiding spirit while out hunting, believing it to be him. More than anything, I wish he could have been there to enjoy that experience with me. To sit back and relax by the glowing fire at night, to hear the sights and sounds that other wise you wouldn’t hear in Bois D’ Arc Missouri. My Grandpa never traveled outside the United States, and he rarely traveled outside of Missouri. But I am sure he would have enjoyed the hunt in South Africa. Growing up, I could never find the words to say what I felt. Now after many years I think I can.
Thanks Grandpa, for everything.
|
