Boyhood Dreams – Manhood Memories

I flinched sharply when the old, 12-gauge Stevens roared out in the October morning.  A cloud of smoke hung lazily in the air, filling my nose with the sweet smell of gunpowder.  Craning my neck, I searched for the gray squirrel in the top of the White Oak.  I finally spotted him, flattened out against the tree, blending in almost perfectly with the bark.

 I had just witnessed something rare–my dad had missed.  I glanced over at him and he was reloading the single barrel cannon with another Peters High Brass.  The Stevens roared again and the squirrel came tumbling down.  I ran over and picked him up.  

Twirling him around slowly, I admired his long bushy tail.  I had plans for that; I pictured it waving in the breeze behind the rear fender of my Western Flyer bicycle.  My dad stood the shotgun up against a tree and pulled out his pocketknife.  He cut a thin Hickory branch from a nearby bush, and after whittling it down to about four inches, he sharpened it to a point on one end.  I held the squirrel out while he slit one of the back feet on the bottom.  He handed me the stick and I pushed it under the tendons in the squirrel’s foot.

“Makes a pretty good carrying handle, don’t it?” my dad said.

“Sure does,” I replied, as I lifted the squirrel up high.

“Let’s go find another one to go with him Denny.”

 Dad picked up the Stevens and we slipped quietly down the logging road.

 I was eight years old then, when I tagged along behind my dad through the tall timber near the banks of the Current River, in Southern Missouri.

 A year later, when I was nine, we took another trip there.  I helped dad load the car.  Tent, sleeping bags, Coleman stove and lantern, an old Dutch Oven, water jug, cooking utensils, and various other things were loaded into the trunk.  We left on a Friday night after dad got off work.  It was dark when we got there, and I held the lantern while dad put up the tent.  Even at my young age I knew the value of teamwork.   While dad was lighting the stove to heat some chili, I was in the tent, blowing up our air mattresses. Then I got the sleeping bags from the car, zipped them together to make one large single bed, and stuffed the mattresses down in them.  By then, dad had our supper ready.  We ate by lantern light at an old mossy picnic table.  Later, dad built a campfire with some wood we found near camp.  He started it with some Pine knots that he got from a bag in the car’s trunk.  

 After finishing supper and enjoying the warmth of the fire for a while, we were off to bed.  A few minutes later, dad was fast asleep.  It was different with me.  Lying on my back, with the warm covers pulled up to my ears, the night came to life.  The sky was clear, and with the moon shining bright, I saw crooked fingers bobbing back and forth on the sides of the tent.  Not remembering the wicked trees outside the tent, I was a little scared, only a little though; I was nine, and only girls and young boys let something like that get to them.  Then about the time I remembered the trees next to the tent, something started walking around in the leaves.  It was coming to close to the tent to suit me.  I reasoned that it was probably just a possum or coon, but it might be a bobcat, or worse, maybe a bear.  Where there bears in these woods?  How about bobcats, or mountain lions?   Suddenly the canvas of the tent didn’t seem very thick.  And where was the shotgun?  Was it in the tent, and was it loaded?  How could dad be snoring with danger so close?  After several minutes, the pattering in the leaves went away, and my pulse slowed down.  Eventually, I let my guard down and my eyelids became heavy.

“Denny!  Denny!  Your eggs are going to get cold.”

 My dad was peeking through the flap of the tent.  I rubbed my eyes and looked around.  I was still in one piece.  No bear bites or cat scratches anywhere.  I crawled out of the warm sleeping bag and searched for my pants.  Sitting down at the wooden table, I zipped my jacket to close out the chilly morning air and looked around.  The sun was still not up and a fog clung loosely to the river’s surface.  It reminded me of a spooky movie about the Black Lagoon.

 My dad put a plate of food in front of me.  I gobbled up my bacon and eggs and munched on toast that was laden with gobs of blackberry jam.  Occasionally a fish flopped up out of the river and broke the morning calm.  Birds were also helping start the day.  Some chirped, while others flitted from tree to tree.  Now and then, one would land close by and cock his head from side to side as if to say, “Do I know you?”

 “You ’bout ready to go?” my dad asked.

 “Yep, I’m ready.”

  “Well, I need you to get something from the car for me.”  

 He tossed me the car keys and said, “There’s a brown, cloth bag in the trunk, way in the back, bring it out here.”

 I went to the Chevy and opened the trunk.  I looked around in the dim light and finally spotted the bag.  I carried it over to dad and he said, “Open it up.” 

I did and–there it was!  The little .22 rifle that used to stand behind my grandma’s pantry door!  The one I used to sneak off to when the grownups were visiting in the other room.  I loved that little gun, and we secretly met every time I went to Grandma and Grandpa’s house.  It was always there, with the other two; a giant double-barreled .12 gauge and a mid-sized, bolt action .22 rifle.  I never paid much attention to them though.  This little gun was just my size.  It was a Remington, Improved Model 6.  Behind the privacy of the pantry door, I would hold it, rubbing my hands across its weathered stock and forearm.  I would hold it up to my shoulder, taking a bead on one of Grandma’s mason jars that sat on a shelf.  

 “Denny!  Denny!”

 My dad’s voice interrupted my trance.

 “You ready to go huntin?”

 “Yes Sir,” I beamed.

 My dad handed me a box of .22 shorts and said, “Don’t load it till I tell you.”

 We departed down the path toward the woods.

 “Your Grandpa told me it was about time you had a gun of your own–something besides a BB gun, that is.  “That little .22 there has probably killed a truck-load of squirrels and possums in its time.”  “Well, I’ll sure take good care of it”, I replied.  “I know you will”, he smiled.

 Traipsing into the woods with my dad, I felt ten feet tall.  Suddenly the sounds of the woods took on new meaning.  I scanned the treetops, looking for bouncing limbs that signaled a squirrel was on the move.  I listened for their bark or a nut being whittled.  

 At last, we reached the edge of Cedar Creek, a couple hundred yards above where it flowed into the Current River.  When we neared the creek, three Wood Ducks exploded from its surface.  We watched them hook way around us. Their feathers glistened with brilliant color when they struck a certain angle.  Veering off the logging road, we followed a deer, or some kind of animal’s trail.

 “This looks like a good spot up here,” my dad said.  He pointed to a big sycamore tree on the side of a small bank and said, “why don’t you sit over there?”  I climbed up the bank and sat down, nuzzling my back up against the tree’s rough bark, trying to get comfortable.  I was surprised when dad kept on walking.  I was hunting alone!

 My dad whispered, “You can put a shell in your gun now, but don’t cock the hammer till you’re ready to shoot.” 

 I watched my dad sneak farther up the worn trail, till soon, he was out of my sight.  I leaned back and looked up at the timber.  The trees were gigantic, swaying lazily in the light morning breeze.  Occasionally, a cloud of brown frosty leaves rained down, seeming to take forever to come down to earth.   Suddenly, I heard something walking in the leaves!  It wasn’t the familiar ‘hop hop’ of a squirrel.  My mind quickly returned to last night–bobcats and bears!  I loaded my gun.  I couldn’t see anything moving.  After a minute or two, the sound quieted down and when I couldn’t hear it anymore, I breathed a sigh of relief.  

 Then, to my left, I saw something move!  A chubby Fox Squirrel was circling around a Black Oak tree!  I slowly lifted my gun and carefully cocked the hammer.  He paused in the fork of a limb and started scratching behind his ear.  I took aim at his head, held my breath, and squeezed the trigger.  I missed!  He ran around the other side of the tree.  Disappointed, I quickly reloaded the .22.  I waited and waited for him to show.  I wondered if he went in a hole on the other side.  I thought to myself, “what would dad do if he were me?”  I found a fist-sized rock and threw at a bush on the other side of the Oak.  The squirrel shot out of hiding and ran out on a limb!  He stopped for a moment, preparing to jump to another tree.  I was already on my feet and aiming the Remington at him.  I fired!  He never moved.  Did I miss again?  Uncertainty and excitement had my heart pumping furiously.  Then, he slipped off the top of the branch and hung from the tree by one hind foot, twisting around in a half circle.  He finally turned loose and fell through the air, hitting the ground with a thud.  I ran over to him and poked him a couple times with the gun barrel.  He didn’t move; he was mine!  I was overjoyed!  Thoughts of home raced through my mind–my mom, my sister, cousins, school pals–wait till I tell them!

 My dad came walking up the trail.

 “You get him?” he asked.

 I proudly held the big Fox Squirrel up in one hand and the little .22 up in the other.

 My dad shook my hand and we walked back to our camp, side by side.

 It’s been many years, many guns, and many squirrels since then, but that first squirrel and that little gun are the ones that I’ll never forget.

The little Remington now waits patiently behind my pantry door–for the next love affair with a little boy and his dreams.