Dove Hunting with Grandma
Having a grandmother who is 85-years-old and still plays pinochle and casino (an old card game) and gin with you is very cool. It’s like being able to enjoy the Good Ol’ Days, everyday.
I have a busy family life as it is, but there is always time for Grandma Berlin. We’ve been going to the movies together since I was a kid. When I had jobs that put me in her neighborhood, I’d spend my lunch hour with her and my then-living grandpa, playing cards, digging through boxes of books in the attic, sitting on the glider in the screened-in porch listening to rain and thunder (God just bowled a strike!).
She’s sharp, real sharp. Still bakes pies, still makes spaghetti sauce with meat, still drives! She has done a lot. But there’s one thing she’s never done… She’s never been dove hunting.
How can they be Migratory?
On Labor Day I was invited to bring my eight-year-old son Reed and go on a Dove Hunt. The night before I had to go to Wal-Mart and get a hunting license. I was running other errands and had my Grandma with me.
At the counter, the lady asked me what I was planning to hunt. “Doves”, I said. Then Grandma chimed in: “He’s going to kill the Bird of Peace. What kind of Grandson do you think I’ve raised here? He’s never been very bright.”
The lady asked me if they were migratory. I was about to answer when grandma leaned over the glass counter display of handguns and said, “How migratory can a bird be when it’s dead?”
“Grandma, relax, I’m not going to kill any birds, I’m blind in one eye, I’m just going along to see what the heck a dove hunt is,” I said. And honestly, I had never fired a shotgun before, and I am blind in one eye, so you do the math.
“You’re endorsing the whole thing, that’s enough for me,” she said.
“I want my son to have this experience. It’s outdoors, it’s different. He’ll learn the concept of hunting and for the rest of his life he’ll have a memory he can relate hunting conversations and things to.” I didn’t know what I was saying, but the line behind us was building up and I just wanted to pay my ten bucks, get the little green slip of paper and move out of the way.
The lady behind the counter asked me “How many are you going to bag?” I said I didn’t know I had to bag them. She said she meant how many was I going to kill. “Listen,” I said, “I eat chicken, I eat steak, if I happen to kill a dove, I will eat it. In Argentina they are pests due to the damage they do to crops. I don’t hear you giving everyone in Argentina the third degree!” Okay, so I got a bit excited and over-reacted to her question. This hunting thing can put you on edge.
The nice lady took my money, gave me the green slip and we moved on.
Luke I am Your Father
Before we left the store I had to stop and get Reed a Darth Vader Mask with Voice Changing Capabilities. He has saved up his allowance money and I promised I would pick it up. He said he wanted to catch a dove and name it Luke and pretend he was the dove’s father. Let’s just hope he doesn’t think a shotgun is a light saber.
As it was, he thought he’d be shooting and I already knew that the only time he’d fire would be after the hunt when we set up a milk carton for him. I was hoping that I could find some other aspect to the experience that would take his mind off the actual firing of a gun. As we’ll see, that “distraction” materialized.
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang is Not Dumb
Driving my Grandma back to her Assisted Living Residence was pretty calm, with her making just a few more digs — “You can’t eat a dove, there’s no meat on a dove… I hate Chicken (she says that a lot, I have no idea why and I know it doesn’t relate to the dove issue)… Just drop me off here, I’ll walk, wouldn’t want a dove-killer to miss his dove-hunt…”
“I have ten hours, I’ll be fine. You go in, get some rest, and I’ll let you know how it all goes.”
“Keep your cell phone on, I’ll call you and scare all the birds off with that dumb ringtone you have.” (Chitty Chitty Bang Bang we love you. It’s the one ringtone that cannot leave your brain once you hear it. Just watch, at the end of this article you’ll be singing inside your head, Hey Chitty, Ho Chitty… and yes, I do apologize for doing this to you.)
Introducing FATBACK and his Escapades
The next morning Reed and I were met by a giant Ford 250, white and mud colored, piloted by Fatback (fifty-ish, a true Southern Gentleman with lots of boy and A.D.D. running through his blue blood) — his dog Chili on board, the bed loaded down with coolers, shotguns, ammo, a microwave oven, golf clubs and a grocery bag of paperwork (”I’m moving my parents, those are leftovers, don’t ask”).
We drove the hour or so to the hunting lodge, somewhere near Soperton. GA. “Great spread,” I said.
“About 300 acres.” Fatback filled me and Reed in on the ponds, the caretakers, the barn and other outbuildings, and the camo-cart.
The Distraction Materializes
“The what?” Reed asked, not waiting for an answer before asking quickly if he “could drive it.”
“That’s up to your father.” Fatback said.
“Sure, why not.”
This, my friends, saved the day. Seeing an 8 year old’s eyes light up when you open an old barn and reveal a tricked-out camoflauge painted golf cart is akin to watching him get a new bike on Christmas morning. Hello Santa. Forget about firing a gun, as long as he could drive around the property all day — which he did — he was The Camo-Cart Kid.
“Anybody want me to go get anything from the lodge? Anybody want to see me drive around that tree again? I’m going to take Chili and the other dogs for a ride!”
So while the other guys, twenty or so in all — arrived in their new trucks, Reed drove all over the place in his camo cart. We snuck in a bit of fishing with live crickets over at the pond, catching some brim and throwing most of them back. This too was a first for Reed, catching fish so fast. As soon as the cricket hit the water, boom, there was a bluegill on the line. Watching him take them off the hook was neat, because of course he wouldn’t touch them. “We forgot to bring gloves, Dad.”
Do Not ask What Kind of Barbeque
As the guys arrived, catching up on this, their Opening Day, I noticed that they drank mostly water (some beer, but not as much as I would have guessed based on the hunting guys I grew up with), ate from a rather varied spread of salads, breads, beans, slaws, and barbeque (which down here in the south means Pork, and if you have to ask “Barbeque? What kind of Barbeque? you will forever be called a Yankee and mocked and laughed at at every meal thereafter — just a tip).
Next up there was the safety talk. Very important to not shoot at any birds unless they were overhead. “Don’t shoot at them on the ground because you never know if there’s another hunter stationed downstream of your firing direction. And don’t start shooting till you hear the signal of three shots. And your limit is 12 birds. Don’t shoot at Morning Doves. A water cart will be by every forty five minutes. Good luck.”
Getting Rained On: The Almanac didn’t Predict That!
And then we loaded up into two pickup trucks and took off for the cornfields. A bit earlier, Fatback had gone out with one of the caretakers and planted flags in the field, marking the stands for the hunters, so that they were fifty or so yards apart from each other. Safety. Having the guys apart also would help avoid guys shooting at the same birds when they appeared in the sky overhead.
Nobody told me about getting rained on at this point, but later on I would discover that guys would shoot at birds and miss and the shot would keep on its trajectory and come raining down on where we were planted at our stand. I’d be standing there, minding my own business and than all the sudden it would feel like a sprinkle. Only it wasn’t water droplets, it was shot, pellets from a shot blast that came from on yonder and now on my head. “You got Rained on.” Ha ha.
The signal comes, three shots fired in succession. I know this is the signal because Fatback is the one firing the three shots. His 28 gauge - bam bam bam — popping the clear blue sky. After the signal, Fatback got into the cart and Reed drove us to our stand.
We were to be with Fatback for the day so that we wouldn’t hurt ourselves, or anyone else for that matter. See, not only was this Reed’s first time hunting, as I mentioned earlier, it would be my first time ever firing a shotgun. All I could think about was “don’t let it kick back and nail my jaw or slam my shoulder. Don’t look like a doofus.”
I Now Know Why They Call It a Stand
Because we basically stood there forever. Stand stand stand. The 300-500 dove that were expected, or anticipated, never showed. For three sweltering hours twenty men in camo stood spaced out across a sweeping field staring at a hot sun in a clear and dove-free sky.
Oh sure, there were a few birds that darted in to the field from over the tree line, and the guys all got their share, but it was — for me at least — much more about being outdoors. Standing at the edge of a cornfield, enjoying the fragrances (and bug bites) and breezes (and bug bites) and camaraderie (and bug bites). (Another tip: plan to spend the next day marinading in calamine lotion.)
Smoking is Not Healthy
Backing up a bit: when the first dove came in over the field, it wasn’t our shot to take. But we watched it. “There, look,” said Fatback, directing Reed’s and my eyes to the sky where a tiny dark speck of a bird flitted through the air. CRACK. The sharp report of a shot blast from about 200 yards away. And then — as Reed so eloquently phrased it– “the bird’s butt began smoking and it fell from the sky. It was awesome.”
And this is where I am torn torn torn. I preach respect for life. I get angry when he tries to step on a spider. I stress over and over the qualities we all hope to instill in our children: kindness, tenderness, loving.
“Awesome, its butt was smoking!”
What do I do with that?
The time came when we, meaning Fatback, shot his first bird (he wound up with around six for the day). He took Reed and Chili Dog into the field and they found the bird on the ground. Fatback picked it up and non-chalantly handed it to Reed who at first stuck his hands out to take it and then instantly pulled his tiny hands back. “No way.”
Fatback persisted. (I was watching from the stand, about 30 yards away as this pantomime played out.) I could see Fatback press the issue, “take the bird, son.” Finally, Reed relented and took the bird, but only after figuring out how to take it by the foot, the claw (talon?).
Reed placed the dove into his coat’s pocket, a pocket for just that purpose. Fatback said, “we’ll have you so loaded down by the end of the day you won’t know what to do with yourself.” “Dad, you wanna see? I got a dove in my pocket, look.” And so I did. There it was. And there, in the back of my mind was my grandma berating me for what I was exposing my son to. Would he wind up worshipping guns, worshipping the kill, longing, lusting for that smoking butt shot?
At the end of this story I want you to tell me what you think, what is your opinion on all of this? In fact, here is a space to click through to in order to do just that: Tell me the meaning of Hunting.
A bit later I finally got to take my shot. I did and I connected. One for one. Turns out it was the only one I got all day. Unless you count the one that me and Fatback and another guy all shot at simultaneously. Then I got a total of one and a third.
Everyone finally wound up back at the lodge. Guys talked about the day, about the next time, about bow hunting white tail in Canada, about deer season, and then divided up their “bagged birds” and fired up their trucks and left.
Reed was in charge of getting the camo cart back to the barn, which he did just fine. (Now he wants to drive my truck because “Dad, I can drive now, I can, you saw, I’m a driver, come on, at least let me back it out of the drive…” “No. No. No. No. Unh-unh. No. No. How many times do I have to say no?” “I’m just going to do it once, you’ll see.” “NO!” “Okay, that means yes, it’s opposite day.” “No son, okay, maybe tomorrow.” — tip three: saying “maybe tomorrow” can sometimes put an issue to rest, but you’re probably better off just giving in. After all, if we did let 8 year olds drive, how bad could it be? They don’t have that much money, they would run out of gas pretty fast.)
Done for the Day
After getting back home, Reed walked in the house, kicked off his boots, pants, shirt, everything, went straight to bed and passed out without so much as a hi how are ya to his mom and sister. The most exhausted I have ever ever seen him.
I filled the family in on the day’s adventure. I showed them the one bird that was ours. I will spare the process of cleaning the bird, suffice it to say, “okay, I’m not doing that again”.
Here’s where Grandma Comes Back into the Picture
The next night we celebrated my grandmother’s birthday with a get-together at my parent’s house. About ten people, five kids, and Grandma. Each kid decorated their own round cake and we literally had 85 candles. Before blowing out the candles though, we had the meal. Everyone brought a covered dish, ours was a sea bass thing, and Grandma made her spaghetti with meat sauce.
And boy was that meat sauce extra special this time around. (You saw this coming didn’t you?) That’s right, while everyone was playing games and watching the new baby in the family gurgle at a fuzzy ball, Reed and I slipped the Dove meat into the sauce and removed the meatballs. Yeah baby, that’s right, we pulled a fast one.
And guess what?
Other than a few “this is really good, grandma” ’s going around the room, nobody noticed.
Reed and I shared a smile but didn’t tell anyone.
Well, that was the plan anyway.
Our Secret is Blown
After grandma blew out the candles, someone asked her if she made a wish. “I wish that I am around next year to do this all again,” she said. Aw, what a great sentiment. “I wish that if I die, I never come back as a dove because then I know for sure I wouldn’t be back here next year.” Ugh.
“Grandma, you ate dove. Grandma, you did, you ate dove meat. There was dove meat in your spaghetti sauce,” Reed said.
Everyone heard this of course. “We all ate dove meat?” asked an in-law.
I nodded.
Silence. A long drawn out silence. The smoke from all the blown-out candles wafting above the table, an ominous cloud.
Then, after a bit more silence, grandma shifted.
She cleared her throat. “Well, I have to say,” she started. “It tasted better than chicken, I hate chicken.”
New Horizons even at 85
My grandmother is still enjoying new experiences even at her wonderful age; her first brush with dove. My son is back to school, old and new routines setting in.
But I have to say, man o man, he lights up when we talk about the day out in the country –mostly about the cart and the dogs and the fishing and the guys and the trucks.
He hasn’t fixated on the killing part. In fact, he kinda thinks he might not want to learn to shoot a gun himself just yet. He took three shots at a plastic milk carton with Fatback steadying his aim and helping control the kick-back. Still, Reed’s enthusiam was tempered: “They’re loud.”
Here’s what I know: when my son gets older, he’s going to look back on this day, much as I look back on my days playing cards with my grandma, as one of the Good Old Days.
R. Joseph, Founding Farmhand
by Farmers Almanac Staff
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