When I was growing up, I never went hunting. We lived in the city and my dad was not a hunter. We didn’t have a gun in our house except for the World War II Japanese rifle that my dad brought home from the war and the BB gun that my Uncle Elmer gave me. None of the dads in our neighborhood hunted or, if they did, I never knew that they were engaged in the sport.
My Uncle Harry Barner was the closest thing to a hunter that I had in my life. I recall only one story from his hunting days. He went pheasant hunting and brought home at least one bird. His son, David, was about three at the time. He placed the bird on the kitchen counter for cleaning. David came into the room, gently pet the bird, and uttered the sorrowful words, “Poor bird. Poor bird.”
I fancied myself as a writer. I wrote poetry and essays. My poetry was primarily based upon how I felt about a girl. My essays focused on our society’s shortcomings. They were all pretty weak, but I was more inclined to write than hunt. I didn’t save any of my works so I have nothing to share.
A couple of years ago my grandson, Brady, was writing and reading poetry in school. He and I engaged in an impromptu poetry writing contest in his living room and read our poems for his dad and his sister, Eva. I must admit that I reached back in time that day and dug out an old poem from my memory bank. One of my elementary school classes studied poetry and we wrote a poem as a class. I still remember the poem and I recited it that day.
In ancient Egypt there lived a pharaoh.
Instead of clothes he wore a barrel.
He road through town in his golden chariot.
His favorite show was Ozzie and Harriet.
When Ruth and I married I got the impression that she wanted me to be a more manly man. She may have said something like, “Have you ever gone hunting?” I hadn’t. I had hit a racoon or two while driving my car, but those were non intentional.
Once, while working on the Elk’s Club golf course in Kalamazoo during my college days, I tossed a golf ball at a gopher. It was a high, arching shot from about ten yards. My golf ball hit the gopher on the back of the neck. It was a one in a million toss, intended to scare, rather than kill. Never-the-less, the gopher dropped, quivered a bit, and died. I felt terrible. I wrapped the little guy in a red work rag and buried him. He’s probably still there.
The first fall of my married life, I went hunting three times. Several of the other young teachers that I worked with were “hunters”. I borrowed my father-in-law’s shotgun and joined the band of meat seeking men. I don’t recall the order of our hunts but we sought pheasant, squirrel and deer.
During the hunt for pheasant we were joined by another non-teaching friend of one of our group. There were about six of us and I did what I was directed to do. We “drove” (That means walking in unison for you non-hunters.) a corn field in an attempt the scare up a bird. I was told to watch for “runners” as our prey liked to run when they feared that flying was a poor choice. We walked parallel to each other, several rows of corn apart, so we wouldn’t shoot one another by mistake. We were instructed to shoot straight ahead. Sure enough, we saw more than one bird run across our path, but no one took a shot. I did have one take flight directly over the top of me. The bird was so close that I could have knocked it down by swinging my shotgun, but I didn’t.
We walked a second field where the corn had already been harvested. We walked a “swinging gate” (Which didn’t look safe to me. ) as we “drove” the field. We were hopeful that we would scare up a bird or two. We were successful in the scaring but not the shooting. One bird went up in front of me but by the time I took my shot, she was long gone. The non-teaching hunter yelled out, “You can’t shoot the hens.” (I wondered silently how you tell the boys from the girls while they are in flight.) Nobody bagged a bird that day.
Only three of us went squirrel hunting. Squirrel hunting was a quieter hunt. We each walked a separate path through the woods. We sought our prey individually. Most of the time I just stood still and scanned my surroundings looking for a squirrel. The other two hunters told me to be as quiet as possible and listen for the rustling of leaves as this was a sign that a squirrel may be in the area.
Sure enough, I heard some rustling leaves, and saw a squirrel jump to the top of a tree stump. I lowered my shotgun and had him right in my site. All I had to do was pull the trigger and he was toast. I didn’t. He was chomping on a nut, minding his own business, and I thought “Am I going to eat him after I shoot him?” I knew the answer and didn’t shoot.
Deer hunting was an entirely different type of hunt. Six of us piled into a station wagon and drove from Plainwell to Atlanta, Michigan. One of the guys had a rustic cabin in the woods and we drove north for a two-day hunt. On the drive up I had an epiphany. “How are we going to get all of the deer home?”, I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean there are six of us, and if we all get a deer, how are we going to get six deer home? We certainly can’t tie all six to the top of the car. The stack would be too high.” (I had seen deer tied to the tops of cars over my years of observing our highways during deer season.)
“You think that we’re all going to get a deer?”
“That’s why we’re all going isn’t it?”
We hunted for two days. In the morning each of us sat in one spot that we selected the day before. We each waited for a deer to walk into sight. None of us saw one.
In the afternoon five of us “drove” a woods while our selected “shooter” stood at the end of a power line (a clearing where the electrical power lines ran) waiting for a deer to emerge. None did.
The second afternoon we “drove” a swamp. It was another failure. We not only failed to shoot a single deer, no one ever took a shot because we never saw one. We returned empty-handed.
I had that single hunting season and didn’t return with the Plainwell boys for another hunt. About twenty years later, while attending one of David’s high school basketball games, I was invited on a last-minute hunting trip during bow season by two of my friends, Jim and Cal. I explained that I didn’t have a bow nor a desire to get one.
“No problem. No one is taking a bow because no one is going to hunt. We’re just heading north and will be playing poker the entire time.”
“Ok, I’m in.”
We left the next evening and seldom went outside of our cabin during the entire week-end. A couple of guys brought their hunting gear but that was just for show as they left their wives for the “big hunt”. They never even got it out of their trucks.
I enjoyed my bow hunting experience. It was my final attempt at hunting and I won a lot of money playing cards which was pure poetry.