(A discussion between two hunters in a meme, with a ghostly figure behind them.)
Hunter 1: “I wish he could hunt just one more time.”
Hunter 2: “Somehow I don’t think he’s far.”
I always seemed to associate the onset of Fall, my favorite season, with September 1st, the start of dove season.
Dad figured I’d wear out and not walk enough to hunt quail, but with mourning dove you’re less likely to walk them up in our part of the country. That leaves pass shooting in feeding fields, on ponds where they take water and near where they take gravel.
You could always try to set up on their roost, but it seemed dusk intruded so soon.
Alas, I was less a hunter than a shooter. He recognized that. He’d introduced me to plinking first before any hunting. He wanted to make sure the responsibility ethic was installed as well as an appreciation of muzzle discipline before going afield in search of game.
A child during the Depression, he was somewhat averse to just shooting to make noise. There had to be some marksmanship result – or the taking of flying game.
But the date for me – show time – was September 1st. He preferred late day hunting to morning hunting for doves. During the midst of the day, they like to roost. They’re active to feed, take gravel and water in the morning and afternoon. The siesta through the day’s middle is quite civilized, so it seems.
With hunting, it was the identification of the flying target, the distinctive way the mourning dove flies, that made the difference. Shooting the wrong bird could lead to legal complications, at worst, and a rawhiding by fellow hunters is the least you could expect.
Like all shooting sports, it’s actually less the guns, the ammo, the gear – or even the count of birds at the hunt’s end. It’s more the time you spend with others, those are the memories you keep long after.
I’d been invited to some shooting soirees later in life. I was unable to attend as “real life” had to take precedence. The reason for the invitation: “There are only certain people I’ll tolerate in my hunting camp.”
That took the breath out of me. I found it difficult to imagine a higher compliment.
It all started back when – after Dad’s 16-gauge double was traded for a then-slightly-used Remington 1100. A 20-ga. on a 12-ga. receiver, according to the factory, it was made “in or around 1965.”
It had a 28” vent rib barrel with modified choke. The 1100 was a beauty. The walnut furniture was nicely finished and the metal work was smooth and dark.
Remembering the gun helps me remember the man and the lessons. Now gone to my nephew, he also had a lot of time with Dad. He learned about guns and went on to a career from which he’s retired once and to which he returned “for something to do.”
The artifacts, the hunts, the people, they’re all part of a cherished recollection.
September 1st is about here. While I don’t hunt, I’ll still pause to remember.
– Rich Grassi